“Don’t insult my intelligence with some dumbass excuse. I’m tired of dealing with lackeys. I want someone who can pay for my silence. Where are your bosses?”
Grant’s shoulders sagged like she’d finally played her hand. “They’re coming. They’re a few minutes out. This isn’t the easiest place to find. You couldn’t have picked somewhere with better lighting?”
“Should I have asked you guys to meet at fucking Starbucks?” she hissed.
Seven had to admit, he was impressed. Her voice cracked just enough to sell the fear, but her rage was real. It bled through every word like heat through glass.
“No. No, of course not. You did good, Bethy,” Grant said, smiling that nervous politician’s smile that never reached his eyes.
Then came a scuffling sound, heavy boots against concrete, followed by grunts and thescreechof the front door dragging shut again.
“Who are they?” Brioni’s voice trembled, sharper now.
They all stared at the feed, that dread from earlier returning full force as Brioni turned her body and they got a glimpse of their unexpected guests.
Seven sucked in a knife-sharp breath at the same time Enzo did, his heart plummeting into his shoes. There in the doorway were not only Caesar and Fritz, but Ansel and Elio, the muzzle of a gun pressed to each of their temples. The two teens looked shockingly steady.
For one nauseating second, the world shrank to the flickering glow of Zane’s screen and the tinny sound of Brioni’s breathing. Every instinct in Seven screamedmove.
“Those fucking idiots,” Enzo whispered, his horror obvious. His face went pale beneath the warehouse’s sickly yellow light.
“You tell us,” Fritz rasped. His voice was rough, winded, like each breath scraped down his throat. The man was huge, thick-necked and sweating through his shirt. The kind of predator who mistook size for power.
Enzo moved before he realized it, taking a step toward the railing, as if ready to launch himself into the chaos below. A leap that would have easily killed him. Seven caught his arm hard, fingers digging into muscle, and gave a sharp shake of his head.
Enzo looked ready to argue—his jaw flexed, nostrils flaring—but Seven turned away before he could speak. He slid out of the alcove, pressing flat against the rusted wall. His pulse thundered in his ears, a low rush that matched the hum of whatever generators powered the meager lights below. Every sound wasamplified: the creak of metal, the drip of old rainwater, the uneven breath in his chest. It felt like every microscopic sound was played directly into a microphone, like there was no way they didn’t know he was there.
“I’ve never seen those boys before in my life,” Brioni swore. Her voice was too high, trembling. “They don’t even look old enough to drive.”
“We just come out here to get a little wasted sometimes, dude,” Elio muttered, letting his muscles go a little lax like they might believe he was already intoxicated.
“Yeah,” Ansel said, his tone flat with practiced boredom. “We’re out here all the time. You’re the one trespassing onour territory.”
“Your territory?” Grant repeated, his irritation slicing through his fake calm.
“Yeah, bro,” Ansel said, swaying on his feet, doing a perfect impression of a drunk kid. “We’re here all the time.That makes it ours. Finders keepers.” He giggled, the sound high and reckless.
Elio caught the cue, laughing too loudly, stumbling a little. They had good instincts. Their act was good—too good—but they were improvising on a stage built over land mines. Seven could see the tension in their captive’s shoulders, the way their grips on the guns were too stiff, too tight, ready to snuff out Enzo’s brothers before they even had a chance to live.
Caesar snorted, a slight accent surfacing—one Seven couldn’t place. “You’re awfully cocky for two boys who ain’t gonna live long enough to vote.”
Even from this distance, Seven saw Elio swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Still, the kid didn’t flinch. It was obvious they were trying to be brave. “Well, that sucks for you, ‘cause our mom has a bit of a temper.” He smiled, shaky but dangerous. “You’ll see.”
Seven felt it then—the shift in the air. The kind that comes right before violence, thick and electric, pressing against his skin like static before a storm. He wanted to shout, to pull them out, but he couldn’t move yet without blowing the whole gig. The fear in his throat tasted like iron.
Fritz let out a strange, rattling sound that Seven belatedly realized was a laugh. “Oh no,” he wheezed, “not your mom.”
“Do something or I will,” Enzo hissed into Seven’s ear. He was talking to the others, not Seven, but he still took the command seriously. Enzo’s voice had that low, dangerous edge that usually had Seven falling like meat off the bone. It was a tone that meant he was about two seconds away from doing something dangerous.
“I’ve got it,” Seven said quickly, pulse thrumming in his throat. “I promise I won’t let them get hurt. Just…hang tight. Please.”
“Those are my baby brothers,” Enzo whispered, words thick.
“Trust me, please,” Seven breathed.
“He’s really good,” he heard Felix say.
He hoped that was still true. How long had it been since he’d fired a gun?
