“They’re going to come in fast,” Hook says, his face hardening as he checks his watch. “They’ll use flash bangs. They’ll try to disorient you. They want the money, but they want you alive—that’s your advantage. They’ll hesitate to shoot you. You don’t have that problem.”
Peter pulls me back into him, his arms wrapping around my waist, the gun still gripped in my hand between us. He presses his face into my neck, his voice a low vibration that settles in my bones.
“You don’t have to do this, Wendy,” he whispers, afinal flicker of the man who wanted to protect me. “You could stay in the reinforced room. I can end this alone.”
I turn in his arms, the heavy metal of the gun cold against my chest. I look him dead in the eye, and I see the reflection of the woman I’ve become. The girl who loved sunsets is gone. The woman who survived the needle is here, and she’s hungry.
“I died in that booth, Peter,” I say, my voice steady. “This is the only way I get to come back. I’m not hiding in a box anymore. Not for them. Not even for you.”
Hook clears his throat, looking at the security monitor flickering in the corner. Three sets of headlights are cutting through the tree line at the edge of the property.
“Class is over,” Hook says, his hand going to the hilt of the knife at his belt. “The neighbours are here.”
Peter
The monitors in the kitchen are a grid of cold, blue light, showing the ghosts of three black Suburbans crawling up the gravel drive. They move with a professional, arrogant slow-burn—men who think they’re arriving to collect a debt from a dead man’s estate.
They have no idea they’re walking into a slaughterhouse.
I’m checking the action on my rifle, the familiar, metallic clack-slide the only sound in the room until Hook’s voice cuts through the dark.
“She isn’t ready, Peter.”
Hook is leaning against the kitchen island, his silhouette jagged and lethal. He’s kitted out in full tactical gear, but his eyes are fixed on the doorway where Wendy just disappeared to take her position.
“She’s been off the needle for seventy-two hours,” Hook snaps, his voice a low, urgent hiss. “She’s fragile, she’s erratic, and her hand is still shaking from thewithdrawal. You’re putting a gun in her hand and telling her to hold the line? You’re risking her life on a goddamn poetic whim.”
I don’t look at him. I focus on the screen, watching the first vehicle stop at the perimeter gate. “It’s not a whim, Hook. It’s a surgery.”
“It’s a suicide mission,” he growls, stepping into my space. “If one of those bastards gets a clean shot, or if she freezes when the lead starts flying, she’s gone. You didn’t burn down an empire just to watch her die in a hallway because you wanted her to feel ‘empowered.’”
I turn then, my eyes locking onto his. I feel the cold, heavy weight of the man I’ve become—the one who doesn’t just kill for her, but understands the rot she’s carrying.
“She’s already dead, Hook,” I rasp. “The girl you knew, the one I married—she stayed in that booth. If I keep her in a safe room, if I protect her like she’s a porcelain doll, she’ll spend the rest of her life looking for the next needle to numb the shame. She needs this. She needs to see the life leave the eyes of the men who traded her like a commodity. She needs to put a bullet in the ghosts that broke her to become whole again. I’m not just saving her body anymore. I’m saving her soul.”
Hook stares at me for a long beat, searching for a flicker of doubt. He doesn’t find any. He lets out a sharp, cynical exhale and taps his comms unit.
“You’re a fucking psychopath, Peter. I hope you’re right, or I’m going to have to kill you for being the one who finally finished her off.”
He turns away, his hand going to his radio, his voice dropping into thatcold, professional cadence that built his reputation.
“This is Shadow One to the Perimeter. The wolves are at the door. I want the ‘Lost Boys’ on the line. Sweep and clear. No survivors. Nobody leaves this gravel except us. You see a muzzle flash that isn’t ours, you put a sun in their chest. Engage.”
On the monitors, the woods around the drive seem to breathe. Shadows detach themselves from the trees—Hook’s private crew, the ghosts he keeps on payroll for the impossible jobs. They move like ink in water, flanking the SUVs before the doors even open.
“Get to your position,” Hook says, checking the chamber of his sidearm. “I’ll handle the exterior. If anyone breaches the back, they’re mine. The front door is your theatre, Romeo. Make sure she doesn’t miss.”
I don’t say a word. I move toward the hallway, my heart a slow, heavy thud. I find Wendy standing behind the reinforced oak table we flipped in the foyer. She’s holding the semi-automatic, her knuckles white, her eyes fixed on the door.
The first flash bang detonates outside, a muffled thud followed by the frantic, staccato rhythm of suppressed gunfire. The Lost Boys have started the harvest.
“Peter?” she whispers, her voice small but sharp.
I slide in beside her, my shoulder touching hers. I can feel the vibration of her terror, but underneath it, there’s a new frequency. A hunger.
“Wait for the breach,” I tell her, my voice a ghost of a caress. “Wait until you see the whites of their eyes. Then you show them who you are.”
The front door groans under the weight of a battering ram.
