“Steel.” I turn to face him. “When we go in, I need you in a sniper position. Overwatch. If things go sideways?—”
“I’ll have the shot.” He says it without hesitation. “Whatever it takes to get her out.”
“You’re still a prospect. This isn’t your fight.”
“Bullshit.” His jaw sets, and I see the man he’s becoming. “She’s one of us. That makes it my fight. And I’m the best shot in the club—we both know it. Put me where I can do the most damage.”
I study him for a long moment. The beard. The glasses. The quiet competence that’s replaced his early uncertainty. The women call him Fairy Floss, and he lets them, because he’s secure enough in himself not to care. But I’ve seen him on the range. I know what he’s capable of.
“Northeast corner of the building next door. You’ll have sight-lines on both the main entrance and the loading dock.”
“I’ll be there.”
He turns to go, then stops.
“Stone. We’re going to get her back.”
“I know.”
But as I watch him leave, I make myself a promise.
If anything happens to Josie—if they’ve touched her, hurt her, done anything to dim the light in her eyes—there won’t be a force on earth that’ll stop me from burning their world to ashes.
I let her out of my sight, and they took her.
I’ll never forgive myself for that.
But first, I’m going to get her back. And then I’m going to make them pay.
Every. Single. Fucking. One.
21
JOSIE
The warehouse smells like chemicals and fear.
They’ve got me in what looks like a foreman’s office on the second floor—glass windows overlooking the main floor, a battered desk, filing cabinets that have seen better decades. My hands are zip-tied in front of me, which is a mistake on their part. Behind would have been smarter. But I’m not about to point that out.
I’m in a metal folding chair, the kind that digs into your spine no matter how you sit. The cold seeps through my jeans, and I can feel my muscles starting to cramp from holding still. I shift slightly, testing the give in my restraints. Not much, but not nothing either.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised they can’t hear it.
My wrists ache where the zip ties bite into skin. I’m thirsty. I need to pee. And underneath the forced calm, rage is simmering—hot and bright and dangerous.
How dare they.
I’ve spent my entire career putting men like this behind bars. I’ve stared down murderers in courtrooms, faced threats and intimidation without flinching. And now I’m zip-tied to a chair in a chemical-stinking warehouse because these bastards thought I’d be easy leverage.
They have no idea who they’re dealing with.
The fear is still there—I’m not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. But the anger is stronger. And anger, I can use.
Breathe. Focus. Catalogue.
It’s the only thing keeping the panic at bay—turning terror into data, fear into something slightly useful. If I let myself feel it all, I’ll shatter. So I don’t. I shove it down into a box and lock it tight, the way I’ve done in a hundred courtrooms when a case was going sideways.
There are three men in the room. I watch them, waiting to see where their weaknesses are.
