"Agreed." Axel turned to me, and for a moment, the soldier flickered into something else. Something worried. "You stay with the bikes. If things go sideways?—"
"I'm coming in."
"Kai—"
"He's my friend." I held his gaze, letting him see the steel underneath. "And you might need a medic."
The muscle in his jaw ticked. I watched him war with himself—the need to protect me against the tactical reality that I could be useful.
"You stay behind me," he finally said. "You don't engage unless you have to. And if I tell you to run?—"
"I run. I remember."
He stared at me for a beat longer, something fierce and frightened in his grey eyes. Then he nodded once.
"Let's move."
The fire escape groaned under our weight, but held.
Axel went first, moving with predator silence despite his size. I followed close behind, placing my feet exactly where his had been. Below us, Tank was breaching the loading dock. Irish had the front.
We reached the second floor window. Through the grime-streaked glass, I could see a large open space—probably the old factory floor. Three figures stood in a cluster near the center,their Devil's Dust patches visible even in the dim light. And tied to a chair maybe twenty feet away?—
Jake.
Even from here, I could see the damage. Blood on his face. The way he was slumped. The unnatural angle of his left arm.
Rage hit me like a wave. Cold, clarifying,dangerous.
Axel glanced at me, saw whatever was in my expression, and something shifted in his own face. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition. He held up three fingers. Two. One.
The window shattered inward.
Violence, when you're trained for it, has a rhythm.
Axel was through the window before the glass finished falling, his gun up and firing. The first Devil's Dust dropped before he could reach his weapon. The second spun, raising a pistol—Axel's second shot took him in the shoulder, sent him spinning into a support beam.
The third grabbed Jake's chair, yanking it backward, using the kid as a shield.
"One more step, Reaper, and I paint the floor with his brains!"
I recognized the voice. Slash. Of course it was Slash.
His cast was gone, replaced by a brace that still let him grip the gun he had pressed to Jake's temple. His face was a mess of healing bruises—Axel's handiwork from my apartment. His eyes were wild. Desperate. Cornered animal.
"Let him go." Axel's voice was ice. "He's just a prospect. He doesn't know anything."
"He knows enough." Slash's laugh was high, unhinged. "Knows where your new toy sleeps. Knows the clubhouse layout. Knows?—"
"He doesn't know shit about club operations." Tank emerged from the shadows to my left, shotgun steady. "He's a kid, Slash. Since when does Devil's Dust hurt kids?"
"Since Phoenix started protecting witnesses who should have been dealt with weeks ago." Slash's eyes found me, and hatred twisted his features. "There he is. The pretty nurse who thinks he can play with the big boys."
I stepped out of the shadows. Axel made a sound of protest, but I was already moving.
"You want me?" I kept my voice steady. "Fine. Let Jake go, and I'll come with you."
"Kai, no—" Axel started.
