I draw my knife and cut through the duct tape at her ankles first, then her wrists. She winces when I peel the tape from her mouth.
“It’s over,” I murmur. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”
She gasps a breath and crumples into my arms, her fingers clinging to my cut like she needs to feel it's real. Her sobs are raw, broken, muffled against my chest.
I hold her tighter, rocking her just a little.
John bleeds on the floor, cursing, scrabbling for a weapon.
Saint kicks it away, boots his ribs.
Ghost enters, calm as ever, gun still warm.
“We got the files,” Ghost says. “This is done.”
Havoc radios in the all-clear. The Saints clean up fast.
The difference is clear in every breath of this moment.
The Wolves use fear to chain people.
We break chains.
They exploit.
We protect.
They take.
We return what was stolen.
Grace is wrapped in my jacket, sitting in the back of the van with Doc checking her wrists.
“I’m okay,” she keeps saying. “I’m okay.”
But I see the tremble in her fingers.
I see the way her eyes search the room, like it could still turn on her.
When I crouch in front of her, she grabs my face with both hands and pulls me in like I’m air and she’s drowning.
“You came.”
“Always.”
She cries then.
Really cries.
Not quiet, careful tears. Ugly ones. Relief. Rage. Love. All of it.
I hold her through it, rocking her slightly, letting her pour it all out.
She’s not bait anymore.
She’s not leverage.
She’s not debt.
