“No, fuck face. I’ve never looked at a rich man’s hands before.”
“Well, start,” the nervous guy interjects. “If they’re missing their pinky, that’s someone who’s met Bash in person, and I can promise that taking the pinky was the least horrifying thing that man did to those people.”
The idiots in the van start fighting with one another, and I take the opportunity to use their increasing volume to more specifically locate every fucking one of them.
The guy closest to me is the loudest idiot, and just as he’s making a point for just killing me and letting the rich assholes sort it out, I break his nose.
Damn, that was satis?—
The van jerks to the side with a violent jolt, and I’m thrown against the window. I’m a little disoriented and there’s blood, maybe, dripping from my eyebrow, but I force myself to focus. Moans fill the air, and no one seems to be paying attention to me. Taking advantage of the distraction, I work the black bag off my head with my bound hands.
The guy in the front passenger seat is slumped forward, his head bleeding. None of us was wearing a seatbelt, so everyone’s dazed by the impact. With a loud, metallic whine, the van door is shoved open, and Rami is standing there with a weird blaster-looking pistol, Holmes coming up behind him.
Rami takes one look at my face, then shoots the driver and co-pilot, reducing their heads to ash. The guy in the seat behind me lets out a squeal before Rami silences him. Holmes reaches in and grabs me by the shirt, pulling me out onto the shoulder of a rural highway. Rami takes out the van’s remaining inhabitant, leaving the vehicle looking like Swiss cheese on the side of the road.
He then reduces the entire thing to ash, spitting on the remains.
“Just so you know,” Holmes says in a modulated tone, “we usually keep at least one person alive and retain the vehicle to review in case there are items or details of interest.”
Rami darts a look at Holmes, murder still in his eyes. “Fuck that.”
Honestly, it’s kinda sexy to see him like this.
Reeling, I turn to Holmes. “How did you…?” Blood rushes to my head, and I forget the rest of the question.
“I heard you shout.” He leans in with a concerned expression. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Got hit in the head a couple of times.”
Maya appears out of nowhere and reaches for my face, thumbing up my lids, checking my eyes with a penlight. “What’s today’s date? Who’s the president?”
I answer her easily.
“Any pain or injury aside from your head?” she asks, patting down my eyebrow with something that immediately stops the bleeding.
I shake my head, and the world goes a little wobbly.
“Who’s your favorite Wildling?” she asks with a troublemaker grin.
“The one helping me right now?”
Rami’s jaw swings loose and he glares at his sister.
“Good answer,” she says, giving Rami a smug look, similar to the one I’ve seen on her dad’s face.
“Ehh,” Rami buzzes, pulling me into a careful embrace. “That is thewaywrong answer.” I put my arms around him, and he sniffs, all murderous bravado gone in a flash. “Thought I lost you.”
“Nah, I’m too stubborn for that,” I say, ignoring the pounding in my head as I rub his back. “Still not sure why they kidnapped me instead of you.”
Omar joins us, and if his eyes were lasers, Anders Fucking Bash would be a dead man.
“You were supposed to keep pace with us, Habibi.”
Anders looks unconcerned. “Yeah, well, that was until ourson figured out that Preston is the one responsible for this. For all of it.”
“What led you to that conclusion?” Omar asks Rami. “Preston Whitaker is many things, but family is everything to him.”
“Tell him,” Holmes prompts as Maya pulls a syringe from her cross-body medical bag.
