I’m behind the wheel,knuckles white on the leather, engine growling like it’s just as pissed off as I am. Dagger’s beside me, phone to his ear, voice sharp and low as he calls in the cavalry.
“Bring everything. We’re getting her back, alive. I don’t give a fuck what it takes. No, not later—now. Lock and load.”
His other hand rests on his thigh, twitching like he’s itching to stab something already. His blade’s strapped to his leg, steel glinting under the dash light. My Glock’s in the side panel, fully loaded, safety off. There’s a sawed-off tucked under my seat. The trunk’s packed—extra mags, flashbangs, vests. We’re not going in soft. We’re going in to end this.
I take the corner hard, tires screaming. Dagger doesn’t flinch. Neither of us speak for a beat, just the heavy sound of breathing and the metal-on-metal of weapons getting checked. I glance at him once. His eyes are wildfire. Controlled chaos. And I know mine are worse.
Because they fucking took her.
Our girl.
And now we’re coming.
I should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve kept my head straight. But all I saw was red—revenge, guilt, blood. I wanted to make Dagger hurt for what I thought he did to Brynn.
Didn’t realize it’d be Blair who ended up paying the price, and now, if we don’t move fast enough, Dante will fucking kill her.
Not just for the product, or the money.
But to make a fucking point—that you can’t rip him off. That you don’t fuck with him and expect the people you care about to keep breathing.
Dagger turns to me, jaw locked. “You sure about this place?”
“Yeah. I got one of his runners to talk,” I grit. “Said if Dante took someone big—someone he wanted to show off—he’d take them there.”
Tohisfucking compound.
“Alright, then that’s where we go. Link and Stone will meet us there.”
The drive is long. Silent. The kind of silence that buzzes in your teeth and makes your pulse throb louder than the engine. We don’t speak. Just steel ourselves. Load mags. Check steel.
Every mile we cross tightens the noose.
We finally hit the edge of Dante’s compound, tucked in the California hills, remote and winding, where no one hears gunshots and the trees don’t talk. The kind of place you bury secrets deep and count on the dirt to keep them.
Gravel crackles under the tires, but no lights go on. No sirens or shouts. Just the sound of engines dying and weapons getting pulled. My pulse thrums like bass under my skin.
We don’t speak—not at first. Just move. Me, Dagger, Link, and Stone. Four ghosts in the dark, loaded to end a fucking war.
The first two guards drop fast—silent and clean. Dagger slits one from behind, hand over his mouth, blade quick across thethroat. I drive mine into the other’s neck, twist, and drag him behind the shed.
No shots. No sound. Just death.
We reach the side door—old wood, warped at the edges. Dagger tests the handle, locked. He glances at me once. I nod.
Then he kicks it in.
The crack echoes, but no one comes. We move fast—every footstep measured, eyes scanning the dark. The hallway inside is narrow, lined with faded wallpaper peeling at the corners, the air thick with the stench of sweat, bleach, and old blood. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead like they’re about to die, casting everything in sick, stuttering pulses of white.
Stone and Link break off without a word, sweeping the main floor in opposite directions, clearing rooms as they go. I hear a muffled grunt—one of Dante’s guys hitting the ground hard—but we don’t stop.
Dagger checks the next corner, blade already drawn. I cover the rear, Glock steady in my grip.
We push deeper into the house.
Every step is war. Every breath is a countdown.
“Listen, I think it’s pretty fucking clear, that I don’t like you,” I say, my voice low, cold, honest. “But if something fucking happens to me—if I fall—you get her out.”
