“Careful.”I gesture at my open vest.“This outfit explodes if startled.”
As the goon waffles, Jag steps behind him and snaps his neck.
Two more crows rush me, all bad timing and worse judgment.
“If I trip…” I smile at them.“We all redecorate.”
My hands move on instinct, and I feel it through the rings, the wet crunch of steel meeting bone.
One of them staggers back, nose gone wrong and soundless shock splashed across his face.
The other hesitates long enough for regret to register.I love that half-second, the moment they realize my rings aren’t decoration, and the skirt-wearing wacko is very, very good at this.
I pounce, knuckles heavy, breath hot, and heart kicking.There’s no mercy here.No room for it.Only the need to end the threat before it ends us.
The rings bite.The razor slices.Faces fold, and one by one, the room empties of resistance.
The noise collapses into ragged breathing.The echo of movement fades.Silence creeps back in, thick and stunned, broken only by the drip of blood against concrete.
Every crow in the room lies unmoving on the floor.
Jag stands beside me, breathing hard, eyes wild but clear.Still upright.Still here.
I wipe gore from my face with the back of my hand, spit a mouthful of blood, and meet Jag’s eyes.
His hands shake.His breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls, and his muscles appear locked as if the fight might start again.I know the feeling.My own pulse is crashing, heat draining fast, leaving a hollow tremor behind my ribs.Shock with teeth.
His gaze flicks to the body on the floor.
Adrian Crowe.
The pedophile kingpin he hunted for two decades.
The reason he and Dove lost their parents and lived on the streets.
No more.
“Where is she?”His wrecked, broken voice guts me almost as much as the question itself.
“She’s not here.Surveillance confirmed she’s not in this building.”
The swollen lines in his face fracture.Not loud or dramatic.Just a hairline split where hope had been white-knuckled into place.His eyes return to me, and through the damage, behind the bruises and blood and ten days of hell, I see it.
Trust.
He’s barely standing, held together by adrenaline and determination, a twitch away from buckling.
There’s so much I want to say.So much I need to say.But there’s a van full of mobsters and mouth-breathers listening and watching.This isn’t the moment to break.
“Move!”Oliver snaps in my ear.“Now.Sirens are inbound.”
“We’ll find her.”I push into Jag’s space, clasp his hand, and hook our pinkies together in a language he understands.“I swear it.”
He stares down at our entwined fingers, his eyes stark and brows furrowed.Then his gaze lifts to mine, and he nods.That’s all he’s got.It’s enough.
I turn us toward the door, my shoulder braced against his and my grip tight on his hand.
We hurry out of the kill room, out of the building, and away from the bodies, the blood, and the monster that tried to keep him.
