“Good point.” But I didn’t have the brain capacity to deal with the two knuckleheads of our crews.
“As long as they stick to the plan, we should be good.” I couldn’t figure out if Brock was trying to convince himself or me.
The crews’ orders were clear: fuck up the guards, disarm anyone who posed a threat, but no harm came to the girls. Anyone who ignored the directive would answer to me personally.
The Elite was handling the finesse operation, the part that required brains instead of bullets. Brock had pulled together the perfect decoy; whether or not he could be trusted remained to be seen, but he had something to lose if he screwed up.
His gambling debt would be the least of his worries.
Dean stood in the center of the warehouse, standing out in his expensive suit and Italian leather shoes that screamed old money. Even his posture had changed, shoulders held with the casual arrogance of someone accustomed to never having to work a day in his life. Daddy’s money had been there at every turn to bail him out…until recently.
But it was his eyes that sold the performance. Cold, calculating, and empty of anything resembling human compassion. He would fit right in with the other monsters who would be sitting in the underground auction tonight. I didn’t have the backstory on how his family made their fortune, but as someone who grew up watching his father, whose morals were loose when it came to money, I recognized the same tainted soul in Dean.
“Remember,” Brock said, smacking Dean on the shoulder, “you’re Victor Kozlov, textile importer from Prague. You’ve got fifty million in liquid assets and a taste for young American girls. The accent is slight; you’ve been living in the States for fifteen years.”
Dean nodded, rolling his shoulders to settle into the persona. When he spoke, his voice carried just the faintest trace of Eastern European inflection. “Not a problem. All those summers abroad are paying off. What about the girl?”
“Kaylor. Your job is simple,” I said, stepping into his line of sightso he couldn’t avoid my eyes. “Blend in, bid if you have to, but never—and I mean fucking never—lose sight of her.” He already had a picture of her, and since electronics of any kind were prohibited from the auction, he would have to go off memory. “They might have changed her look. Try to pay attention to the details that can’t easily be altered. She has a scar on her shoulder, a bullet injury.”
“Associating with you seems to be hazardous to her life,” Dean commented, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Just keep eyes on her at all times,” I told him.
Brock handed him a tiny communication device. “I’ll be in your ear if anything goes awry, but make sure it doesn’t.”
“Comforting,” Dean grumbled, fitting the piece into his ear.
Brock eyed Dean, checking that the plant’s overall appearance was up to his standards. “Small price to pay for your life.”
“Assuming I don’t get shot.”
I shrugged. “A bullet is a better way to die than what those sharks have planned for you.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” Dean mumbled.
When shit hit the fan, Dean would go straight for Kaylor, no hesitation, no detours. He needed to reach her before anyone else. Our biggest obstacle would be my patience. Having to wait just on the outskirts, knowing she was so close, would be a true test of my control. Instead of worrying about Dean, Mason, or Micah, perhaps I should be concerned with myself.
Timing was key, and regardless of how much we plotted or tried to account for every possible hiccup, plans were just ink on paper until they met reality. And reality had a way of taking even the most perfect strategy and twisting it into a nightmare.
I pressed my palms against the table’s surface, leaning forward until the blueprints blurred beneath my gaze. I didn’t care who got hurt tonight. Didn’t care how many bodies we left scattered across that auction house floor. Didn’t care if we had to wade through rivers of blood to reach her. The only thing that mattered…the only thing that had ever mattered…was her.
Revenge could wait. Tonight, there was only one objective.
Kaylor.
The signal came through,Fynn’s comm clipping to life in my ear as I crouched behind a truck. In front of me was what had once been a grand plantation house that had been reduced to a shell. The white columns were yellow with mildew. The porches sagged. The grounds were acres of unkept lawn rolling away into pine and scrub. From the road, it might’ve been a ruin. From here, with gates and a winding drive and enough privacy to make a man forget God existed, it was perfect.
Perfect for monsters like Rusty.
The circular drive gleamed with expensive cars, telling me two things: this was the place and the people inside didn’t expect trouble.
“Cameras are down. They’re blind.” Fynn’s voice murmured in my ear.
That was it. The start of something that would either end with Kaylor in my arms or all of us in body bags. The point of no return.
I stared at the row of windows lining the second floor, wondering which one of those rooms had been Kaylor’s. Then again, it was best I didn’t know. If I planned to keep my cool, I couldn’t think of the conditions in which she had suffered here. It would mess with my focus, and it was fucking hard enough to be so damn close to her yet unable to reach out and grab her.
Maddox and Mason crouched on either side of me. Maddox’s jaw was set, the muscle jumping once beneath his stubbled cheek. His light-green eyes reflected under the full moon. Mason’s hands rested easily on his weapons at his hips, a pistol and a blade, but I caught the slight tremor in his fingers that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the adrenaline already flooding his system.
