Page 14

Grit

He wasn’t going to get there in time.

It was his biggest fear.

Everything went wrong simultaneously. One thing after another in short, painful succession. It started when Tabitha hung up on him with that dire warning—“Don’t come looking for me. I won’t be here.”—and continued when she evaded the two private investigators he’d hired in lieu of Att’s team.

It hadn’t surprised him when she headed out of town, and he’d followed her progress nearly all the way to Serenity by tracking her cell phone. He was battling through traffic, intent on pinning her down and getting her to safety, when his phone pinged with an alert for the panic room at the Ledston-Mitchell home.

Eli managed to fire off a text to Grit before he hit the alarm, engaging the cell jammers and rendering all phones within half a mile useless. A simple, four word text: Under attack. Locked down.

Dodging and weaving through evening traffic as best he could, Grit watched time tick past and could only imagine what was happening. He’d immediately called Jasper and redirected the A-team straight to Serenity, but their ETA was similar to his own.

Evander, Elias, and Callie were safe as long as they stayed in the panic room. They would, he knew, because Callie’s men wouldn’t risk losing her by doing something stupid. They had access to the camera feeds and they knew the approved signal that Grit, Jasper, and the team agreed on during the meeting.

Grit’s main concern now was Tabitha.

She was armed, extremely dangerous, and her insanity sure as hell worked as a defense, but how much of that mattered if she walked into the situation unaware… Donaghue was a psychopath with a grudge. His issue with Elias was business, pure and simple, but Tabitha’s defiance and disobedience had cost him pride, money, and convenience.

The Irishman wouldn’t show her any mercy and, knowing her, she’d goad the fucker into an apoplectic rage.

Finally breaking free from the city, Grit tore down the highway at twice the speed limit. Expecting the cops to be on his ass at any moment, he kept an eye out for cruisers. They could give him as many tickets as they fucking wanted, but if they pulled him over, time would slip through his fingers like sand.

His cell rang as he took the turning to Serenity at speed, much faster than was wise. The SUV shuddered precariously, struggling to keep up with his demands, then shot forward again when he hit the gas.

He jabbed a finger on the call button on the dashboard controls. “Jasper.”

“A-team landed five minutes ago at a private airfield. They’re ten miles down the road, they should be with you in twenty.”

Grit growled. “Evander and his spouses are locked down, safe. Tabitha’s already here.”

“I know,” Jasper said softly. “We went through this earlier, Grit. Keep a cool head. This is a situation we’ve been in before, nothing’s changed. The civilians are protected, backup is on the way. Hold down the fort until A-team has your back.”

Everything changed the moment Tabitha wandered into the path of a murderer who wanted the world and wouldn’t stop before he got it, Grit thought in disgust. “Tabitha—”

“My sister has my full faith. She’s been trained in hand-to-hand combat to a level you can’t imagine. The day she lets some mafia goons bring her to her knees isn’t today.” Confidence rang in Jasper’s voice. “If she’s in the middle of it now, there’s no getting her out until she’s done.”

How much blood was going to be on her hands when she was through? How much more weight did she have to carry before she was broken beyond repair?

He slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt when he spotted what had to be Tabitha’s vehicle. There was no sign of her; he didn’t expect her to be loitering around, waiting for assistance, but if she’d parked here, then something must have given her cause to do so.

Thank God.

“There’s an SUV dumped just off the road to the club. No occupants. My guess is Tabitha decided to approach on foot. No signs of a struggle or any other vehicles.” Setting off again, Grit watched the road carefully. He doubted she’d walked this way, not if her instincts warned her of danger. “We’re about a mile out. I’m heading in.”

“Update me as best you can. Good luck.”

Grit grunted, concentrating hard. When the house came into view, he reached over and plucked his weapon from the glove box, checking the safety before laying it on his thigh. Driving slower now, he let the SUV crawl down the driveway to the house, bracing for bullets to pelt the exterior.

The pile of bodies outside the garage explained why he’d gone unchallenged.

