The overhead lights flickered suddenly, the harsh industrial bulbs dimming then brightening again. Vivi’s heart jumped. Daphne’s hack was starting. Ten minutes, maybe less, until the systems crashed completely.
Raines frowned at the lights, then reached behind him and pulled out a sleek black handgun. He examined it almost casually, checking the magazine before holding it out to Sabin, grip first.
“Demonstrate your loyalty,” he said. “Kill your sister.”
A cold wave of fear washed through Vivi. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Sabin took the weapon without hesitation. He’d never been a fan of guns, but he held it now like a professional as he turned and pointed it directly at her chest. The barrel looked impossibly large from this angle, a dark eye staring her down.
“Sabin,” she whispered. “It’s me. It’s Vivi.”
Dom moved to step between them, but she held out her hand, stopping him. This was her brother. Her responsibility. If there was any chance the real Sabin was still in there, she had to reach him.
“Stay back,” she murmured. “Please.”
She kept her gaze locked on Sabin’s, searching for any flicker of recognition, any hint that her brother was still there beneath whatever Praetorian had done to him. His eyes remained flat, empty, but his hand—the one holding the gun—trembled almost imperceptibly.
“Fire,” Raines commanded.
Sabin’s finger moved to the trigger.
“Remember the Lost Little Sister con?” Vivi said quickly, letting her natural Cajun accent thicken, the way it always did when they were alone together. The way it had when they were kids, running wild through the French Quarter. “Bourbon Street. Your first real score. I was crying on the sidewalk, pretending I was lost, and you picked pockets while people tried to calm me down. Three hundred dollars that night.”
His eye twitched. The gun wavered a fraction of an inch.
“What are you waiting for?” Raines snapped. “Fire!”
“Remember the icon?” Vivi continued, taking a slow step forward, bringing herself closer to the barrel of the gun as she fumbled it from her pocket and held it out. “The one you stole in Istanbul? You said some things shouldn’t be locked away in an asshole’s private collection. You never kept anything from ourscores, but you kept this.” She pressed it into his free hand. “You said it looked like mom.”
The lights flickered again, longer this time. One of the guards glanced nervously at the ceiling.
“Shoot her now,” Raines ordered, his composure cracking.
Sabin’s gun hand trembled, and there was a flash of the real him before the blankness took over again. He was still in there, struggling to come back.
“Shoot. Her.” Raines ground the words out.
“You don’t belong to them,” Vivi said, her voice breaking. “You’re Jean-Sabin Cavalier. My brother. The best thief in New Orleans. The man who went to prison for me.” She reached up and laid her hand over his on the gun. “The man who would never, ever hurt me.”
His finger loosened on the trigger.
The overhead lights went out completely, plunging the warehouse into darkness. Emergency lights kicked on a moment later, bathing everything in eerie red. In her earpiece, Davey’s voice crackled: “Systems down. Move now.”
Sabin’s arm tensed under her touch. He raised the gun higher, his eyes blank again as they locked on hers.
And he fired.
twenty-two
Dom sawSabin’s finger tighten and acted on pure reflex, surging forward. He hit Vivi shoulder-first, driving her sideways, and the bullet meant for her chest punched through his instead.
Oh… fuck… that… hurt.
The impact spun him half around, his left arm going briefly numb from shoulder to fingertips, and he staggered but stayed upright through sheer stubbornness and the residual voltage of adrenaline still spiking through his system. His back hit a rusted support column. He used it, letting it hold him while the world swayed once and then steadied.
Left shoulder. Through and through—he could already feel the exit wound, the wet warmth spreading fast across his back. Arterial? He checked himself against the worst possibility and decided no. The blood running down his arm was dark rather than bright, drizzling rather than spraying. Deep tissue damage. Possibly fractured scapula. His shooting arm was compromised but functional. He flexed his right hand and found everything still connected, still answering.
Okay. So he wasn’t done.
