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CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

PERRY

My pal, my buddy, my old friend Luther . He’s the man out here threatening everyone and footing bills for things he shouldn’t foot bills for.

Now I’m really thinking about it, it makes sense. Owning a labradoodle was obviously his cover.

I just did not see that coming. Fuck me.

Thankfully, Tommy and Everett are as shocked as I am, so I don’t feel like as much of a moron as I could. But then I remember that I had the chance to shoot him in the face and didn’t.

This could be over already.

We could have nothing else to worry about.

I mentally sob again over how close I got to putting this shit behind us without realizing it, and I fucking didn’t. So, so close.

The comms crackles in my ear.

“Still nothing,” Lars says. He’s set up on a rooftop across from Lethal Poison. Without Arlie, he’s our best shot who will actually shoot, and between him, Everett, and me, we’re keeping an eye on the place. If I’d known Luther was this dangerous, there’s no way I wouldn’t have gotten Arlie out too, but I really, really thought she could handle herself.

I turn the music up that I’m listening to in my other ear. Thankfully, no one saw me slip the earbud in, or I’m sure there would have been words about professionalism or whatever, but it comes right down to this:

I’m not a professional.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes.

And today, I’m cleaning up the biggest one of my life.

Then I’m putting it all behind me and starting my life with St. Clare. I’ll probably still make mistakes, but none of them will be like this, and I have to trust that he’ll handle anything I throw at him.

I’m nodding along to the indie pop, watching the front of Lethal Poison, filled with this sense of wistfulness and longing. Other than my actual home that never felt particularly homey, this place was always mine. My safety. My refuge.

All along, Luther had us do his bidding. Did he even have “clients,” or was it all bullshit?

Maybe I can ask him all these questions before he’s left alone with Everett for a while.

My nose wrinkles at that.

I don’t think it matters how bad Luther is or how many deaths he’s responsible for. I’m struggling. Vigilante justice is one thing, but Everett being excited over dismantling him is … unsettling. Does he deserve that? Probably, but I can’t bring myself to give it a definite yes.

People aren’t cars. We can’t be taken apart and put back together. As soon as we’re apart, we’re dead, and there’s no coming back from that.

And I thought I could be a hitman.

“For the love of Judge Judy, Perry Nikov. You are a dumbass.”

“Ah … what?” Lars’s voice in my ear asks.

Shit. I forgot about the whole comms thing. “Nothing. I’m good.”

He chuckles, and it’s the warm kind of laugh I’ve heard him give St. Clare. “Don’t forget that luck is on your side today, Aries. You don’t need intelligence.”

“Well, thank fuck for that because I’m usually in short supply. ”

That same laugh comes again, and it makes my chest all puffy. I’m slowly breaking him down.

“Anything on your end, Tommy?” Everett asks through the earpiece.

“Still quiet.”

“And we’re sure he’s in there?” I check for the twentieth time.

“Yes. I watched people leave after the mass brawl you set in motion to see if Arlie got out. No sight of her or Luther, just two guys entering and the bar being locked up tight.”

Yep. Not feeling any better about leaving Arlie.

I don’t know what exactly they’re waiting for, and I’m starting to get itchy feet. It’s okay for the others. Tommy and St. Clare are holed up watching surveillance, and Lars and Ever are on rooftops, whereas I’m right here. Lethal Poison is right there.

And Arlie has who the fuck knows what going on, and our so-called plans might be the very thing that has her wind up dead.

I’d also selfishly prefer for the last time I saw her to not be as I was tackling her to the ground and telling her to play dead. Besides, she has plenty more scathing remarks to send my way. Lethal Poison doesn’t exist without Arlie and her endearing forced disdain for me.

The longer I’m expected to wait, the harder it is to stay still. They’re so close and Arlie’s in trouble and Luther’s injured, and I have no clue who the hell these other guys are, but I like my chances. I’m nervous as fuck, but I still like my chances.

I grab my wrist, the usual need for comfort taking over as I seek out my bracelet. The beads are as familiar as breathing by this point, and having that smooth plastic under my fingertips always helps settle me.

Or at least it would.

If it was there.

I glance down, pulse spiking as I check under my sleeve and stupidly even check the other arm despite the fact it has never left the wrist I put it on. I stumble backward, searching the ground, convinced I dropped the very tight bracelet somewhere close, easy to see. Because it has to be here. It has to .

The more I search—out of blind desperation at this point—the more sickly my heart pounds. It was from Mom. All I had left. It has to be here. Losing my bracelet would be like losing her all over again.

