Which means Maverick called in the rest of the Royal Bastards.
Herrera curses under his breath.
And I smile.
The door behind us suddenly explodes inward. Light slashes into the room in a hard white burst, followed by two dark silhouettes with guns raised.
Malcolm.
Maverick.
Herrera jams the barrel harder into my temple, dragging me tight against his chest. “One more step and I paint the walls with her blood,” he threatens.
Both of them freeze instantly.
Malcolm’s eyes lock on mine, wide, wild, and terrified.
“Easy,” Maverick says calmly. “Nobody’s moving.”
Herrera lets out a sharp, shaky laugh. “From the sound of it, you’ve already done plenty of moving. Look where it got you.”
Malcolm shifts forward anyway, just half a step. “Harm one hair on her head and I’ll make you suffer.”
Herrera jams the gun even tighter against my temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s quick.”
Malcolm’s mouth curls into something mean. “Yeah. About that… Tony didn’t go quick.”
Herrera stiffens.
“He cried,” Malcolm continues, voice casual and cruel. “Sobbed. Begged. Gave us names, routes, stash houses, your whole operation. All of it. Swore you’d save him even if he talked.”
Herrera’s breathing turns ragged. “He wouldn’t…”
“Oh, he did. Sang like a fucking canary.” Malcolm tilts his head. “Then… Londyn cut his throat.”
Silence crashes into the room.
I feel it the second Herrera realizes it’s true. His grip falters. The gun trembles against my skin.
“She… she wouldn’t…” he whispers.
I smile.
“It was beautiful,” I say softly.
His attention snaps to my face.
Wrong move.
Slamming my elbow back into his ribs, I twist out of his hold, and rip the gun from his hand in one hard motion. I don’t hesitate. I fire once into his chest.
He staggers back, shock frozen on his face.
I take aim and pull the trigger twice more.
Three shots.
Three lives.
