Listened.
Let him talk.
Every word just…noise now.
Every word…confirming it.
Voss thought he was still running this.
Still holding the room.
Still in control.
Sage stepped forward. Close enough to see the pulse in his throat.
Voss’s hand twitched—going for the gun at his side—
“Not anymore.”
The blade came up in the same motion—no hesitation, no warning—clean across Voss’s throat.
A sharp line.
Then red.
Warm. Immediate.
Voss’s words cut off mid-breath, the sound breaking into nothing as his hand came up too late, fingers slipping against his own blood.
The team quickly subdued the three other perps.
Voss’s shocked gaze held his.
The man staggered once. Then dropped.
Silence hit hard.
Heavier than the gunfire.
No one moved.
Not right away.
The room held it—everything that had been building, everything that had just ended—settling into something still and final.
“Cool, exactly how I would have done it,” Boston told him.
Rip sighed and wrapped an arm around Boston’s neck, dragging him back against him.
“Be quiet for once,” Rip muttered into Boston’s dark curls.
Micah was crouched by Syx, checking the gunshot to his side while Black hovered, one hand in the man’s hair.
“It’s just a graze,” Syx hissed.
Memphis was bitching at Winter again for getting shot.
“Can’t believe you got shot again.”