Warily, he cut the engine and set the brake, climbing out of the vehicle with his gun in hand. Checking his six, he approached the haphazard stack of corpses, wincing at the vibrant trails of blood coming from several different directions, already drying in varying shades of horrifying brown.

A few pairs of eyes stared up at him in blind terror, already glazed with death. He studied the cut throats, stabs wounds to the head and neck, and grimaced at the guy on top whose entrails were cascading over the ridge of his belt to touch the ground.

Tabitha wasn’t holding any prisoners today.

He counted six dead. Six big, heavyweight guys who’d no doubt been armed with weapons just as deadly as hers, yet they hadn’t stood a chance against the pint-sized pixie.

Leaving the dead as they were, he walked over to the front door, grimacing at the spray of bullet holes peppering the freshly painted wood. Tracing one of the splintered holes, he wondered how close the bullets came to hitting their intended target.

Tilting his head toward the camera pointing at him from the inner corner of the porch, he lifted his fist, spreading and fisting his fingers three times. While he waited to see if the occupants got the message, he used his own body to block the door in case of a sneak attack.

Five impatient minutes later, the door swung open a couple inches. One brown eye peered through the gap, took stock of the situation, and then the barrier revealed Evander, pale yet stalwart.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed. “The cavalry’s here.”

“Everyone okay?”

“Callie might not sleep again for a year or two, but yeah.” Those dark eyes scanned the landscape behind Grit. “The bastards came out of nowhere. We’d only been here a couple hours. Elias was taking the last of the necessities down to the panic room when Callie saw a guy with a fucking gun setting up shop on the banking.” He jerked his chin toward the walled bank edging the drive. “Luckily she kept her head and didn’t start screaming, which gave us time to get downstairs and secure the room.”

“They didn’t break in.”

“I was waiting for it,” Evander admitted. “I watched them on the security feeds, waiting for them to kick down the door, smash the place up, but they just chose their positions and waited.” Blowing out a breath, he shook his head. “Strangest thing I’ve seen. It was like they were just waiting for a signal… or trying to wait us out.”

“Were they the only ones?”

Anger tightened Evander’s mouth, his lips turning white. “The club’s perimeter alarm went off ten minutes after those guys appeared. The cameras in the main clubhouse picked up another eight men, including the guy whose photo you sent us. They’re heavily armed, Grit. I’m talking the kind of guns people use in massacres for a high body count in a short period of time.”

Perfect. Just what the doctor ordered, maniacs running around with automatic rifles and God only knew what else. “Did Tabitha come inside?”

“No. She came out of the blue and just started picking men off one at a time, gutting them like trout. If any of them received the signal to attack, it came too late. She’s a stone cold bitch when she’s working,” Evander added, with reluctant admiration. “On screen, it looked like she didn’t even see them as human. The last guy, she tortured for twenty minutes then cut him open from collarbone to navel. The knife barely left his body before she took off.”

It was disturbingly easy to piece everything together. Dread twisted like a heavy chain in Grit’s gut as he automatically turned to look toward the hillside where Serenity was tucked into its own private haven.

“I need to go after her before she gets herself killed.”

“I’ll come—”

“No. Absolutely not. You’re a six-foot-seven walking target, Van. Go back downstairs, lock yourself in, kiss your wife and your husband.” Urgency thrummed in his blood and he took a step back. “Atticus’s team will be here any minute now. Don’t let Callie come out until the clean up crew disposes of the bodies. Update the team when they arrive, tell them there are two friendlies on the scene. I’ll be back as soon as the situation is under control.”

“Jesus, Grit, be careful.”

“It’s my job—” As his foot crunched on the gravel, the short, rapid-fire snaps of automatic weapons being fired echoed from above them. “Tabby.”

Grit bolted toward his SUV, blinded by fear.

*

Tabitha

Mud, blood, and sweat.

The taste of all three lingered in her mouth as she pressed her back to the side of the nursery and waited for the spurt of gunfire to cease. She didn’t let herself think what Evander was going to say when he saw what Donaghue’s hired cronies were doing to his carefully crafted buildings; this little altercation was undoing months of hard work.

