Brother Vincent.
The memory hits me so hard, it steals my breath.
The night I ran away. Brother Vincent and Brother Malone chasing me. The ropes biting into my wrists. Dragging me from a horse when I could no longer run—or even stand.
Metal clanks against the helicopter’s frame as they shove me inside and lock the wheels into place. My chest heaves. The drug’s fog thickens, but adrenaline fights it back.
“Prophet is waiting,” Marvin barks. God, his voice sounds so far away. “He wants Nova purified before the ceremony tomorrow night.”
The words echo in my skull, terrifying in their finality.
The rotors scream louder, drowning out all other sounds. The floor vibrates under me. Harder. Faster. Until the world tilts, and the helicopter lifts off.
The city lights fade away—along with any hope I’ll ever see AJ again.
Chapter Seventy-Five
AJ
Hardison shuts the door behind us, then plants himself against it, arms crossed, like this is any other shift on any other day. Except for his eyes. The flecks of green in his gold irises are practically glowing as he scans the room, then cuts his gaze back to mine with a weight I don’t like.
Not panic. Not even fear. Just a tight focus that says something’s coming, and we don’t know if it’s a rain shower or a goddamn hurricane.
I slip the comms device into my ear. “Talk to me. Jas? Connor? What’s goin’ on.”
“Two headed for the back deck,” Jasper says. “One hidin’ behind the shed. The fourth is comin’ in from the front.”
I cast a quick gaze to the door. Hardison hasn’t moved. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if he was breathin’. The man’s got two gears: deadpan smartass and serious as a heart attack. And right now, he ain’t crackin’ jokes.
“Copy that,” I mutter. Something about this feels…wrong.
On my phone screen, I cycle through the various security feeds. I should have sent Hardison for Parker’s laptop.
There they are. Two guys, dressed all in black, marching up the stairs to the deck like they own the whole fuckin’ place.
Connor cuts in. “Are these jackoffs trying to get dead? I’ve seen Girl Scouts with better op-sec.”
“Don’t dis the scouts, man,” Hardison says. “Some of those badges are serious business.”
I glare at him. This ain’t the time for jokes. “Girl scouts are welcome to ring the doorbell. These guys aren’t. Make ‘em regret every one of their life choices.” My tone’s sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. Grace’s safety depends on this being over. Fast.
The two on the back deck walk right up to the door and try the goddamn handle.
“Hey, assholes,” Jasper calls. The doggie door opens, and my brother fires four shots, right to their kneecaps. The men drop with guttural curses and cries, grabbing their legs and rolling around like Jas just kicked them in the nuts.
Another two shots, and Connor’s voice rumbles in my ear. “Three down. One to go.”
Flipping to the camera covering the front of the property, I watch the last man hesitate. He glances at the front door, then back at the road.
Do it. Put one goddamned foot on the step and see what happens, asshole.
The guy adjusts his grip on his gun and races up the stairs. He hurls himself at the door, shoulder first, but rebounds like he just hit a brick wall. Even on the tiny screen, it’s obvious he’s not tryin’ again.
Jasper opens the door and draws down on the idjit. “Drop the gun or I drop it for you.”
The pistol hits the wood. Jasper spins the guy around, zip tying his wrists before marching him through the house, all the way to the back deck where the two guys with no knees lie face down, whimpering something about blood loss and hospitals.
“Find out who sent them—and do it quick,” I snap.
