Rook crosses his arms. “So, we don’t go.”
The idea is so stupid my head actually turns on its own. “What?”
He shrugs. “We can’t get near her right now—we’ve been over this. Guards, cameras, spin doctors. Every time the First Daughter breathes wrong, it’s in the news cycle. We bust in there, they gun us down before we get to the coat check.”
Jasper signs,“They invited all of us because they want us to see them parade her like a trophy.”
He’s right; I can see it—Mara in some designer dress they picked for optics, hair perfectly styled, smile perfectly fake, and Chase’s hand on her waist like he owns her.
“We can use that,” I say.
Beck quirks a brow. “Use... what? The thirty armed guards? The bulletproof podium? The president-elect and his future son-in-law acting like they didn’t stage a kidnapping?”
“The press,” I say. “The camera phones, the live streams. They want a spectacle? Fine. Let’s give them one. You know what’s better than a secret?” I look up, meeting his gaze. “A secret that explodes on national television.”
Rook shakes his head. “You’re not thinking. That party will be crawling with Syndicate muscle.”
“Good,” Dredyn says.
We all look at him.
He steps toward the center of the mats, sweat drying on his skin, cuts on his knuckles still bleeding a little. He looks like something that clawed its way up from hell and was given a black Amex.
“Good?” Rook repeats.
“Easier to kill them all in one place,” Dre says simply.
There’s a beat of silence.
He’s not joking.
He lifts a hand and drags it through his hair, leaving it standing more on end than before. “We’ve been dancing around this for weeks,” he goes on. “Running errands for my father, breaking knees for debtors, chasing shadows and making plans while they keep her locked up like a fucking prop.” His gaze cuts to me, to Jasper, then back to the screen. “They put a ring on her and called it rehabilitation. They used your sister”—he jerks his chin at Jasper—“and now they’re usingourgirl. I don’t give a fuck if Clark Black is thirty days away from the Oval Office. I want her back.”
The way he says it—our girl—lands somewhere behind my sternum and detonates.
Jasper sighs. “Storming a federal event is suicide.”
“Jas says he’s in,” I translate automatically. “He wants to blow the doors off and piss on the Secret Service.”
Jasper stops mid-sign and shoots me a look that could peel paint.
“What?” I lift a shoulder. “You’re being rational, and Dredyn doesn’t want to hear that bullshit.”
Beck snorts. “For real, though. You idiots want to crash a presidential-level gala, you’re going to need more than righteous anger and Dre’s murder boner.”
“Strategy,” Rook agrees. “We’d have to know layouts, camera angles, guard rotations, entry points, and exit routes.”
“That’s my love language,” Beck says, already turning his laptop back on. The keys start clacking. “Give me forty-eight hours. I can get floor plans, vendor lists, Wi-Fi networks, maybe even the RSVP list if these boomers are as bad at passwords as I think they are.”
“Beck,” I say, “I could kiss you.”
“You try, and I’m telling Mara,” he mutters.
The room laughs the joke off.
Jasper studies me for a long second, then nods once.
Dredyn looks at me, and for the first time in weeks, there’s something alive in his eyes that isn’t just hate.
