The elevator arrived with a soft chime that seemed absurdly delicate given the circumstances. We piled in—me, James, William, Ryan, Xavier, and Tory, while their various security teams took other elevators. The tension was thick enough to cutwith one of the many concealed knives I was sure everyone but Ryan and I were carrying.
“So,” Ryan broke the silence, fidgeting with his still inside-out shirt. “Do we have a cool mission name? Operation Save Matt’s Ass? Project Rescue Rich?”
“How about Operation Stop Talking?” William suggested dryly, but his lips twitched.
“Operation Inside-Out seems appropriate,” Xavier murmured, eyeing Ryan’s shirt with fond amusement.
“Hey, this is a choice,” Ryan defended. “I’m bringing casual chaos to this whole secret agent vibe you’ve all got going.”
James checked his phone, his jaw tight. “Eddie’s teams are in position. Tory?”
“My men have the perimeter,” Tory confirmed. “No one leaves that warehouse without us knowing.”
The elevator opened directly into the private garage, a cathedral of concrete and chrome housing millions of dollars worth of automotive art. Xavier’s Aston Martin gleamed like a predator ready to pounce, all sleek lines and barely contained power. Next to it, James’ armored Escalade looked like a tank in evening wear.
“Andy, you’re with us.” James nodded toward the Escalade. “William?”
“I’ll take point.” William was already moving toward the SUV.
“Guess that’s my cue.” Ryan headed for Xavier’s car, then paused. “Hey, Andy?”
“Yeah?”
“When this is over, we’re having a serious talk about your taste in billionaires and their tendency to attract trouble.”
“Says the guy who’s practically drooling over a car that probably costs more than some countries,” I shot back, managing a smile.
“Hey, I’m just appreciating fine engineering.” Ryan grinned, then yelped as Xavier smoothly opened the car door for him. “Oh my God, it has butterfly doors. This is so cool. I mean, totally inappropriate for the situation, but cool.”
Tory barked orders in Japanese to his men, who were filing into a fleet of black SUVs that screamed ‘yakuza’ in the most elegant way possible.
“Ready?” James asked me quietly as we got into the Escalade.
I looked at the arsenal of tactical gear in the back seat, at William checking his weapons with lethal grace, at the convoy of vehicles housing some of the most powerful men in Vegas, all here because of Matt. Because of me.
“Ready,” I said and meant it. “Let’s go get him back.”
The garage erupted with the sound of high-performance engines. Xavier’s Aston Martin led the way, Ryan’s golden hair visible through the tinted windows. We followed in the Escalade, with Tory’s convoy bringing up the rear like a very expensive, very deadly parade.
Somewhere in an abandoned warehouse, Matt was waiting. Probably making Porter regret every life choice that led to this moment.
Time to add our own regrets to Porter’s list.
James’ armored Escalade ate up the miles, its engine a low growl beneath us. I sat in the back, sandwiched between William and enough tactical gear to start a small war. James drove with the kind of focused intensity that made other cars scatter from our path like pigeons fleeing a particularly well-dressed hawk.
“Ten minutes out,” James announced, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Eddie’s team is in position. Xavier’s men report—” He cut off as his phone lit up. “Go.”
“Sir, you need to see this.” Eddie’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Sending live feed now.”
The screen built into the dashboard flickered to life, showing security footage. My heart stopped.
The warehouse was in chaos. Two men flew backward through a door, landing in broken heaps. Matt stalked through the splintered doorway, his white shirt stained red, his movements pure predator. Even through the poor quality video, I could see the cold fury in his expression as he systematically took apart Porter’s security.
“Status?” James barked into the phone.
“Porter’s losing control,” Eddie reported. “Boss is making his way to the main floor. We count fifteen hostiles down, maybe ten still standing. But sir—” A crash from the feed. “Porter’s unstable. He’s got a gun, and he’s ranting about ‘if I can’t have him, no one will.’”
My blood turned to ice. “James?—”
