Three entry points. Surround the bastard. End this.
Now.
Seth hit the front porch at full speed and, gun raised, kicked in the front door. It exploded inward with a splintering crack, the frame giving way under the force of his boot. He surged into the foyer, every nerve firing as he scanned the family room.
What he saw made his heart lurch.
Hudson—his sixteen-year-old son—had slammed Gene flat on the floor. The bastard who had murdered Seth’s father and wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in his son’s skull growled threats as he thrashed, trying to strong-arm the kid off him. Hudson bared his teeth and shoved at Gene’s shoulders, white-knuckled and straining to keep the crooked cop pinned.
Equally shocking, a flush-faced Heavenly stomped on Gene’s arm—the one with his fist still gripping the gun—grinding it into the floor. His proper, very Catholic mother balanced on the same arm, spewing profanity that would have made a sailor blush.
Relief hit Seth so hard his knees threatened to give out. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
Though fucking reckless, they were incredibly brave.
And by some miracle, they were all alive.
But that didn’t absolve Gene fucking Hammond.
The murderous bastard had threatened to end everyone in the room. If not for Hudson, he’d have killed them all without an ounce of remorse.
Fury crashed Seth’s system, spiking with the terror in his veins. He crossed the room and hauled Hudson to his feet with enough force to send the kid stumbling. “Get back—all of you!”
The women scrambled away, wide-eyed and trembling.
Hudson came up fighting, his expression wild, his pupils adrenaline-blown and wide. “Dad?—”
“Back!” Seth barked as he bent and slammed the barrel of his gun against Gene’s temple.
The asshole froze, his body going rigid beneath the cold steel.
Matt burst in from the kitchen, weapon in hand, and mirrored the threat on Gene’s other side before twisting the gun from the prick’s hand. The corrupt cop’s fingers spasmed, but he knew better than to resist with weapons trained directly on him, controlled by Cooper men with itchy trigger fingers.
Two guns. Two angles. No escape.
“It’s over, motherfucker,” Seth growled.
Gene’s lips curled into a snarl, but he didn’t move. Seth almost wished he would. One twitch, one wrong breath, and he’d happily blow Gene’s brains all over his mom’s hardwoods.
In the next beat, the patio door shattered with a bone-rattling crash. Nik stormed into the room, weapon drawn. He leveled his gun at Gene’s face, a slow, predatory grin stretching across the Russian’s rugged face.
Gene blanched as recognition dawned. Raw, unfiltered fear followed. “Volkov?”
Nik tilted his head, his gun unwavering. “Da.”
Satisfaction filled Seth as he lowered his voice to a lethal whisper. “So…you know my friend Nik?” He pressed the barrel harder against Gene’s temple. “Or should I call you Specter?”
Gene flinched, jaw flexing. Still, he refused to reply.
“You invade turf.” Menace thickened Nik’s accent. “Mistake will cost you.”
His smile faded. His aim didn’t. He stepped closer, never rushing.
Seth’s finger tightened on the trigger. His pulse hammered in his ears. Every cell in his body screamed to pull it. To end this son of a bitch right here, right now.
Gene had taken everything from him. His father. His first wife. His infant son. Sixteen years of lies. Sixteen years of sitting at family dinners, smiling, pretending to be a friend while he’d been the architect of all the worst moments of Seth’s life.
A bullet was too quick. Too clean. Too easy.
