Page 100

DECLAN

I duck behind the Bugatti’s door as a bullet slams into the metal with a deafening thunk. It misses my head by inches.

Conan’s behind me, wrestling a guard like he’s done it a thousand times, but my focus is locked on the bastard across the room. Vlad. My finger twitches on the trigger.

I lean forward and fire twice, missing him by a hair.

“Fuck it,” I hiss. Some twisted stroke of divine luck put Vlad right here as we crashed through the fucking doors. We damn near turned him into a hood ornament, but Conan pulled the brakes just in time.

Doesn’t matter. He’s not mine to kill. He belongs to her.

We just need to tear through him to get to the barn. To Charlotte.

"Why don’t you come out here and fight me like a real man?" Vlad’s voice slithers across the room.

I reach down into the floorboard and pull out the brass dusters and slide them on.

"Why?" I spit back. "You out of bullets?"

Another shot hammers the car door, and I flinch instinctively. Conan drops down beside me, breath ragged, blood on his jaw.

"Plan?" he growls.

I jerk my chin toward the side door. "You run. Get Charlotte. I’ll keep him busy."

Conan’s eyes flick to Vlad, hiding behind a beam. "On three?"

I nod once.

"One. Two?—"

I rise like a fucking storm and unload in Vlad’s direction, bullets ricocheting off wood and steel. Conan breaks for the door, his massive frame smashing through like it’s paper.

I pivot to track him, but pain explodes through my skull, white-hot and blinding. Fuck. My vision flashes. I stagger backward, grabbing my head.

Vlad’s fist swings again, but I catch his wrist mid-air with my metal grip. He swings a plank at me and I kick him in the shin, knocking it out of his hands.

Before he can recover, I crack my brass knuckles straight into his mouth. He flies back into the shelving like a ragdoll. I’m wheezing, bent over, but adrenaline roars through my veins like jet fuel. He stumbles, and that gives me time to grab the plank.

As I swing at him, he blocks it with a goddamn iron pole.

"Fuck you," I growl.

He slams the pole into my ribs and I see stars, but I don’t go down. I lunge, headbutting him hard enough that he stumbles. His arms lock around my waist and shove me back until I slam into a support beam.

His hands go to my throat, squeezing, making my eyes bulge as I grapple to get him off.

"Not so clever now, are you, Mr. Quinn?" he spits. "Dying for that whore."

His breath is acid on my face. I jam my thumb into his eye, hard and deep, enough to make him scream and release me.

Spotting the gun nestled in the straw on the ground, I don’t waste the moment, I dive to retrieve it.

His expression turns ghost-white as he sees what I’m reaching for.

The gun.

My hand wraps around it, just as his boot crashes into the back of my skull.

I roll, dizzy but focused, and sweep my leg out, catching his shin, and he drops with a grunt.

I rise with my gun raised, pointing at his head.

"Never fucking call her that again," I snarl.

He spits blood right by my boot. "Go on. Shoot me."

His teeth are painted red, and he’s smiling like a devil that’s already lost his soul.

I stare down at him.

My finger twitches.

And that grin. That fucking grin makes it too hard to not pull the trigger.

"Fine," I mutter.

I drop my aim and fire. Right into his kneecap.

He screams like a little bitch.

Good.

Because he isn’t my kill. He’s Charlotte’s. And she’s coming.