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He swung wild, desperate. I let it connect—wanted him to feel like he had a chance. Then I educated him on the difference between gym muscles and battlefield experience.

My fist found his solar plexus, driving air from his lungs. An elbow to the temple sent him staggering. When he tried to rush me, I sidestepped and crushed my boot to his knee. The joint bent sideways with a sound like breaking kindling.

He screamed, dropping to writhe on the filthy floor. I could have ended it there. Should have, probably. Put a bullet in his head and simplified everyone's life.

But death was too easy.

"You know what's worse than dying?" I asked, kneeling beside him. His perfect face was a ruin—nose crushed, teeth scattered, one eye already swelling shut. "Living. Especially in federal lockup."

"Please," he wheezed through blood and broken teeth.

"I know people inside. Guards who lost brothers in Afghanistan. Inmates who really, really don't like men who hurtwomen." I zip-tied his hands and feet, probably tighter than necessary. "You're going to live a long, educational life. Every day you'll wake up knowing she's free and you're not. That she's happy and you're not. That she won."

"Kill me," he begged. Actually begged, this man who'd held himself so far above everyone.

"No." I stood, pulling out my phone. "Duke? Need you to call our friend at the precinct. Tell him we've got him a career-making collar. Arms trafficking, kidnapping, conspiracy. The works."

"Copy that," Duke's voice came through tinny but satisfied. "Feds are already en route. Someone made sure they knew about the weapons cache here."

Of course he had. Duke always thought three moves ahead.

"Where's Venom?" I grabbed Cruz by his ruined face, forcing eye contact. "Where is he?"

"I don’t know!" Cruz coughed blood. "Only met him once.” He let out a wry, pained laugh. “Don’t think he liked working with me.”

“I wonder why.” I spat at his feet, and turned away from him.

Lena hadn't moved from where she'd fallen after the escape. She sat against the wall, knees drawn up, staring at nothing.

"Baby?" I approached carefully, hands visible. Sometimes trauma made people unpredictable, even with those trying to help.

Her eyes found mine, focused, unfocused, focused again. When she spoke, her voice was very small.

"Daddy?"

The word hit like a physical blow. She'd slipped into little space, retreating from the trauma into somewhere safer. My chest went tight with love and worry combined.

"Yeah, little one. Daddy's here." I kept my voice soft, soothing. "You're safe now. No more bad men."

"Where's Shelly?" Her eyes filled with tears. "I can't find Shelly."

Shelly. Her stuffed tortoise, the one she clung to when the world got too big and scary. I scanned the room, spotted her purse in the corner.

"Thor!" I called down the stairs. "Check the purse up here for a stuffed tortoise. Now!"

If he found the request strange, he didn't show it. Thirty seconds later he appeared with Shelly, the soft toy looking worse for wear but intact.

"Here she is, baby." I pressed the toy into Lena's arms, watched her curl around it like a lifeline. "Shelly's safe too. Everyone's safe."

She made a small sound—relief and exhaustion and little girl trust all rolled into one. When I lifted her carefully, she curled into my chest without hesitation, Shelly trapped between us.

"Home?" she whispered.

"Yeah, little one. Let's go home."

Chapter 20

Lena