Because they all know—I'm going into that barn whether they approve or not. Whether it's smart or not. Whether it's suicidal or not.
I'm getting my wife out of that cage.
I check my weapons one more time. Gun loaded, safety off, extra magazines in my pockets.
Knife strapped to my belt, sharp enough to cut through bone.
Ready.
More than ready.
Banshee appears beside me, checking his own weapon. "You good?"
"No." Honest answer. "But I will be once she's safe."
"Then let's go get her."
We move through the darkness like ghosts.
All these armed men, spread out in three groups, silent, coordinated, deadly.
I'm at the front of my group—Banshee and Phantom flanking me, Ghost and Shiver behind, five more Reapers bringing up the rear.
The barn gets closer with every step.
I can see light through the cracks in the wood more clearly now.
Can hear voices inside, muffled but present.
One of them is Flint.
I can't make out words yet, but I recognize his voice from the phone call. From the meet that never happened.
The voice of the man who took my wife.
The voice of a dead man who just doesn't know it yet.
We reach the side of the barn, pressing our backs against the weathered wood. The building is old, falling apart, gaps in the planks wide enough to see through.
I peer through one of the gaps, and my heart stops.
Grace.
She's there.
In a cage.
Aliteralfucking cage in the center of the barn.
Metal bars, maybe six feet by six feet, not even tall enough for her to stand up straight.
Barely big enough to sit in comfortably.
She's sitting with her back against the bars, hands zip-tied in front of her, resting in her lap.
Her hair is messy, tangled. There's a bruise forming on her left cheek, dark and angry. Her clothes are dirty, torn slightly at the shoulder.
But she's alive.
