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“Sorry for your loss, ma'am.” Agent Knight, not even bothering to remove his sunglasses, steps over shards of the gym’s broken door and struts past the line of heavily armored enforcers. “But that’s exactly why we’re here today. We would have preferred to have apprehended our suspect peacefully.” He throws a pointed look at Sy. “Inconveniently, that was made impossible since our entry into West End was obstructed. Something about a heavy barricade of stalled vehicles in the roadway?”

Sy offers him a cold grin. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Agent Knight doesn’t look impressed. “Well, I’m sure you can understand how a premeditated defense might make us a littletwitchy. Like you’re trying to buy time,” he glances over at the guns, “or hide something.”

Wicker twists his head to glance at Remy, mouthing, “Stalled vehicles?”

Remy inches closer to Nick and Lav, whispering, “Failsafe. Our guys block the roads to buy us time to secure the gun stash.”

Kaz adds, “The cutsluts are dumping any loose pieces they managed to snag.”

Agent Knight’s gaze sweeps over the men in the room, skating over Wicker before skittering back. “An Ashby in the bear den. Interesting. Mr. Perilini,” he says, gesturing to Sy. “If you’d politely instruct your… cubs… to comply with procedure, I’m confident we can leave here promptly and without any loss of life.”

Sy’s lip curls, and for a moment, I’m terrified he’s going to resist. I wouldn’t even blame him. But in the end, Simon Perilini was made King for a reason.

He knows what’s best for his boys.

Making a big show of it, Sy goes down to his knees, and in a breathtaking unison, every man around him follows, each of them going down to their front, flat on the ground.

With an annoyed sigh, Wicker does the same. “Can’t keep a shirt clean to save my goddamn life. I don’t know why I bother anymore.”

“Versace?” Remy asks, looking him up and down.

Wick nods.

“That’s why I stick to black.”

The exchange isn’t enough to calm the agony growing in my stomach, unable to even show solidarity by getting on the ground with anyone else. Sensing this, Wicker props up onto his elbow like he’s just hanging out—the very picture of ennui—and curls a hand around my ankle.

“Just stand back and don’t say anything, Red.” His blue eyes flick up to mine, and I realize the bored air about him is entirely artificial. “One day, we’re going to ruin this motherfucker.”

“Goddamn right, we are,” Remy mutters, glaring daggers as the police begin dragging up DKS members, one by one, and summarily search them. I don’t know how many guns the cutsluts were able to grab before Knight burst in, but it couldn’t have been very many. Dave, Nick, and Hernandez are all packing, and Weasel’s frisk results in two glocks, a revolver, and a beaming grin as the frat all witness it.

Porterfield whistles. “Weasel is legion. Three points!” and the rest of the frat laughs, watching as Weasel is escorted out with a proud strut.

“What does the winner get?” Wicker asks, coming to the same conclusion I am.

They’re turning it into a competition.

Kaz is the one to answer, smirking. “The final fight in the next Fury. I’ve got three myself.”

Wicker raises an eyebrow. “Want a fourth?”

Kaz’s gaze whips to him. “For real?”

“In my waistband,” he says, watching the officers grab another guy up in the distance. “Now.”

Smoothly, Kaz reaches over and takes the gun from the small of Wicker’s back, tucking it into his own. “Thanks.”

Wicker looks up, giving me a baffled glance. “Sure. Anytime.”

The laughter and celebration that waves through the room with each arrest is neither happy nor bitter. It’s a lot like Wicker, actually—putting on a show of this not mattering in the least.

And in a way, it doesn’t. I actually start to relax as I’m ignored, and they work down the line, each confiscated gun resulting in sharp cheers and easy grins. Even Mama, down on the floor beside the table, barks a laugh at Dave, who moans as an officer grabs his junk.

When they reach our little side group—Wicker, Remy, Kaz, and I—one of the officers with a thin mustache and snapping gum asks, “Why aren’t you on the ground?”

Wicker drawls, “Look at her. She’s thirty-eight weeks pregnant. The fuck do you expect her to do?”