“Jesus fucking Christ,” Noctis snaps. “These two idiots have no fucking clue about proper procedure. I’ll be able to get you out, but you have to be alive long enough for me to do it.”
As badly as I want to rage, I swallow my pride—something Erik is struggling to do—turn off my bike, and step to the side. The moment I’m clear, the tall fucker tackles me, slamming his elbow into the back of my neck. My helmet’s the only thing keeping my face from being smashed as he yanks my arms behind my back.
The cold kiss of metal clamps around my wrists, and my fists flex.
“Motherfucker!” Erik yells.
I catch a glimpse of him on the ground, helmet off and visor smashed. He throws his head back, connecting with the officer’s face. Blood streams from the guy’s nose as Erik scrambles to hishands and knees—until the barrel of a gun presses into the back of his head.
“I should shoot you right now,” the officer says, sending pricks of fury burning along my spine. Because I know that sound. I’ve felt that cold detachment that settles in before a kill. The difference is, I end monsters who prey on the innocent, while this fucker gets off on the power trip.
“Erik,” I warn, needing him to get a grip. “Tempest will kill me if you don’t come home.”
“Got yourself a girlfriend?” the officer sneers, pressing the gun harder into Erik’s skull.
Red clouds my vision as I’m hoisted up and shoved against the cop car.
“Say the word, Silas.” Mavros is still seated on his bike, fingers flexing like it’s taking everything in him not to snap. This is a fight, after all. And there’s nothing Mavros enjoys more than letting wrath take the reins.
“No!” Noctis shouts through the mic. “I need you fuckers to live. Do you hear me? We’re forty-five minutes out.”
I size up the asshole holding Erik at gunpoint, hiding behind a costume of justice. People like him take one look at my brothers—the tattoos, the piercings, their skin tones—and think we’re worthless because we don’t look like them. We have accents and the ability to comprehend more than one fucking language, and instead of embracing our differences to uplift society, pieces of shit like them say we’re the problem. All to distract from their own self-loathing.
They promote hatred because they can’t stand their pathetic existence. So, they lie to themselves. They scream and slander, categorizing human beings into subclasses to fan the flames of fear—all to justify the disease inside of them.
The epitome of weakness.
The self-righteous cop kicks Erik to the ground, brandishing his weapon because he knows he’d be dead in seconds withoutit. My fingers are tingling from the handcuffs, and I bite my tongue hard enough to taste blood as Mavros steps forward.
“No killing,” I say, nodding toward the officer as the red bear on Mavros’s helmet gleams.
He disarms the cop over Erik, dismantling the gun in seconds and tossing the pieces into the heavy brush beside the freeway. The tall one reaches for his weapon, but I’m faster—kicking the gun across four lanes of speeding traffic.
The stocky officer abandons Erik and launches himself at Mavros, wailing on him. My brother just stands there, absorbing blows to his stomach and ribs—and laughs, an off-kilter unnerving sound that rings through the chaos.
“Can you open the door for me?” I ask, tilting my chin toward the back of the cruiser, drawing the partner’s attention before we really do get killed.
The tall one stands there stunned for a moment, chest heaving.
Erik pushes up, lips pressed into a hard line and holds his wrists out. “Make it quick.”
The officer swallows, finally snapping out of it, and pulls out a second pair of cuffs.
“You have the right to remain silent?—”
“What are we being arrested for?” Erik cuts in as the metal clicks around his wrists.
The officer glances at his partner, who’s still beating a laughing Mavros.
“You’re under arrest for the suspected murder of Mark Rothchild.”
31
EVIE
“My mind feels like mush,” Tempest grumbles, slamming her laptop shut. We’re sitting on the couch in the front sitting room beneath the wide window. Sheer curtains block most of the night from view, but the air feels heavy somehow. “If I do one more practice test, I think all the information is going to melt right out of my brain.”
“Want to talk things through with me?” I ask, closing my own screen. “I know going over the processes sometimes helps you more than quizzes, and I’ve been staring at the same paragraph of my essay for the past fifteen minutes.”
