Page 66 of Knuckles & Knives

“Gone hunting ghosts,” I reply, showing him the note.

Dom reads it, his expression growing darker with each word. “Son of a bitch. How long?”

“Unknown,” Marcus answers. “Could be hours. Could be all night.”

Dom shifts and immediately sucks in a breath, one hand going to his side. The effort must have pulled at his stitches. His face goes pale, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar.

“Dom,” I warn, reaching instinctively.

“I’m fine,” he growls, even though sweat beads at his temple from the effort. “We need to find him.”

“Axel specifically said not to come looking,” I point out, though every instinct I have is screaming at me to track him down.

“Since when does Axel make tactical decisions for this family?” Dom’s voice carries that dangerous edge that means he’s about to do something reckless. “He’s walking into a trap. Viktor Kozlov doesn’t work alone.”

“Dom, you’re barely?—”

“I’m fine.” He grits it out, each breath shallow as he forces his legs over the edge of the bed. Sweat dots his brow. He picks up his shirt and falters just a second.

“You’re not fine,” I say, stepping closer.

“Doesn’t matter.” He pulls the shirt over his head with stiff, jerky motions, biting back a grunt when the fabric grazes the bandage. “Axel’s out there. Marcus, what do we know about Kozlov’s current location?”

“He’s been staying at a warehouse complex on the south side. Industrial area, minimal civilian traffic.” Marcus pulls up satellite images on his screen. “Dom, Raven’s right. Axel specifically requested?—”

“Axel can kiss my ass.” Dom is reaching for his shirt, moving carefully but determinedly. “Nobody in this family faces their demons alone. That’s not how we work.”

I watch this stubborn, protective man push through his pain because one of ours is in danger, and something fierce and desperate claws at my chest. “You can barely stand.”

“Then I’ll sit in the car and coordinate.” His eyes meet mine, dark and absolutely implacable. “I’m not staying here while he’s out there fighting battles that could get him killed.”

My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Kieran. I answer immediately.

“We have a problem,” he says without preamble. “My uncle’s moved up his timeline. He’s coordinating with the Kozlovs for a joint strike tonight.”

“Tonight?” My heart sinks. “Axel’s already gone after Viktor.”

Kieran sucks in a breath and blows it out loudly. “Shit. He’s walking into a coordinated attack.”

“Where are you?”

“Twenty minutes out. I’ll pick up weapons and additional personnel on the way.”

I look at Dom, who’s managed to get his shirt on despite the obvious pain, and at Marcus, who’s already pulling up tactical maps and communication protocols. My family, ready to walk into hell for one of our own.

“Make it fifteen minutes,” I tell Kieran. “Bring everything you’ve got.”

The next hour passes in a blur of preparation and mounting dread. Dom insists on wearing body armor despite his injury, arguing that he’ll be more of a liability if he gets shot again. Marcus coordinates with his network of informants to get real-time intelligence on the warehouse complex. Kieran arrives with a small arsenal and two of his most trusted men—former special forces who ask no questions and follow orders without hesitation.

“Still no word from Axel?” Kieran asks as we load into the vehicles.

I check my phone for the dozenth time. “Nothing.”

“His phone’s been dark for four hours,” Marcus reports from the passenger seat of the lead car, “but I’ve been monitoring police scanners. No reports of violence in that area yet.”

“Yet being the operative word,” Dom says grimly from beside me. He’s pale but alert, his hand resting on the grip of his weapon. “Viktor’s not the type to make it quick.”

The warehouse complex is a maze of abandoned buildings and shipping containers, perfect for someone who wants privacy for unpleasant activities. We park three blocks away and approach on foot, using the shadows and industrial debris for cover.