Dispatching the six goons provided the perfect exercise to get her head in the game. Most of them got a better death than they probably deserved, quick and clean, and each time her knives whispered through flesh, she felt a tug of rightness, of belonging, like she was fulfilling her destiny.

It had taken twenty minutes or so to get Donaghue’s location from the last idiot. Once she’d started snicking open his skin, flaying him down to the bone, the mafia soldier from Chicago sang like a fancy parakeet.

Donaghue’s overall plan was smart, she thought as she pulled her Beretta free and double-checked her ammunition. Split up his small, angry band of followers into two groups, set the smaller crew on the house as a fishing net to catch Elias, and hunker down on higher ground with the majority to wait for her.

He knew she was gunning for him.

She’d wasted time dragging her previous kills into a pile, but the mound of dead served a few purposes—easy disposal for the cleanup crew so none of the corpses were overlooked, killing time to let Donaghue stew in his own nervous juices while sending a very clear message, and giving the darkest part of her a hefty thrill she drank like fine wine.

So far, she’d only managed to pinpoint and terminate one of the thugs staking out the club. Her count was up to six, but these guys seemed smarter, more like her—they hunted with care, chose their hiding spots with an advantage in mind, and they appeared to possess hive-mind focus; they wanted her, no matter what.

Her recon was limited, mainly because the assholes kept firing a lot of bullets at her head, but the positions they held told her they were serving a dual purpose—they were trying to cage her in long enough to capture her, and they were guarding the clubhouse.

Donaghue was in there, she was sure.

Humming softly under her breath, Tabitha slid down the wall until she sat on her haunches, then peeked around the corner. The hum turned into a grunt of approval when she saw three big guys crossing over from the pet play area, automatic rifles lifted, to circle the perimeter of the nursery.

If she ran, she’d take a bullet, no doubt. There was someone stationed in the upper story of the clubhouse; she’d already clocked the rifle muzzle poking out from a partially open window.

Evening the odds, she fired off a shot, plugging one of the approaching beefcakes in the head, just above his right eyebrow. Blood fountained in a pretty arch as he dropped to his knees, falling forwards onto his face with a thud.

“Bingo,” she whispered, ducking back behind the corner as a hail of bullets sprayed the wood, raining splinters down on her. The sound of running feet was masked by the gunfire until the last moment, but she was ready for Beefcake’s associates as they charged her.

Beretta back in her waistband, she palmed two of her smaller blades and put her hands behind her head. Adopting an expression of alarm as her opponents came around the opposite corner, she stuttered, “W-Whoa, whoa, whoa! Please d-don’t shoot!”

Brothers? She wondered, getting a solid look at the pair of them. Brothers or cousins, judging by the almost identical shade of mahogany-auburn hair and bottle-green eyes, their bone structure.

“This the bitch Donny wants?” One of them asked.

Leveling the gun between her eyes, the other cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “Hard to tell under all that shit. Can’t hide those eyes, though.” He jerked his chin at her. “Get her weapons.”

The first guy visibly stalled. “Fuck, you’re closer.”

“I’m the better shot. Donny wants her alive, but that don’t mean I can’t kneecap the cunt if she moves wrong.” Ireland teased his words faintly. “Hell, knock her out if you’re that scared of her.”

Oh, that was going to mess up her plans, big time. “Please, don’t. I’ll come quietly, you don’t have to hurt me. My gun is tucked into the back of my pants, and I have a knife in my boot.”

“Don’t trust her, Vinny.” The goon assigned to stripping her weapons stepped forward reluctantly. “Shoot her if she tries anything.”

“I got her, Kellan.”

Tabitha remained perfectly still as he came behind her, as she felt him lift the Beretta from its home. Her jaw tightened as he removed her knives and tossed them with zero respect on the ground, but when he bent to skim hard hands down her thighs, her calves, she let her lips curve into a lethal smile.

Vinny widened his eyes, awareness flooding the green.

“Always check the hands,” Tabitha told him with a low, malicious laugh. “Rookie mistake.”

