“Thank you,” I said in Mickey’s direction as we took out another pair of guards. I opened the door to what looked like a cellar, bracing myself.
“Once a Raven, always a Raven,” he said simply. “Stubborn as a damn mule or not.”
I chuckled darkly, and we took the stairs fast, hitting each step hard to not risk our ankles being exposed for too long. The stairwell felt wrong the deeper we went, the air growing colder and thicker, heavy with a medical smell that clung to the back of my throat and stung. Shots rang out, and I tripped on the last step, crying out as I fell forward. The concrete tore at my palms and knees, pain flaring before adrenaline swallowed it whole. Mickey covered me, thankfully, directing his attention to the guards wrapped around a…cage. The sight of it had my stomach dropping as my mind struggled to reconcile the shape of it in the open space, metal bars sunk deep into the floor.
I lifted to my feet, fumbling for my gun, before I had to duck toward one of the large cement pillars again, bullets sparking offthe surface. Mickey did the same, darting behind the opposite pillar, the two of us splitting the room. I refilled my clip, took a breath, and then unloaded, stepping out quick and training my focus only on that cage. I knew he was in it. No one else would need such a precaution, locked away like an animal, and I was right.
The second the final guard crumpled, Mickey and I raced to where Kane was out cold in the cage, slumped into an awkward, crouched position. He was beaten past recognition, his skin covered in gaping wounds and so swollen, both eyes sealed shut, blood dried in layers. There were burn marks along his biceps, neck and chest like he was electrocuted, the bolted down chair nearby still dripping with his blood. Several, vile instruments for torture were lined up along a metal tray, every single one of them bloodied too. I’d only lost him for a few hours, and they’d donethatto him? My hands shook. He didn’t fight back. I don’t think the motherfucker foughtat all, and after trying to turn himself in to the police, I knew that was the truth. Kane bent to their torture, because he thought hedeservedthat kind of brutality. His conscience was that guilty. I knew it was, but I never thought I’d see the day where Kane Creed didn’t at least try to fight back.
“Here.” Mickey was crouched next to one of the dead guards, fishing keys out for the padlock and chains wrapped around the cell’s door. I undid them, having to hunch over when I stepped inside as the cage was only maybe four feet tall and a few feet wide. I immediately pressed my fingers to Kane’s neck. He barely had a pulse. Both of his arms looked dislocated, blood dripping from so many places, I couldn’t tell which wound was the most fatal.
“Kane?” I whispered, my voice breaking as I took hold of his face.
A low, strangled groan left him, his lashes fluttering and showing the whites of his eyes.
“Kane, you fucker,” I said, shaking him a bit. “Don’t you understand how precious you are to me? To Rafe? Wake up.Wake up!”
“Hey, we need you up here!” Heath shouted from upstairs.
Mickey fled, taking the stairs two at a time, before two sets of boots slammed down, both Monty and Grace taking Kane and me in.
“Arden, you’re a better shot,” Monty said quickly. “We’ll stay with him and cover him, but you need to go.”
I pressed a trembling kiss to Kane’s cut brow before I wrenched myself away and hurried upstairs, casting only one glance back as Grace and Monty entered the cage with Kane. They knelt beside him, Monty ordering the other woman to raid the nearby cabinets for medical supplies. My gut squeezed, my entire being torn between staying with Kane and aiding Rafe.
"Arden!" Matthias roared down the stairwell, and I shook my head, rushing the rest of the way to the top.
Shots cracked through the upper level, splintering wood and shattering glass, the sound ricocheting off concrete and steel until it was impossible to tell where it was coming from or how many guards were left. I flattened against the wall instinctively as bullets tore into the ceiling above the stairwell, fragments raining down around me. I returned fire, leaning out just enough to put rounds where shadows moved. S.I.N. guards poured in from both ends of the corridor, their formation tight.
Rafe was there with me, suddenly and solidly at my side. My shots cleared space while he advanced, his timing flawless as he took advantage of every half-second opening I created. He was terrifying, efficient, and unhesitating, and I matched him step for step, covering his blind spots, dragging him back when a round clipped too close before pushing forward again the moment the threat shifted.
