Somehow, Tank actually managed to go through a growth spurt between us dropping out and now. I'm six-two, and he has a solid half foot on me, to say nothing about the muscle. The gentleness in his eyes hasn't gone anywhere, even if it's been hiding beneath an extra layer of steel.
Ever sincesheleft.
Ever since the betrayal that left scars on all of us. Some just wear them more obviously than others.
"Cy, we need that door."
"Already done. Electronic deadbolt's disengaged. You're clear for entry."
I take in a breath, feeling the familiar rush that comes right before we make someone's world collapse. This is what we do. This is justice—the only kind that actually fucking works.
My hand finds the door handle, turns it slowly. Unlocked, just like Cyrus promised.
I signal Tank, count down from three on my fingers.
Three. Two. One.
We burst through the door.
Adam is standing in his kitchen, a glass of whiskey in his hand, tie loosened and rumpled around his neck like a noose just waiting to be tightened. When he turns toward us, his face goes through that beautiful progression of confusion to terror.
He drops the glass.
It shatters against the marble floor, whiskey spreading like blood, and the sound seems to snap him out of his shock. He opens his mouth to scream, but Tank's already moving.
My brother—because that's what he is, blood or not—crosses the apartment in three strides and clamps one massive hand over Adam's mouth. The other wraps around his throat, just tight enough to make breathing interesting.
"Evening, Adam," I say, stepping over the broken glass. "Hope you don't mind us dropping by. We were in the neighborhood."
His eyes are wide above Tank's hand, darting between us like a trapped animal looking for an escape route. There isn't one. We've done this enough times to know how to block all the exits.
"Jinx, you're clear to enter."
The fire escape window slides open and Jinx slips through like smoke. He's changed out of his usual bright colors into all black, but somehow he always manages to look like he's heading to a fucking photoshoot. He's still got that long pretty boy hair,even if his face has sharpened into hard angles that make it impossible for anyone to mistake him for a girl the way they used to.
"Adam Chessier," Jinx purrs in that tone that means he wants to crawl inside someone's head and rearrange the furniture. "Thirty-eight years old. Connoisseur of overpriced lattes and dramatic violin music. And a very,verybad man."
Adam tries to struggle against Tank's grip, but he might as well be a mouse fighting a python. Tank doesn't even seem to notice the effort.
"Cy, how are we looking on digital surveillance?" I ask into my comm.
"Clean as a whistle. Building's cameras are showing a loop from two hours ago. Cell tower's experiencing some 'technical difficulties' and our friend's laptop just suffered a tragic hard drive failure."
I grin. Cyrus has gotten creative over the years. The shy kid with the thick glasses has turned into the best hacker this side of the FBI.
"Perfect." I pull out my lighter, flick it open and closed a few times. The clicking sound always helps me think. "Now, Adam, here's how this is going to work. Tank's going to let you breathe, and when he does, you're going to listen very carefully to what we have to say. Because your life—and I mean that literally—depends on how well you pay attention."
Tank loosens his grip just enough to let air through. Adam gasps, his face flushed red from lack of oxygen.
"Please," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I don't know what you want, but I have money. I can?—"
"Shut the fuck up," I interrupt, the lighter clicking faster now. "We're not here for your money, Adam. We're here for Sophia Norton."
The name goes off in his thick skull like an atom bomb. I can see it in his bulging eyes. He's trying to figure out how much we know, how much trouble he's in.
The answer is, all of it. And a lot.
"I don't know who?—"