Before he even had chance to squeeze the trigger, her right hand whipped forward, firing the blade so quickly, she almost missed the moment it penetrated the softest point on his face, sinking through his eyeball to pierce his brain.

He staggered, the rifle swinging away as his fingers convulsed. Bullets plowed into the soil in a deafening barrage of noise, bringing Kellan to his feet with a cry.

She spun, smashing her fist into his mouth, aiming for his throat in a vicious one-two blow. She missed, glancing off the side of his thick neck, giving him the opportunity to return the favor; he cracked her own damn gun against her forearm, rendering her right arm useless.

Stifling a cry, she swiped at his chest with the knife she still clutched in her left hand, slicing through the strap from which his rifle dangled, his shirt, and the flesh beneath. Blood began to stain the material, then bloomed faster as she managed to get in a second and third jab.

With a roar, Kellan backhanded her, spinning her around with the force, then enveloped her from behind. One hand clasped around her throat, tightening so fast she didn’t have time to take a breath, while the other snagged her wrist.

The crack of bone breaking and the resulting flare of agony didn’t quite register as her brain fought to stay engaged. Warmth sank into her clothes, sticky and thick, as his blood soaked into her back.

When he hefted her off her feet, she knew she was in trouble.

Thrashing, she hammered his knees and shins with her boots. Left hand out of commission, vision blurring, she brought her right hand up, digging her nails into his neck, clawing at his face, aiming for his eyes. She latched onto his hair, weakly fisting a chunk of locks, and yanked.

“Bitch,” he snarled in her ear. “Gonna throttle you ‘til you’re about to take your last feckin’ breath, then watch Donny take you apart piece by piece, breakin’ each one ‘til you’re nothin’ but blood and guts.”

Inch by inch, she lost her grip on his hair. Lungs feeling like they were on the brink of imploding, she resigned herself to waking up in a torture chamber because she was literally skirting the line between life and death.

Out of her control, her body went limp, her feet twitching as her system shut down.

For a moment, she thought the big brute swayed behind her.

For a moment, she prayed.

In that moment, her prayers were answered.

“What the fuck?”

Her boots hit the ground at the same time her throat was released from the brutal hold. She heaved in a breath, choking on it, before she collapsed on all fours. There was a lull, a quiet ten seconds of contemplation, before two hundred and fifty pounds of male came down on top of her.

Her first instinct was to scream.

It was female instinct, primal, a basic reaction stemming from years of abuse.

Somehow she denied it, biting down on her lip to stop the sound before she summoned the rest of Donaghue’s men. Instead, knocked breathless, she released her panic in a stream of low, forced grunts and growls.

Control was everything.

Kellan shifted, groaning incomprehensibly, and she realized what she’d mistaken for sweat running down her spine was actually blood. A great deal of it, more than anyone could stand to lose.

With only her right hand to help, she struggled to drag herself from beneath his deadweight. Minutes seemed to take hours, energy draining away into exhaustion. By the time she crawled free, she felt fifty years older.

“Fucking bitch,” he slurred, but the words were garbled.

Collecting herself as best she could, Tabitha rested on her knees, sucking in breaths while she tried to monitor her surroundings. Despite the gunfire, no one had come to their comrades’ aid, or to claim a stake in the victor’s spoils.

There wasn’t time to recover. There wasn’t time to sit here on her knees, helpless and vulnerable. There certainly wasn’t time to wish Grit was here, lending her his strength.

Cradling her broken wrist to her stomach, she berated herself until her body responded, clambering clumsily to her feet. Bending, she retrieved her weapons, awkwardly rearranging them where her right hand could easily reach.

Keeping one in her hand, she turned and used her boot to shove Kellan onto his back. Not the easiest task, but she managed it.

Blood spread over the front of his shirt, dark and beautifully red. She thought of the slice she’d carved into his chest, then dismissed that as the cause. It hadn’t been deep enough to hit anything vital, but the two jabs she’d snuck in…

Curious, she ripped open the material one-handed, popping buttons into the pool of blood beneath him, and bent to study the wounds in his flesh. The first cut was actually deeper than she believed, but not life threatening. One jab had made a small puncture wound near his ribs, but the second…

All that delicious red pumped from the hole she’d stabbed in his stomach. She was no doctor despite her clinical knowledge of human anatomy, but she’d guess her blade had nicked his abdominal aorta.

