“She’s going after Herrera,” I say, chest tightening. “She’s not in her right mind.”
Mav comes up beside me, jaw tight. “Then we move. Now. Before Herrera’s men find her first.”
We mount up fast. The brothers roll out on bikes, engines roaring like a war cry.
“You’re with Turbo. You can barely stand, much less control a bike,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.
He’s right, and I hate it. The beating I gave that piece of shit rotting in the chair took a toll on me.
Climbing into the passenger seat, I slam the door as Turbo fires up the engine. “Punch it,” I snap.
And he does.
We tear through the streets, the downtown Atlanta skyline a blur as we make our way deep into the SWATS. My knee bounces nonstop, nerves shot. All I can think about is Lolo walking into a firefight alone. Herrera will have guards. Guns. Men who don’t hesitate. In her state of mind, she doesn’t give a fuck. She’s walking in with that empty look in her eyes, and she’s out for blood.
Turbo glances at me. “She’s tough, brother.”
“She’s reckless right now,” I fire back. “She just killed a man, and she’s not thinking straight.”
He doesn’t argue. Everyone of us saw the transition in her, and none of us dared stop her.
We hit Jonesboro Road in under ten minutes. The warehouse Herrera uses for drops comes into view…big, dark, with no lights on the outside.
Turbo kills the engine a block away, and we move in on foot.
Scanning the immediate area, I spot her crouched low beneath a cracked window, shoulders tense, body coiled. She’s got her gun drawn, steady in her hand. Her hair’s falling into her face, and she doesn’t even try to push it back. She looks like someone with nothing left to lose.
My heart damn near stops.
“Lolo,” I hiss, moving toward her.
She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look at me. “Stay low,” she mutters, eyes fixed inside the warehouse. “Two guards inside. One walking patrol. Herrera should be upstairs.”
“Should be,” I repeat. “You planning on checking that out alone?”
Her jaw moves. “I’m not here for a conversation.”
“No,” I say, crouching beside her. “You’re here to die if you keep this shit up.”
Her eyes flick toward me, just for a second, but I see the exhaustion, the fury, and the grief boiling under her skin.
“I don’t care if I die,” she says quietly. “As long as I get to him first.”
That hits me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
Mav and the others fan out behind us, keeping low, checking angles. He steps close enough for her to hear but not enough to crowd her.
“Londyn,” he says calmly, “you want Herrera? Fine. We’ll get you Herrera. But you don’t walk in there alone.”
Her voice is flat. “I don’t need backup.”
I grab her wrist. “Yeah, you do. You’re good, but you’re not invincible.”
She yanks her hand free. “He murdered my family. Tony admitted it. Herrera gave the order. I’m not waiting. I’m not negotiating. I’m not dragging this through courts. I’m ending it.”
Mav nods slowly. “And you will. “You brought us into this. We’re just making sure you live long enough to pull the trigger.”
She exhales, sharp, and frustrated, but not dismissive. She’s, at the very least, listening and understanding that she’s not in this alone.
