I chanced another look back. Men entered the front of the house. Another stopped at the door we’d just fled.
They didn’t come after us.
We threw Harford into the SUV, piled in after, and Arran gunned the engine.
“What the fuck is that about?” he asked.
Neither of us answered him, because there was no logical answer.
The tyres spat gravel. We tore down the lane, the castle shrinking behind us, its alarm still howling into the dark. At the previously locked gate, Shade leapt out and closed it with a chain of our own. Then we were off into the night, our head start now guaranteed.
Though I was ninety-nine percent certain we weren’t being chased.
Shade peered back at me over the seat, his mask tugged down. “That was the weirdest fucking shite ever. What was withthat stare-off? She hates him, right? Why bother with the alarm if her guards weren’t there to protect them?”
Arran’s gaze flicked to mine. Something knowing lived there. “She summoned protection for herself.”
My blood rushed. I managed a nod. He was right.
The tracker dot on my phone pulsed. Dixie. Waiting for me. Safe.
I let the rage settle into its rightful place, a realisation following. I hadn’t gone into a frenzy, thank fuck. I’d stuck to the plan.
For her, I’d coped.
And when Denise Harford finally realised what we were doing, everything she had built would fall at Dixie’s feet.
Chapter 32
Ash
The half-dead dude in a smart shirt bubbled red snot onto the plastic lining the boot of the car. I grabbed his wrists.
Convict came up alongside me and pulled a face. “Jesus. Aim that away from the upholstery. I’m not explaining that when I get my car cleaned.”
I snorted a laugh and adjusted my grip on the bastard’s arm, heaving him out. “There he goes. Careful now. He’s delicate.”
Convict swung him clear with a grunt. “He’s six-three and built like a fridge.”
“A sensitive fridge.”
Our captive groaned through the gag.
I struggled under his hefty weight. “See? Emotional.”
We hauled him through the back entrance of the industrial building, past stacked pallets and rusting machinery that I imagined existed purely for show. Anyone poking their nose in here would only see a workshop closed for the night.
We knew better, even if it was my first visit to the skeleton crew’s torture dungeon.
Convict kicked an interior door open with his boot. “Welcome to the underworld, sunshine.”
We carried Sullivan’s man down concrete steps, the air cooling with each level. The hum of electricity kicked in halfway down. Security, ventilation, the quiet buzz of a very illegal hole in the ground.
At the bottom, my partner in crime for the evening punched in a code and pushed through into the bunker.
I took in the place. Concrete, reinforced walls. Stark lighting. The tang in the air of cleaning fluids and bodily ones.
At a desk of monitors, a crew member playing guard nodded a greeting. “Name?”