A complete and utter stroke of luck on her part.

“This fucking bitch doesn’t go down easy,” she told him in a tired voice. “I’ve been getting back up after a beating all my goddamn life.”

Whether he heard her or not, she didn’t know. She didn’t bother to give him a chance to respond, if he was even capable of doing so; she just raked her blade across his throat and listened to his last breaths gurgle free.

Four down, at least two to go.

Tabitha straightened, clenching her teeth as the bones in her wrist ground together. It struck her that she might have a choice to make tonight, one she hadn’t really anticipated making for a while yet. One that affected her reality in ways she was, surprisingly, ready to accept.

She frowned, perplexed by the awkwardness of her useless limb. It was nothing but a hindrance now, something to be aware of in an effort to keep safe. Muttering curses, she bent and used the knife to cut Kellan’s pants off around one thick thigh before wrangling his boot off to remove the material.

Using the length of fabric to tie her arm up in a makeshift sling, she cracked her neck and prepared to return to battle. At least it wasn’t her right hand out of action; she was trained to utilize either hand in a fight, but her right was naturally dominant. The loss of her left was an inconvenience, nothing more.

Darkness was settling now, the last hints of sunlight glowing warm on the horizon.

She loved working in the dark, at night, when she felt at home in the shadows.

Before she could make her move, she heard the unmistakable sound of a scuffle from further away. Grunts and thuds, fists striking flesh.

Someone else was here.

Realizing she was distracted by the fight, it occurred to her that the sniper posted in the upper window might also find himself drawn to the action. Without thinking, she took off into open territory, zigzagging in sweeping movements in case she ended up in the rifle’s sights.

She made it to the fancy wooden doors of the clubhouse without incident, stifling a moan as her breathing rasped painfully through her abused throat. As she eased open the door, there was a godawful crack, far too close for comfort.

A lone gunshot, then silence.

Donaghue, she reminded herself, discovering she was torn between going to help whoever was in trouble and ending the whole sordid saga. Donaghue was the reason any of this shit was happening, and he needed to die for his sins.

Rape, murder, torture.

He checked every one of her approval boxes for immediate termination; it was a shame, really, that he hadn’t popped up on her radar long before now. She could’ve prevented a lot of death, a lot of grief, although perhaps an early intervention might have skewed more than one person’s fate.

For better, for worse; who knew?

“Lay down the knife, Ms. Fairfax. I’d hate to kill you before getting to play with you.” The voice was soft, almost feminine in an ick way, and carried notes of both New York and Ireland. “I’ve waited some time for this moment. Women are inarguably the bane of my existence, but you… you’ve surpassed that by a mile or more.”

Oh goodie, he wasn’t going to piss her off with a game of hide and seek. “Phalen Donaghue. I’d hoped you’d tucked your tail under and run. I like a good hunt.” She smiled into the dark interior of the club. “I like mounting the heads of rapists on my wall even more.”

“You must have quite a collection by now.” A lighter flared not ten feet away, then a cigarette puffed to life. The flame illuminated Donaghue’s face for several seconds, giving her a glimpse of cold, dead eyes. “I was excited when you took the contract on Mitchell. It was an incredibly bittersweet moment for me. Do you know why?”

Ignoring the directive to drop her knife, Tabitha began flipping it idly through her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll bore me with the tale.”

He chuckled, and the scent of cigarette smoke drifted toward her. “No doubt you’ve learned of my past. My swift departure from Ireland and all that. When I got to New York, a whole new world opened up for me. Yes, I started at the bottom of the order with the cannon fodder and the grunts, but I had ambitions. A dream, and a carefully laid out plan to achieve it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Murder and maim your way to leadership.”

