So, that just left us with Sinclair.
The guys asked him a few more questions, his answers didn’t change and he didn’t reveal anything new. The fact he didn’t even fight answering or try to evade gave his words an element of truth.
As if satisfied, Voodoo glanced at each of us in turn. One by one the guys shook their heads and when he checked with me, I shook mine too. I didn’t have any more questions.
“Do you want to do it?” Bones asked, his lips next to my ear in a dark and sensuous caress. He was putting Ignacio’s life in my hands, literally. The man was going to die, it didn’t really matter which one of us pulled the trigger. But they were giving it to me if I wanted it.
Did I?
Chapter
Eight
LUNCHBOX
Grace didn’t answer Bones. Not out loud.
But the look on her face—God, that look—hit me harder than any punch I’d ever taken. Shock, grief, fury, all braided so tight she didn’t seem to know which thread to follow first. I’d seen her angry. I’d seen her stubborn. I’d seen her broken and still pushing forward.
But I had never seen her look…lost.
The second Ignacio said he’d never heard of her sister? It was like watching the last tether holding her world together snap clean in half.
I felt it. In my chest. In my damn teeth. I wanted to tear the bastard apart just for that flicker of devastation in her eyes.
But Bones was right. This wasn’t our call.
If Grace wanted Ignacio dead, we’d do it. If she wanted time—he’d breathe as long as she allowed it. If she wanted us to march him straight to hell, we’d carry him there ourselves.
But we weren’t taking that choice from her.
Not this one. Not after everything else that was stripped from her without consent.
I swallowed the burn in my throat and took a slow breath—because if I didn’t check myself now, I’d end him before she even spoke.
Sinclair groaned behind me.
Right.
The other bastard in the room.
I turned just in time to see him flinch awake, blinking through the fog of being drugged, dragged, and dumped on his own basement floor. As satisfying as it might have been, I hadn’t dropped him on his head. We still needed him to answer questions.
He was, however, bound at the ankles and wrists. I’d also removed all of his devices—four phones and two digital tablets, not to mention a laptop. They were all powered down and in a case to block signals until Alphabet was ready.
Sinclair looked confused for about half a second.
Then he saw Grace.
Then Ignacio.
Then all ofus.
Reality seemed to bleed in slowly, coloring his world from groggy to oh fuck. It was almost entertaining to watch. He blanched, then struggled and discovered that he couldn’t move.
The gag was also firmly in place, so it muffled whatever creative verbal response he might have had. The sound he made climbed and cracked like a hormonal teenager.
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny—but because the timing couldn’t have been worse for him.
