“Solid plan,” Spike nods. “Let’s rework it a bit. We move in four waves. First two waves are decoys. Shadows only. Keep them busy. Confuse them. Make them think we’re desperate.”
The shop is crowded with Shadows and a handful of Moretti soldiers, but you could hear a pin drop as everyone strains to listen to their President.
“The third wave,” Spike continues, “will be Moretti soldiers. They hit hard and fast. No mercy. We take out everyone but Cortéz. Orders will be to shoot to cripple him. I want that fucker alive.”
“And wave four?” I bite out, not bothering to hide the rage in my voice.
Spike turns to me.
“We’re wave four,” he says quietly. “You, me, Bones, Tank, Maverick, Crusher, and Foster. We focus on finding our men and bringing them home.”
My heartbeat is a war drum.
“Then let’s get going,” I snarl. “Every minute we stand here is another minute Cortéz thinks he owns my man.”
“Maverick is on his way with more of his men,” Foster says.
“Good,” Spike replies. “Have them meet us at the compound. We need the girls underground and every Shadow armed up yesterday.”
Foster turns to the cluster of Mafia soldiers…black tactical gear, emotionless faces, discipline rolling off them in waves.
“Your Don has ordered you five to head to the coordinates I’m sending now,” he tells them. “You’re to scope the area, mark every heat signature, and report back directly to him. Do not engage.”
One of the soldiers nods once. “Sí, signore. We move now.”
“Blackout van is parked right in front of the door,” Foster tells us.
“Good job, brother,” Spike says. “Let’s load the girls up and head home.”
“You three,” Tank growls, pointing at the snipers. “You’re coming with us. Get in the fucking van.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I tell Spike, stepping around the van and straddling my bike.
It won’t take long to reach the compound… five minutes tops… but I’m hoping the air will help clear my damn head. Rage and worry keep clawing at each other for first place, and I need to fucking focus.
***
Newsflash: The air didn’t help shit.
Chapter Eighteen
Knuckles
Pain.
So much fucking pain.
It’s everywhere. Coiling in my ribs, drowning my lungs, burning behind my eyes. My whole body is screaming at me to lie down, close my eyes, and let the darkness take me.
But I can’t.
I can’t leave Eli unprotected.
From the moment the doctor told me I had months left to live, I’ve felt it…that ticking bomb inside me. Counting down. Waiting. I didn’t know the exact second it would go off, but I knew it’d be too soon.
I’d wanted things. Stupid, beautiful things.
A wife. Maybe a kid.