“Effectively. I gave thought to keeping my hands clean initially. Commanding others to do the wetwork. But loyalty runs one way in the mob, dear girl, and the only way is up.” The glowing tip of the cigarette moved in the dark as he gestured. “So I searched further afield, all the way to Virginia. Yes, that’s got your attention, hasn’t it? I paid a visit to a rather charming couple, full of ideas and scientific breakthroughs.”

She almost, almost took a step back.

“They were recommended, you see. Anyone in the market for a well-trained contract killer went to your father in those days. After all, when the products on offer have been selectively bred and programmed to do nothing but take orders and kill on command, where else would one go?”

It was just the smell of the smoke turning her stomach, she thought desperately. He was lying, distracting her with a story he was weaving from information a hacker dug up, that was all.

“Dominic was proud of his creations. He spent hours parading them in front of me, expounding their attributes, their skills, their special talents. Young men not yet twenty, most of them. And then,” he exhaled slowly with a groan she often associated with a pedophile lusting after young flesh, “there was you. Supple, lithe, no blood on your hands at that point. Flat chested, such a narrow waist. But those eyes and that hair… you were a fucking siren in the making.”

Pain ceased to exist; all she felt was cold.

Seeping into her bones.

Sinking into her soul.

“A demonstration, I demanded. I needed to see you in action. I watched your father toss you in a room, bare footed, unarmed, and send in three men after you, canes in hand. Big, vicious males hired to do one thing and one thing only.” He lowered his voice to a lascivious whisper. “Destroy you.”

It triggered a memory. True, there were so many similar instances of that scenario that they muddled together, but something in his voice was bringing the past into sharp focus.

“It took you six minutes and thirty-nine seconds to disarm and neutralize those men. Dominic wasn’t pleased you left them alive, mind you, but your performance was impeccable. Astounding, for one so young and outmatched.” Annoyance filtered into his tone, hard and brittle. “Dominic turned down a quarter million in cash for you that night. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in crisp bills. He insisted you’d be making four times that per kill once you reached maturity. I didn’t doubt that, but my budget wasn’t as healthy as it is now. So we made a deal.”

Tabitha blinked and recoiled against the light that flicked on suddenly. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare. “If that’s true, I was lucky.”

“Were you?” Smug, Donaghue let loose with a chilling laugh. “The quarter million secured me one of your brothers. As a consolation prize, your father gave me the gift of watching him fuck you. Not long broken in, he told me. You’d been a virgin two weeks beforehand, but he’d made sure to be thorough in the breaking process.”

Bile rose up her throat as she lowered her hand, numb from the forehead down. She watched the man in front of her stub out his cigarette in his palm before stalking toward her, and the memories she’d repressed so well came spilling back, drowning her.

She hadn’t recognized him in the photos Aisling sent to her. Her brain had protected her from the horror of that night, but there was no protection now.

“He liked the fact you still fought him when he pinned you down and mounted you. I was so fucking hard. I wanted it to be my hand on the back of your neck, my hand forcing your body to surrender. My cock drilling into that tight, ten-year-old cunt; my seed filling you up.” Arousal glowed like a demonic aura in his blue eyes, so dark they were almost black. “Damn near sprained my wrist jacking off to the sight and sound of you fighting like a hellcat.”

The knife almost slipped from her grasp; her subconscious regained control, tightening her numb fingers around the hilt before she lost it.

“He was a generous man, Dominic. When he was done with you, he just gestured in your direction and told me to enjoy myself. And oh, did I.” Donaghue licked his lips wetly, saliva gleaming in the wake of his tongue. “The first thrust was fucking heaven. You were so tight despite him opening you up for me. The fight started all over again, and I craved it. You gave me the ride of my life, and when I was done, I didn’t have a choice but to test his generosity further.”

Sweat broke out on her forehead. She needed to dig deep, escape the trap he was weaving around her, and find the anger she relied on so heavily. But every word he spoke sucked her down into the vortex of her childhood, deeper and deeper until there was no way out.

“The one and only time I heard you scream was when I rutted my cock into your ass. God as my witness, that scream lives in my dreams. I hear it when I fuck women to this day, when I torture and rape the whores who come to my bed. That scream,” he said in a vacant tone, “is the scream all others aspire to be.”