Where.

The fuck.

Is it?

I’m flying off into panic mode as I pat down my front and my ass and scramble around in my pockets. There’s nothing. It’s not here.

Maybe I left it in the car or the warehouse or?—

I glimpse the deep scratch marks on my wrist where my bracelet should be. Remember Luther’s tight hold before I yanked myself out of his bruising grip.

Luther did this. My stomach turns over itself so violently, I stagger into the wall.

The ringing in my ears drowns out whatever the fuck is coming through the comms as my entire world funnels into this pressurized moment of existence. My bare wrist. The one tether I had to being loved and wanted in this world. The only lasting reminder of my mom.

Gone.

And he took it from me.

My rage explodes.

Hot and fire and the ringing in my ears keeps ringing.

There’s a high chance I’m about to die.

But Luther is going to die first.

I break into a run.

I’m thirsting for the type of revenge that will have my chest burst open. I want to take everything Luther has ever loved and extinguish it all at once. He knows what it’s like, he’s done that before, and this time, just this time, he’s done it to the wrong fucking person.

My name being shouted in my ear is trying to take over the constant roar of fire, and instead of letting it, I reach up and fling the comms away. It’s lucky I can’t think or speak or reason with myself because I save my energy for when I reach the door to Lethal Poison, and then I kick that fucker open.

It bangs into the wall, testing the hinges, rattling the windows, and then flings back in my direction again. I’m ready for it. My foot almost goes right through the wood as I send it back where it came from.

The bar is in complete disarray, and I have to shove tables and chairs out of my way as I tear across the space. I’m not being quiet or sneaky. Not stopping to worry or plan. All I know is that the second I get to Luther, this whole fucking thing is over.

“Luther!” I roar, sending a chair into the wall. “Get the fuck out here!”

He doesn’t get the fuck out here, and that only makes me madder.

How dare he? How dare he cower away in his office, hiding behind bodies and aliases and his friendly barman persona.

How dare he make me like him and then treat me as disposable as everyone else has.

And how very fucking dare he take away that one symbol of strength I had left.

I make it to the hall, but before I can start down there, his office door cracks open, and a shot is sent my way. I throw myself into the wall, but it’s wide anyway, not that it makes a difference. I feel super-fucking-nova, and a bullet could go right through me, and I doubt I’d feel it.

I send a shot back, then—fuck it.

I throw myself into the hallway and run as fast as I can.

Another shot.

This time close enough I think for a second it hit me, but the pain doesn’t come.

The only sounds to break up my heavy breathing are the thump of my sneakers and my heartbeat drumming in my ears.

The hand with the gun reappears, and before they can get a shot away, I take aim and give Judy a loving squeeze.

A scream—not mine—quickly follows my shot, and the gun drops to the floor. I snatch it up, kick the door open, then send a hard kick to Danvers’s face for good measure.

“You motherfucker!” Danvers screams, holding his hand, but my attention has already left him, and I throw both guns up Luther’s way. His arm is bandaged; there’s a man with a med kit cowering at his side and Arlie—the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen—unharmed and free, standing at Luther’s side.

“You’re okay!” I yelp.

Arlie and Luther exchange a look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you … he …” I use the guns to gesture toward Luther. “He’s the bad guy. He’s Carson Alexander.”

Arlie lifts her gun.

And points it at me . “I really wish you didn’t say that, Perry.”

My jaw drops. “W-what? Are you … working with him?”

“Did you really think he’d give me his business card if I wasn’t? You were never supposed to see it.”

My heart is hammering even madder than it was before. None of this is adding up in a way that I like.

“Who else knows?” Luther asks.

Well, that question sounds like a fast way to throw the others under the bus. “No one. Just me. I worked it out, and I came straight here.” I tighten my grip on the gun, trying not to let my hand tremble.

“You’re lying.” Luther tilts his head toward Arlie. “Don’t you think?”

“One hundred percent.” Arlie steps closer. “We both know you won’t shoot either of us, so why don’t you put that gun down before you hurt yourself?”

I’m tempted to aim for her instead, but I hold steady, equal parts not wanting to startle her and give her a reason to shoot me and wanting to keep my aim on Luther in case she does shoot me and I can take him down with me.

“Why don’t we all put our weapons down,” I suggest, taking a step back. “Talk it out like grown-ups. I’m sure we can make some kind of deal.”

“Or you can tell us who else knows my identity, and there’s a slight chance we won’t kill you.” Luther sounds totally reasonable, except for the fact we both know he’ll definitely kill me.