The warehouse narrowed to the burn in my lungs, the recoil of my weapon and the feel of Rafe’s shoulder brushing mine as we moved down the corridor together, bodies dropping in our wake. There was no room for fear in it, no space for anything but momentum, the two of us turning and advancing and reloading without breaking stride. It was ugly and unforgiving, and by the time the corridor finally fell silent except for the ringing in my good ear and the harsh sound of my own breathing, my hands were bloodied and my heart was pounding hard enough to hurt. Rafe turned toward me then, his face splattered and his eyes dark but completely present. He looked me over for bullet wounds, and I did the same, knowing both of our adrenaline was too high to notice any real pain. We were drenched in the blood of our enemy, but thanks to the Ravens intervening, we were miraculously unscathed.
Kane?he asked.
In the cellar. We need to get him to a doctor as soon as—My signs fumbled as a guttural shout of pure agony rang out from the cellar.
“Mickey?” Heath shouted, her and Florence charging from the warehouse entrance and heading downstairs, where Mickey and Matthias must’ve gone too.
Rafe and I were right behind them, following hand-in hand, but we rammed into their backs, all of us stumbling as Florencescreamed. I blinked a few times, trying to make sense at what I was looking at or how…How?My brain refused to put the pieces together, lagging behind my eyes, searching desperately for a version of reality where this wasn’t what it looked like.
In the cage, Monty and Grace were collapsed into each other, shot through their faces so thoroughly that there was nothing but blood and brain matter. Their bodies were still pressed close, as if they’d tried to shield each other. The bars were slathered, the floor beneath them a dark puddle. Mickey was knelt justoutside the cage, Matthias too. They were holding onto each other, their fists clutched in the backs of each others' Kevlar vests, knuckles white. Mickey’s head was bowed, shoulders shaking with an uncontrollable sob, and Matthias stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if he was waiting for one of their heads to reconstruct itself and for there to be something,anythingto salvage.
All the blood had drained from Heath’s face. She clutched Florence’s shoulder, the woman’s gaping, open-mouthed scream of horror snapping shut. Florence went very still, like something inside her had snapped clean through, her breath catching hard in her chest as her gaze locked on Grace’s body. I…recognized that look. Intimately. Infinitely. She trembled as Heath held her, fingers curling tight. The axe slipped from her grip and hit the floor with a clang. Whatever fight had been holding Florence upright gave way, grief cutting so deep it hollowed her out, leaving her staring at the cage like she’d lost a part of herself inside it and didn’t know how to get it back. I knew then that Grace was Florence’s Thorne. They had survived Halden’s compound together, created a bond just as Creed had.
Creed.
I wanted to grieve them. I did. But there was also one thing very important from the scene that was missing—Kane. He was gone. For the smallest second, I thought he did it. It was a horrible thought to have, and I hated myself for thinking it, but if his vision was as impaired as I thought it would’ve been with that swelling, he may not have realized it was Monty and Grace trying to help him.
But the blood leading from the cage were drag marks, not boot prints. Kane was taken from that cell by someone.
My gaze took in the cellar, really took it in, my stomach souring. I'd been so focused on Kane earlier that I hadn't noticedhow…horrific the surroundings were. "What the fuck is all this for?" I asked.
Beyond where Kane was tortured, there were what looked like examination tables, vinyl surfaces cracked. Blood pressure cuffs hung from hooks in neat rows. A digital scale sat flush against the floor beside some kind of wheeled machine. It was the kind of equipment you’d expect in a private clinic, not a cellar beneath a warehouse. Stainless counters ran along one wall, lined with labeled sample cups, sealed vials, and disposable trays. I stepped toward the bloodied chair I knew had to have been Kane's and wrenched the clipboard hanging from the chair's arm. It was Kane in numbers and tests. A black and white photo of him was stapled to the sheet. He looked…
I dropped the clipboard and took a step back. Kane didn't fight back, but it wasn't for the reasons I thought. He'd been drugged, his pupils giant in the photo and the muscles in his face slack. There was a hand gripping his head to hold it in place as if he couldn't keep it up on his own. My chin trembled, and when Rafe ripped the clipboard from the ground, I immediately snatched it and pressed it face down in the chair, letting Kane's blood pooled in the seat ruin what I saw. I'd barely gotten Rafe back. I couldn't afford him seeing what I found and returning into a dissociative state.
The drag marks, I signed, pulling his attention away from the clipboard.Where do they lead?