He was close now, the cloying scent of his aftershave clashing with smoke. Close enough she could carve his heart out, if only she wasn’t too hollowed out to move.

“A pity you turned out to be such a disappointment on a business level. Reneging on a contract, Ms. Fairfax? Your father would be rolling over in the grave you put him in if he knew.”

She stared at him. He was cut from Black Irish stock; his hair was true black, with a faint sheen of blue that mirrored the color of his eyes. Silver, a lot of it, ran through the locks. That and the lines scoring his face spoke of a life lived hard, with stress and power unsoftened by love.

There was no witty retort to fire at him, no sassy comeback. Never had she expected to come face to face with one of the men who’d raped her as a child, not after all these years, and the core of her soul was so horrified, she was trapped by her own demons.

“Mr. Mitchell will meet his end. I’ll take care of it myself. It’s nothing personal, but his demise is imperative to my ascension, so there’s really no way around it. You, however… you will make an excellent addition to my personal collection.” Blunt fingertips stroked down her cheek, eliciting a shudder that raked claws down her spine. “How long will I need to chain you to my wall before your loyalty belongs to me and me alone?”

A lifetime. Ten lifetimes. Eternity.

“I’ll die first,” she rasped.

“Such a waste that would be.” Tsking in disapproval, Donaghue moved away, checking his watch. Reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out a Glock 26. “How many of my men have you killed outside?”

There was no other option but snapping out of the funk, she told herself. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life as a leashed rottweiler. Not for any man; especially not for Donaghue.

“Four here, six at the house.”

His head spun sharply in her direction. “I beg your pardon?”

The phrase reminded her of Elias’s British expressions and, in turn, relit the fire she required to do her job. Elias was the priority. He was married and madly in love with his husband and their wife. He had a future waiting for him, one with kids and joy, maybe even a goddamn dog.

“Four here,” she repeated, trying to shake off the sickness, “six at the house.”

Lips twisting into a snarl, he yanked a phone from his pocket as he trained the Glock on her. He pressed a number on speed dial, put the phone to his ear, then cursed and hung up. Again and again, his ire visibly rising as none of his men answered his calls. “Fuck.”

“Problem?” Ah, there was her snark.

“Three of my men are unaccounted for. Who did you bring along to cover your ass?”

She spread her arm wide, showcasing the blood she wore like a badge of honor. “All by myself. Maybe your men are cowards, Donaghue, scared to be taken out by a woman.”

The air stirred at her back. The hairs on her neck and arms stood to attention, recognizing the familiar presence behind her; when Grit’s scent hit her, overriding the stink of cigarettes, she didn’t know whether to curse or cry.

“Liar.” Donaghue hissed the word, rage lighting up his eyes. He swung the Glock to the right of her, teeth bared, intention clear on his face.

There wasn’t time to think. It seemed in the last hour, there hadn’t really been time to do anything, but as Donaghue’s finger squeezed the trigger, time slowed.

Tabitha lunged forward, charging toward him with her knife at the ready. Her body still felt heavy, clumsy, weighed down by childhood memories, yet it responded as best it could, covering the distance between them quickly.

She heard the sharp retort of a gun firing as her body jerked. Fire erupted in her shoulder; she let her momentum carry her on. Another crack, and this time the fire consumed her chest. Stumbling, she crashed into Donaghue as a third gunshot rent the air in two.

They went down in a heap.

*

Grit

Nightmare became reality in a heartbeat.

Aware of the Glock aimed at him, Grit prepared to shoot the Irish prick causing so many problems for those he loved. Reading the asshole’s body language, he calculated he only had seconds before the Irishman took his first shot.

Without restraint, Tabitha charged Donaghue, her knife raised for a strike. Her movements were odd, not the graceful action he was used to seeing from her, and it hindered her.

Too far behind her to stop her attack, Grit shifted position, lifting his gun and taking aim at the asshole. He just needed Tabby out of the line of fire and a split second to take the shot…

Adrenaline pumped through him; years of mercenary work kept his hands and breathing steady despite the gravity of the situation.

