"Three times," I correct. "But who's counting?"
"Apparently not you," he mutters. Then, quieter, more serious: "You're going back there, aren't you? To the Vipers."
I don't answer, but my silence is answer enough.
"Asher, don't do anything stupid. Don't go after them alone?—"
"I said mind your business," I repeat, firmer this time.
He stares at me for another beat, jaw working like he's biting back about six different arguments. Then: "Seriously, Ash. Be careful. Don't do anything to them alone. Wait for backup. Wait for Xavier to be out of the hospital at least."
"I will," I promise, and it's not entirely a lie. I'm not planning to do anything to them. Just going to talk to one person.
He doesn't look convinced, but he closes the door anyway. I watch him walk up the path to the main house, shoulders hunched against the cold, disappearing through the front door. Wait until I see lights flick on in one of the upstairs windows—probably his room—before I put the truck in gear and pull away from the compound.
I don't head home to my own place across town.
The drive back across the city takes twenty minutes in the thin pre-dawn traffic. Just me and a handful of delivery trucks making their morning rounds, a few street cleaners, the occasional taxi. The sky is starting to lighten at the edges, thatdeep blue-black that comes right before true dawn, stars fading one by one.
I should be exhausted. Haven't slept in over thirty-six hours now. My eyes feel gritty, my muscles ache from tension, and there's a headache building behind my temples. But adrenaline and anger and something darker—call it purpose, call it guilt—keep me wired, alert, every sense dialed up to maximum.
The Viper headquarters looks different in the almost-morning light. Less menacing, more pathetic. Just an old factory with delusions of grandeur and a bunch of thugs playing gangster inside crumbling brick walls. The graffiti looks faded, the security cameras ancient. It's not the fortress they think it is.
I park across the street in the same spot where Val parked hours ago. Kill the engine. Sit in the silence for a moment, hands on the wheel, staring at the building and trying to convince myself this isn't the stupidest thing I've ever done.
This is monumentally stupid. I know it's stupid. Going back here after Val barely made it out in one piece. After Talia made it crystal clear she's staying. After everything that's happened in the last eight hours.
But I can't leave her there. Can't drive home and climb into bed and pretend everything's fine when my baby sister is inside with Killian and his crew, planning whatever self-destructive scheme she's cooked up.
I flash the headlights twice. Wait, counting slowly to thirty.
Nothing.
Flash them again. Two short bursts that cut through the darkness like a signal flare.
Still nothing.
I'm about to try a third time, starting to think maybe she's asleep or can't get away, when I see movement near the loading bay. A figure slipping out the side door, staying in the shadows close to the building, moving with practiced caution.
Talia.
I step out of the truck, close the door as quietly as possible—the click sounds too loud in the pre-dawn stillness. Pull out my cigarettes—the emergency pack I keep in the glove compartment for nights exactly like this one. Shake one out, light it with my battered Zippo, inhale deeply.
The smoke burns going down, harsh and familiar and grounding. My hands are steadier with something to do.
She crosses the street with quick, careful steps, head on a swivel, checking her surroundings every few seconds. Keeps her head down, hood up on that oversized Viper hoodie that makes her look like she's drowning in green fabric, hands shoved deep in the pockets. She looks smaller than I remember. Younger. More vulnerable. Even though she just turned eighteen, even though she's lived through more trauma than most people twice her age, she still looks like the kid I used to carry on my shoulders when she was six and Henry was alive and Mom wasn't drinking herself to death yet.
She stops about five feet away from me. Close enough to talk without raising our voices, far enough to run if she needs to. Old instincts die hard.
"You shouldn't be here," she says quietly, voice rough like she's been crying or hasn't slept. Probably both.
"Neither should you," I reply, exhaling smoke that curls up toward the lightening sky.
"I'm exactly where I need to be."
"In enemy territory wearing their colors?" I gesture at the hoodie with my cigarette. "Yeah, that's real smart, Talia. Real fucking smart."
Her jaw tightens, that stubborn set I've seen a thousand times before. The same one Henry used to get when he'd decided something was right, consequences be damned. "Don't."
