“I’m not gonna run anymore,” he murmurs. “I’m not gonna hide from bikers. I’m not gonna hide from Carmen’s daddy’s club. I’m not gonna hide from anybody.”
He points the gun at Disco’s cage.
Disco freezes, eyes wide, feathers tight to his body.
My voice breaks on the word I never want to beg again.
“Don’t.”
Rico smiles. “Then do what I say.”
My brain scrambles, hunting angles, tricks, exits that don’t exist.
Then a sound hits from outside.
Low at first, like thunder rolling in from the ocean.
Engines.
A lot of them.
Rico pauses, head tilting, and his smile falters.
My whole body goes tight because Miami doesn’t make that sound unless something bad is about to happen.
Rico’s eyes widen.
“No,” he whispers, and for the first time he looks scared.
The engines get louder fast, closing in, and then the slam comes like the city just kicked in a door.
My front door hits the wall so hard the frame rattles.
Boots flood my apartment.
Men shout, sharp and clipped.
“Clear!”
“Kitchen!”
“Back room!”
Rico spins, gun lifting, panic exploding in his face.
“Shit,” he snarls. “No, no, no.”
A shadow fills the doorway.
Leather. Ink. A cut with SAINTS OUTLAWS across the back like a warning label.
Diablo stands there for half a second, taking in the scene with one glance.
Me on the couch, wrists bound, ankles bound, blood on my mouth.
Disco’s cage shaking.
Rico with a gun.