Stress sweat slips down between my shoulder blades and rolls along my spine. My body has reached fight or flight, and I want to say fight is winning out, but it’s a mission to keep every roaring cell in place.

I swallow thickly and force a smile. “Or you could stop targeting me and all my friends, and no one has to die.”

“Not possible. Your friend got involved in my business. He asked for this.”

“Yikes, victim blaming in this day and age.”

Luther huffs and waves Arlie forward. “Either give us the names, or we’ll assume it’s all of them. Colin St. Clare’s gone, but who’s to say he didn’t tell his brother? Their little play soldier. Tommy?—”

Arlie glances back at Luther. “I told you: Tommy and Everett are with us.”

“Then where are they?”

“Keeping everyone in check.”

A corner of Luther’s lips curls wickedly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He stands suddenly and stalks closer, pausing halfway between me and Arlie. “Give me the names!”

I’m about to tell him he can go and quite literally fuck himself when there’s a loud bang from the bar. The three of us jump, but while they’re on high alert, I have nothing to lose at this point.

I let off a shot that—shockingly—totally misses, so, in quite possibly the dumbest move I’ve ever made, I throw myself at armed people.

I launch at Luther, and the both of us tackle Arlie to the ground.

Danvers is still cursing up a storm, Arlie is trying to shove Luther off her, but I scramble higher on top of them both and throw my weight into them. I have no idea where her gun has gone or where mine landed, but I grab Luther’s bandaged arm and squeeze the ever-loving shit out of it .

He howls, the sort of sound I’m sure I’ll hear when I’m falling asleep at night, but I only grab harder and use his distraction to ram my elbow into his throat.

Arlie’s stopped fighting us, and I wonder if we’ve smothered her, but I’m all out of fucks to give at this point. My pulse rate is going so fast I’ve got tunnel vision, and all I know, all I can focus on is Luther.

Carson Alexander.

And ending this for good.

By any means possible.

“Perry!”

At first, my name means nothing, but then the trickling awareness of familiarity seeps in over the sound of Luther’s choking.

I swing toward the voice, and my heart drops.

St. Clare. Panting hard, hair in disarray, cheeks so red they looked slapped.

“Get out!” I scream at him, but the idiot runs toward me instead.

My distraction costs me.

Luther throws me off, and as I go flying, two things hit me at once.

First, Arlie has her gun, and it’s pointed at me.

Second, Danvers has mine and …

It’s pointed at St. Clare.

My whole world fucking stops.

The only thought in my mind is not him! as I jump up and shove St. Clare out of the line of fire. He flings backward as a gunshot goes off, so loud I think it might have deafened me, and so suddenly it makes my whole body seize up. Two more quickly follow, but those sound far away. Muffled.

My heartbeat is in my ears.

I’m breathing so hard it feels useless. Like all the air is going to my head and not my lungs.

“Fuck! Perry!”

St. Clare’s voice is coming from somewhere, but through the fog, something else is registering. Something burning hot and immediate.

I glance down, blinking hard, as my feet threaten to go out from under me, and the more I blink, the more I can’t figure out what I’m seeing.

Since when is the T-shirt Lars bought me red?

Someone grabs me, and my legs buckle. Confusion clouds any rational thought that I had as I fling my gaze around wildly, trying to find Luther, Danvers, Arlie … Are we even safe here? Are we about to be killed?

Danvers’s face swims into view, blank, staring eyes, blood pooling from his neck, and when I twist to where Luther last was, I’m not sure if I’m imagining the hole in his head or not.

St. Clare is saying something, and those shots must have been really loud because I can’t make out the words. Just the tears rolling over his face.

I flinch as Arlie joins him and try to get away.

“B-bad.”

Shit. I’m burning up and freezing at the same time. Where’s the climate control in here?

“S-s-stop,” I say, trying to wipe at St. Clare’s tears. He’s slowly coming into focus, but I can’t reach him. Did the gunshot fuck my aim up to? “A-am I shaking? D-do I l-look sh-shaky to you?”

“Why didn’t you stick to the plan?”

He screams it so loud I pick up on it this time.

“M-my bracel-let,” I try to explain. Try and fail by the way he’s panicking. Pressure comes from somewhere and almost makes me want to scream, but the sudden pain gets swept up in all the jumble and blurry and swampiness.

I just want to make him smile again. Want him to stop worrying and remember all of that forever we still have to look forward to.

“R-Reilly?” The word hurts, but I only need a few more. To tell him how I feel, to have someone I belong with.

I don’t remember much after that.