This land is ours. Every blind spot. Every sound. Every place a man thinks he’s alone. And tonight, Wren is inside those walls.
They think they can come in here and take what’s mine.
I don’t look for Sin. I already know he’s gone.
Fast, silent, dropping the first two with lethal precision. Honed violence. He’s my enforcer for a reason.
Sin carves us a path to follow, Judge is at my back, holding the others in the garage. If we all file out at once, we’ll give ourselves away. I point to my number two, gesture for him to cover us and tap Doc on the shoulder.
He doesn’t like fighting, but he can get the job done, and there’s no way he’ll stay behind with Wren in danger. Sin signals, and we follow, clean and methodical.
The silence doesn’t last long. Shots ring out from the garage, engaging with the other half of the tactical team. Surprise gone, but we’ve far enough.
Gun drawn, I round the front of the clubhouse to the sight of Sin slamming one man into the wall, knocking the wind out of him.
I shoot his partner with two rounds in the chest.
Sin shoots the other man in the temple as soon as he falls to his knees. And we have a clear path inside.
Two of my men lay dead on the bar floor, 9 mms to the forehead. Those weren’t the shots we heard. I take a breath to mourn, but I have to find Wren before we can do anything for them.
My eyes follow the muzzle of my gun, sweeping back and forth as we clear the place. Glancing at the door downstairs, my gut says no. Not yet. Let the other men clear it behind us.
Because Wren has been hiding away in the laundry room more often, like the noise and smells out here have been overloading her. Too many bouts of nausea that has me more than concerned about her.
Wren has to be back there now.
I hear the shot before I make it through to that side of the lounge, before I make it to the hallway that will lead me to her.
No.
Not like this.
It can’t be too late.
I promised her.
The shot rings in my ears, the image of her falling, bleeding out on the floor…
I can’t do this again. I cannot lose her like this.
Please, for the love of all things holy, don’t do this to me again.
My hand tightens around the handle of my gun, finger twitching near the trigger, ready to shoot someone else. I will massacre anybody who stands in the way of keeping my wife safe.
Wren’s brother, Robbie, stands in the laundry room doorway with a gun in his hand.
“Delaney. Move,” I snarl.
He jumps, twisting to face me before stepping to the side.
Wren stands opposite him, her face pale, shoulders trembling, a gun aimed at the ground where Grant lays, gaping on the floor. His blood spreads across the front of his light blue dress shirt. No wound in his chest. No bullet hole in his shirt.
I step around Robbie, watching Grant struggle. His mouth is open like a fish without water—without air. Blood spreads out below him, a fast moving puddle that has my heart singing.
Satisfaction. Relief. Vindication. The man’s eyes go unfocused, then he slumps and death makes him go blank. Go slack.
Good fucking riddance.
