Cruz joined the military straight out of high school, eventually becoming a US Navy SEAL. He completed a total of eight years before transitioning out and set up a business training people in self-defense and weapons. He made a name for himself training bodyguards, some of whom went on to become Secret Service. Just as his company was taking off, he married a woman named Maria, and they had a daughter, Penelope. By all accounts, she was the light of their life, and both doted on her. Their marriage ended in divorce, but from what I’ve been able to gather, it was a harmonious one, and they remained friends after.
The one and only newspaper article I was able to dig up shows a picture of a broken man, the light in his eyes gone. A group of men broke into Maria’s house, raping and torturing her. When they finally left several hours later, both Maria and Penelope were dead, the house torn apart.
As the ex-husband, Cruz was at first suspected, but he had an airtight alibi. The men were never found and the case went cold.
Not long after, Cruz disappeared. His house was sold, his business shut down. And then the killings started. And not just any killings, but viciously brutal ones. Ones meant to terrify and horrify. Ones meant to send a message.
So far, there have been twenty-seven deaths, and I’m not sure what exactly he’s doing. I understand going after the men that killed his daughter. There’s enough broken inside me that I can even cheer that shit on. I can’t be a hypocrite when I want to do the same thing to my father.
By all accounts, there were between three and five men in Maria’s house that night. But there have been twenty-seven deaths. So, what is Cruz doing? Did he just get the taste for blood and kept going? Is this sport now? Or something else?
I’m going for something else. It can’t be a coincidence that so many of the victims are my father’s men. I just need to find out what’s going on.
A shadow moves across the window before the lights go off. Tilting the seat back, I pull my jacket closer around me and stuff my hands in my pockets. It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 10
Dutch
Whydomenalwaysthink they know best? Having a dick does not equal higher intelligence. One might argue that since they do so much thinking with the bottom half of their anatomy, it must make women superior in the intelligence department.
We spend much less time with our brains in the gutter.
Or so we tell you.
But that’s beside the point.Men!I continue to mutter to myself as I toss clothes into a suitcase, Nate and Eric braced against my front door with crossed arms and identical smirks on their faces. It seems that while I’ve been holed up in my Manhattan apartment the last few days, the big strong men have had a meeting, and decided—without me getting a say in the matter, mind you—that it would be infinitely safer for me to be in one of the Charon Group’s apartments. Safety in numbers and all that.
Screw them.
Do they care that I’d rather sleep in my own bed, one I’ve had only just reacquainted myself with after seven months? That perhaps I’d like a bit of privacy after living in a house with all of them? Of course not. Bossy motherfuckers have decided that little old me, the helpless woman, can’t protect herself from the big bad wolf.
No matter that I’m a highly trained FBI agent, specializing in firearms. No matter that I’ve won awards for my marksmanship. Or that taking out all those pedo fucks in London using chloramine gas was my idea.
Oh, no. The barbarian cum stains I’ve thrown my lot in with have decided I’m coming to live with them, and they don’t give a damn what I think.
Stomping around my room louder than necessary just to make it perfectly clear how pissed off I am, I throw in everything I can think of. Then toss in a few extra things I probably won’t need, but it’s better to be prepared, right? Pulling out a couple of my battery-operated boyfriends, I toss them in too, making sure I don’t forget the chargers.
If I’m going to be surrounded by a plethora of good-looking men, I’m going to need relief.
Tossing the heaving suitcase out the bedroom door, I drop to my knees and pull out the large locked box I keep hidden under my bed. Blowing a layer of dust off it, I set it on the bed, inputting the code to unlock it. Inside it is my personal arsenal, the sight of all my babies making my heart thump louder, the corner of my mouth ticking up as my fingers run reverently over the gleaming metal of the guns and knives stashed within.
“I’ve missed you,” I breathe over my favorite gun, then pat the assault rifle so it doesn’t get jealous. It’s important to treat all your children equally.
“Are you packing the kitchen sink too, Dutch? Fuck’s sake. What’s taking so long?” Nate calls out. I ignore him. Brother or not, I’m still pissed at my choices being taken away. And I didn’t get the chance to annoy him while we were kids—you better believe I’m going to make up for it now.
Snickering under my breath at the thought, I lock the box back up, then stalk out of the room, sitting it gently next to my suitcase. Popping a hip out, I arch my brow at him, then nod at the bags. “Make yourself useful then, Goliath.”
“Goliath?” he mutters under his breath as he walks over to pick up my suitcase. Eric chuckles as he collects the box, grunting under its weight.
“Jesus, Dutch, what’s in here? Bricks?” Eric asks, pretending to be overwhelmed by the weight of it. Fucker can bench press over three hundred pounds, I doubt my fifty-pound box is going to kill him.
“Yep, that’s exactly what I’m bringing,” I snark back at him. “Can’t leave my brick collection at home for thieves to find.”
He barks a laugh, setting the box on his shoulder as he saunters out of my apartment, Nate following closely behind. Closing my eyes, I let out a deep breath, then follow after them, locking my door behind me. One day soon, I’ll get more than a few nights in my bed.
When this is over and my father is rotting six feet under, nothing more than fodder for the maggots.
Is it wrong that I find myself cackling at the image?
