“This isn't on you. This is your mole’s slut of a girlfriend’s fault and the psycho who won't let go of his ex-wife.”
“What if we're too late?” The words escape before I can stop them. “What if he breaks her before we get there?”
Charlotte's screams from that audio echo in my head, an endless loop of torture. Her bruised face flashes behind myeyelids every time I blink. Is she conscious? Is she fighting? Is she calling my name while that monster puts his hands on her?
Jesus Christ, what if she thinks I abandoned her?
My chest constricts, lungs refusing to expand. The van suddenly feels like a coffin, walls closing in as scenarios play through my mind like a horror movie marathon. Charlotte's body, broken and discarded. Charlotte's mind shattered beyond repair. Charlotte loaded onto a plane, shipped off to become some rich bastard's plaything while I sit in this fucking van, useless.
“I can't do this,” I mutter, hand reaching for the door handle. “I can't sit here while she's in there.”
“Thor—”
“No,” I snap, turning on Ratchet with such fury he actually flinches. “You don't understand. I promised her. I fucking promised her he would never touch her again.”
Ratchet opens his mouth, probably to feed me some bullshit about patience, when his eyes suddenly lock on something over my shoulder. His whole body goes rigid.
He grabs my arm with an iron grip. “Look.”
I whip around. A small private jet appears at the far end of the runway, its engines humming low as it slowly makes its way toward the hangar. No lights, moving like a ghost in the twilight. The kind of arrival that doesn't want to be noticed.
“Fuck. He’s moving her.”
My blood turns to ice water. This is it—the transport Ace mentioned. The plane that will take Charlotte away forever.
“Suicide run it is.” His phone lights up as his thumbs fly across the screen. “Gear up.” He jerks his head toward the back of the van. “Get what you need. We're going in hot.”
I squeeze between the seats, moving to the cargo area where two large black duffel bags sit beside Charlotte's floral suitcase. I tear the zipper open on the first bag, revealing our emergencyarsenal, semi-automatics, pistols, and tactical shotguns nestled in foam cutouts. The second bag yields more of the same—extra magazines, flash grenades, Kevlar vests.
“Pick your poison,” Ratchet says, joining me in the back. “Updated Raze. A load of help that will be for us, but at least he knows.”
I reach for the Glock 19 first, tucking it into my riding boot. Then the AR-15, checking the chamber before slinging it over my shoulder by the strap. Every movement is muscle memory, my body preparing for war while my mind stays locked on a single purpose. Charlotte.
“Vests,” I remind Ratchet, tossing him the heavier Kevlar. “These assholes shot up our house. They won't hesitate to shoot us, too.”
“Won't do much good if they aim for our head.”
“Then I suggest we shoot first,” I grunt, strapping on the vest. It hugs my chest, a familiar comfort that's saved my life more times than I can count. “Aim for the head, and don’t miss.”
Ratchet checks his weapons with practiced efficiency, his face a mask of cold determination. “You think V's still alive in there?”
“He better be.” I tuck extra magazines into my pockets. “Otherwise, I'll kill him myself.”
I load a final round into the chamber of my sidearm. “Ready?”
Ratchet nods, then hesitates. “You know this is probably a trap, right?”
“I'm counting on it. They want me? They'll get me. And every ounce of hell I can bring with me.”
We slip from the van like shadows, keeping low as we move across the tarmac. The jet has stopped about fifty yards from the hangar, its engines still humming. No stairs have been deployed yet, and no movement is visible through the tiny windows.
“Hold,” I whisper, raising my fist as we reach a stack of shipping containers. We crouch behind them, the metal still warm from the day's heat. “Let's see what we're walking into.”
The hangar door groans open, metal scraping against concrete with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Two figures emerge—men in Heaven's Rejects cuts, weapons slung casually across their bodies. They approach the jet with the easy confidence of men who think they're untouchable.
“Ace's men,” Ratchet breathes beside me.
I adjust my grip on the AR-15, finger hovering near the trigger. “Two of them. Possibly more inside.”
