Page 52 of Brutal Vows

A hail of bullets screams past my face, missing my nose by inches. Jerking back to safety, I’m gratified to hear the heavy thud of a body dropping against the floor.

There’s a low groan, a wet gurgle, then silence.

Another quick peek around the corner reveals one of the intruders lying flat on his back, staring with sightless eyes at the ceiling.

Other than him, the hallway is empty.

They split up.

I run to the corpse, crouch beside him, and do a quick search of his jacket and tactical pants. He has no ID, phone, or wallet.The only things I come up with are spare cartridges of ammo for the rifle.

I pull off his gloves and shove up his coat sleeves, looking for tattoos, but his skin is bare. So is his stomach and chest when I yank up his T-shirt.

Interesting.

All made men have tattoos that declare their family affiliation. The only lads who don’t wear ink are those who don’t want anyone to know who they are.

In other words, they’re hired help.

Mercenaries.

Gunfire erupts at the front of the house, outside in the courtyard. Most likely it’s Gianni’s other guards putting up a fight to the newcomers in black. I’ll worry about them as soon as I deal with whoever else is inside.

Heading down the corridor again, I come to a ragged hole blown through the exterior wall. The floor all around is littered with debris.

It’s about a six-by-six opening. A substantial size, which means substantial firepower. This mess was made by something with much more oomph than a hand grenade, especially considering the walls are reinforced.

The echo of heavy footsteps catches my attention.

I duck into a niche in the wall and listen as the footsteps move farther away. I can tell there’s more than one man, but not more than three. Holding my handgun at low ready and keeping my footfalls as light as possible, I walk farther down the corridor until I come to a break in the wall, beyond which is an enormous sitting room with a glossy black grand piano in the corner.

Two men with rifles move swiftly among the clusters of sofas and chairs. The scopes of their weapons are held to their masked faces, the muzzles pointed at a figure standing still on the other side of the room.

It’s Reyna.

Her hands hang loosely at her sides. Her expression is impassive. She watches the men approach with an eerie detachment in her eyes, as if the scene unfolding in front of her is happening to someone else.

She’s in shock. Fuck. Reyna, run!

I raise my weapon, take aim, and fire.

Brains splatter the wallpaper in a chunky vivid patchwork of red. The intruder the brain belonged to drops heavily to his knees. He falls face-first onto the carpet.

The other one spins on his heel and jerks the muzzle of his rifle in my direction.

Before he can get off his shot, Reyna pulls a knife from a pocket in her dress and embeds it in his neck.

He screams, staggering sideways and dropping his rifle. As he grapples with the blade jutting out from the side of his neck, desperately trying to dislodge it, I put a bullet between his eyes.

He jerks and falls, landing backward on a velvet sofa. Blood squirts erratically from the wound in his neck. Then he slides slowly to the floor and remains still, his mouth hanging open.

Reyna looks at me with undisguised irritation.

“I had it handled, Quinn.”

This woman. Jesus, God, you really broke the mold when you made this one. She’s fucking magnificent.

“You were about to get your bloody head shot off! And you’re welcome!”