On the count of three, we spray the house with bullets. We blow the place up like it’s the fourth of July. Glass and wood and debris fly across the yard and into the gravel.
“I hope they don’t have any neighbors,” Crow yells over the racket.
“They don’t,” I assure him. “It’s dead quiet here. Nobody can hear them scream.”
He glances at me, but doesn’t ask.
We dispense every last round before the place falls quiet again.
“Wait here until we clear the place,” Rory tells me.
I don’t listen of course and follow after them once they’re inside. The remaining guards are all dead, scattered about the lounge and kitchen.
And the guys find Quinn and Duke bunkering down in a safe upstairs.
Rory and Crow have them tied up and in the car before I can do any damage to them. And then they’re dousing the place in lighter fluid. Crow leaves a trail down the front porch and Rory hands me a pack of matches.
“Light it up and burn it down, baby.”
I light it up.
And burn it down.
Forty
Rory
Alexei providesus with sanctuary at his house.
He has a surgeon on call and loads of medical equipment, not to mention his own dungeon of torture.
Alexei is a private bloke, and he keeps his business separate from his family.
His wife Talia and their baby son Franco remain on the main level of the home while we take up residence on the third.
“The doctor will be here shortly,” he tells us. “Magda will help in the meantime.”
His housekeeper nods, bearing an armload of first aid supplies, and I instruct her to help Storm first while Dom tends to Conor.
My wound can wait, and I want to check over Scarlett.
But Magda gasps from across the room, drawing our attention to her. She’s cut off the sleeve of Storm’s dress, revealing deep scars along the length of her arm. Her face is scarred too, and though she’s done a good job hiding it beneath her makeup, it will never go away entirely.
Scarlett clears her throat and pokes me in the arm. Her eyes tell me what her lips don’t need to. Storm doesn’t like people staring, and I can’t blame the girl.
But Conor, as always, takes longer than the rest to catch on to it. He’s still gawking. And Storm’s flaying him alive with her eyes.
“Ask me what happened and I’ll stab you with the one good arm I’ve got left.”
Dom and I laugh, and Conor looks away sheepishly.
When it’s over, I turn to Scarlett and check her over with my eyes. She’s holding the towel over my wound, fretting over me in a way that is unlike her. And she seems healthy. Safe and slightly sane, albeit a little dirty with crazy wild hair.
It’s all good until I notice the crimson leaking from her heel. And sure enough, when I pull it off, her foot is swollen and bloody.
“Jesus Christ, baby doll, you should have told me.”
“I’m fine,” she says.
