Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-Four
Falcon
The tunnel ends in a metal ladder, with an open hatch above. The run through the cold dark space has thrown my balance off a little bit, but I dart full pelt up those ladders and haul myself into the space above, knowing I’m inside Warren Corvina’s house.
I feel my way out of what must have been a hidden room under his staircase, and I sprint toward the open front door, my heart thundering in my ears.
I stumble over the porch, seeing a woman with a gun forcing Robin into the backseat of a car, and feeling like everything is going in slow-motion around me.
I push forward with renewed energy, but the woman gets into the car before I can get close enough to stop her.
“Robin!” I scream, as the car engine flares.
My mate turns in the backseat, and she locks eyes with me for a fraction of a second before the car speeds out of sight. I runafter it anyway, as if sheer force of will could possibly propel me forward quickly enough to get anywhere close to catching up.
My lungs are ready to burst, and my body is running on empty by the time I reach the side of the road. The car is out of sight, and I’m ready to scream in pure frustrated rage when an S.U.V. pulls up beside me.
The window goes down a fraction, and Owen yells, “Get in!”
“Get in, now!” Jay calls out from inside the vehicle.
I rush over, grabbing the back door handle and throwing myself into the car.
I close the door with a bang. “Go!”
Owen doesn’t waste a second.
I’m thrown around while he cracks the speed limit and gives chase.
I grab the handle above the door and anchor myself.
The car is in the distance, but we haven’t lost it.
I catch my breath while I try to calm the fuck down.
It doesn’t fucking work.
Some things are made for rage.
This is one of them.
Chapter One Hundred-Thirty-Five
Robin
Falcon’s face stays with me as I’m driven away from that house in the woods. My mate must have found my dumb clues. I can hardly believe it. He must have been so close to catching up with us in that stupid tunnel. If only I’d spent a little more time arguing with Warren.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be trapped in the back of a cop car.
“Your mates can’t help you,” he calls back to me, his voice clear, even over the sound of the engine. “No one can save you now, Robin Yates.”
It’s almost as if he read my mind.
I guess the disappointment is written on my face.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
It doesn’t matter now.
