Suddenly, pounding footsteps echo from above. Shit. I swing my weapon upward and take the stairs two at a time. Brooks tugs at the knife still lodged in the man’s leg.
As I round the next corner, a gunshot explodes from behind me. The man ahead crumples mid-step, a hole blooming in his chest.
“Motherfucker,” Pax mutters, grinning as he lowers his revolver. He nods toward the top. “Move.”
Brooks is already charging upward. “Shit,” he hisses, eyeing the panel beside the door. “Colt!”
Colton bolts past us.
“Please tell me you brought one of those things,” Brooks growls, standing at the door, face like ice. This door is keypad-secured.
“Oh, I’ve got one of those things.” Colt drops to his knees, his mouth twitching into a smug smile. He holsters his gun and shrugs off the backpack. Finally makes sense why he insisted on bringing it.
He unzips the bag in near silence and pulls out a small screwdriver and a handheld device. He presses the latter into Brooks’ hand. “Hold this.”
Colt works fast. He unscrews the keypad cover with practiced ease, placing the pieces in Pax’s waiting palm. Then he takes back the device and clips on two tiny cables—like jump leads for a toy car. With a few quick taps, numbers flicker across the display.
I keep my eyes on the stairs, heart hammering. We don’t have long. No idea what’s happening downstairs, and Ireallydon’t want to find out the hard way.
Seconds stretch into what feels like minutes—until a soft beep breaks the tension. The lock clicks. Door open.
Only two minutes have passed, but it felt like a goddamn eternity.
Brooks opens the door a little wider so he can peek through the crack. Then he gestures upward, and I understand that we have to aim our weapons. All six of us do so, and then he throws the door open. He runs inside as fast as he can, and we follow him. I just catch a glimpse of a man with blond hair turning around and dropping his glass.
“Gentlemen,” he says, voice trembling.
Brooks walks purposefully toward him with both Bowie knives in hand. The guard’s blood trickles down the side of his hand.
“We had an agreement,” the man says, his voice a little steadier now as he straightens up. He lifts his hands in a pathetic attempt to calm us down.
Brooks lets out a cold, humorless laugh that slices through the room like a blade. “An agreement?” he echoes, voice tremblingwith rage. “You think handing over my wife’s body and a name makes us even?” His voice breaks for a moment, then fury swallows it whole. “You thoughtthatwas a deal, Mr. Fancy Last Name?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. With a roar, Brooks lunges forward and slams his forehead into Vanderberg’s face. The crack is sickening, and blood bursts onto both men. Vanderberg stumbles back, dazed and reeling, but Brooks is already crouching. With a single, practiced move, he slices through the tendon at the back of Vanderberg’s ankle.
The scream that tears from Vanderberg’s throat is inhuman—high and shrill, like a dying animal. He collapses, twitching and gasping, his hands slipping in the growing pool of blood around him. “You bastard!” he howls, crumpling forward. “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that! We had a deal!”
He tries to stand—shaking, breath ragged—but his ruined leg gives out. He falls again, whimpering, face twisted in agony.
Brooks shoves him backward with both hands and Vanderberg’s skull cracks against the floor.
My best friend straddles his chest, every breath heavy with restrained violence. We all step in closer without a word, instinct pulling us toward the storm about to break.
“You really believed,” Brooks growls, voice low and shaking, “that you could hand her back in a box, with a bullet in her skull, give us a name, and promise to keep your fucking hands off Laylay, and that would be enough?” His hand trembles as he brings the blade to Vanderberg’s cheek. “Youshould’veleft her at school. You shouldn’t have even looked at her. Never touched her.”
Brooks drags the tip of the knife down, slow and deliberate, carving a crimson line from beneath Vanderberg’s eye to his jaw. The man jerks, screaming, but Ballistic pins his arm down—andwithout a flicker of hesitation, chops off two of his fingers. The sound is wet and final.
Vanderberg roars in agony, clutching the bloody stump, eyes wild with fear.
Brooks wipes the splattered blood from his face, expression flat, empty. “Being in charge… not so fun now, is it?” He cocks his head, eyes burning.
“Ballistic,” Vanderberg whimpers. “I never ordered them to kill her. I swear. Please… please, man…”
But no one’s listening.
Brooks plants both hands on Vanderberg’s chest, then drags them slowly down to his thighs, deliberate and chilling. Without hesitation, he drives his knife straight into the soft flesh beneath the ribs. The sound it makes is wet—fleshy. Vanderberg’s body jerks in pain.
“You gave the fucking order,” Brooks growls. His voice is low, dangerous. “You orchestrated their kidnapping. Planned tosellthem like property, like they were born to fill your damn pockets.” His fists tighten around the Bowie knife’s handle. “You traffic women like they’re livestock—meat to be branded, broken, and sold.”
