Finished with my face, I cap the sharpie and toss it toward the front.
Monty’s eyes meet mine over his shoulder, and there’s a whole argument sitting there.But it cuts off as he takes in my smile.
My Glasgow smile.
I didn’t carve it into myself the way the myth goes.No blades or blood.I drew it instead, the heavy black ink dragging from the corners of my mouth toward my ears.A grin too wide to belong to anyone sane.
I’ve only worn it once before.
The last time Denver hurt me.
The night I made the devil’s bargain.
That night, I didn’t have language for what I felt.I had fear and rage and a need to look scarier and stronger than I was.The ink was a way to tell Denver I could still choose how my face told the story.
As Monty studies it now, he seems to understand.This isn’t humor or bravado.It’s me choosing sacrifice over self-preservation, crossing a line I can’t uncross, accepting how the night might end for me, and doing it anyway.
Jag put himself between a predator and the woman we love.Dove is paying for blood she never asked for.If this is the price to pull them out, I won’t hesitate.
It matters.It’s the only thing that matters.Maybe it’s the most important thing I’ll ever do.
Monty stares at my face like he’s memorizing it.Kody glances at him, and they exchange a look I recognize immediately.
Understanding.Not approval or permission.But an acknowledgment that the argument is over.This is happening with or without their help.
Thanks to the sharpie ink, my smile will hold until the end.My hands won’t shake.Whatever’s left of me locks into place, gut-deep and focused.
Jag and Dove have been missing for ten days.That ends tonight.
“Crowe is inside,” Mikhail says into the earpiece.“VIP lounge.”
Oliver checks one last connection and pats my shoulder.
Monty twists in the front seat to face me head-on.
“Don’t.”Kody grunts and grips Monty’s shoulder.
Silence stretches, tight and brittle.Then Monty nods and reaches for me.
I go to him, awkwardly in the confined space, and let him envelop me in a hug.
“Bring them home.”He rests his mouth against my temple.“And don’t you dare touch that kill switch.”
If Jag and Dove are dead, I’ll probably blow up the whole damn building with me inside it.But I won’t tell him that.
Stepping back, I straighten as much as the roof of the van will allow and hold out my arms.
“How’s the fit?”I do a half-turn, side to side.
The black vest sits flat against my chest, balanced so it doesn’t drag or shift when I move.The quick-release is built into the front seam, so I can peel it open with a flick of my finger when it’s time to show them who and what they’re dealing with.
Below it, the gauze-thin ivory skirt hangs to the floor and parts with each step, transparent enough to show the black sequin shorts underneath.My black boots are thigh-high, steel-toed, and heavy, made to kick doors and asses.
Around my neck, I wear a short chain, blackened silver, with a large anarchist circle-A, embedded with crystals.Oliver modified it, replacing one of the crystals with a camera lens.
Rings stack on every finger, the thick bands mismatched and worn.Enough steel to turn my hands into brass knuckles.One of them carries a hidden switch on the underside.Not a button anyone else could use.Just a private decision point built into the metal, waiting for me to flick it with my thumb.
That’s the part Monty hates the most.He said if I wasn’t planning to detonate the bomb, I didn’t need a trigger.I reminded him that this is my circus, and his objections are noted and overruled.