All those years of experience went out the damn window as Donaghue fired. The shot hit Tabitha—God knew where; they were too close together for the shot to go wide—yet she didn’t cry out. The only sign she’d taken the bullet was the jerk of her body as she barreled forward. Another shot, and this time she lost her footing, plowing into Donaghue as the gun went off again.

It all happened in the space of seconds.

With a roar of rage, Grit bolted over to where his woman sprawled on the top of the man he was ready to tear apart limb by limb. Aware of Donaghue’s happy trigger finger, Grit pressed the muzzle of his own gun to the fucker’s forehead as he bent to check Tabitha.

It wasn’t necessary. Donaghue’s eyes were already clouding over, blood trickling from the corners of his slack mouth.

“Tabby. Goddamn it, Tabitha, what the fuck did you do?” Grit set his weapon down, gently taking her by the shoulders and rolling her off the body. His heart constricted, wilting into ash as soon as he got a look at her face. “Oh fuck, baby.”

There was so much blood on her, he didn’t know what was hers and what belonged to the suckers she’d annihilated. Three holes were burned into her shirt—one just below her shoulder joint, one over her left breast, and another in her midsection.

While her skin was turning ashen gray—a color he knew all too well—it was the serene expression she wore that shocked him most. Pain flickered briefly in the blue eyes he adored as she struggled to focus on him. “D-Did I get h-him?”

Grit spared Donaghue the briefest glance, eyeing the knife buried to the hilt in the bastard’s sternum, tilted up at just the right angle to hit the sweet spot. “Yeah, little tiger, you got him good.”

“Karma,” she whispered, then coughed, spraying blood over lips turning blue.

“Sssh, little tiger. Don’t talk, just breathe. I’m going to put pressure on these wounds and stop the bleeding, okay?” He plucked a knife off her belt and started cutting her shirt into pieces. “Atticus’s team is right behind me, baby. They’ll be here any minute now. They’ve got a medic and all [NP1]the right kit for dealing with this shit. I just need you to hold the fuck on.”

Her hand slid over his as he balled a section of material against the bullet hole above her breast. It was cold, which scared him more than he’d admit. “Grit…”

“No. We don’t end this way, Tabby. This is not how our story ends, and I’ll be damned if I don’t fight for you when you need me most.” Taking her hand, he pressed it on top of the ball. “Keep that there. You don’t get to leave me, little tiger.”

Her eyes softened, and her smile was too peaceful in spite of the crimson droplets on her lips. “Made a choice. Tired, Grit… so tired. I’m ready.”

“Well, tough shit. I’m not.” He’d be damned if his voice broke, and it came close to doing just that. His throat was tightening by the second, restricting his breathing as he realized there was no staunching the blood. “I need you, Tabitha. I love you.”

Her chin quivered. Weakly, she lifted her hand to his face, her fingertips brushing his beard before her strength depleted. He caught it, linking his fingers with hers so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Don’t be sad. This is… a good death. Better than it…” She coughed again, harsher this time, and the blood was more than just droplets. “Than it could’ve been. At least I… learned something.”

“Yeah?”

The doors burst open and multiple pairs of boots stormed the room.

“I learned I have a heart,” she told him solemnly, breathlessly. “I love you, Rory.”

She sighed so softly he almost missed the small exhalation. Her eyes drifted shut, the muscles in her face going lax beneath her colorless skin. The fierce grip of his hand was the only thing keeping hers in his grasp.

Someone skidded on his knees across the wooden floor, through the lake of blood gathering beneath her. A big hand covered her throat, fingers jamming against her pulse point. “Kaufman, fetch a stretcher from the truck. Cauley, I need my kit, and get a fucking chopper up here now. Grit, buddy, I need you to move out of the way. If you want me to help her, you need to move.”

Grief muffled the words. It trickled through him, carving through his heart, building power and momentum with every beat until the trickle became a stream, the stream became a river, and the river washed away the foundation of his reason to live.

Christ, how the hell had this happened?

Where was the step he’d missed, the turning point that set her on the path to this? What could he, should he, have done differently? How could he have stopped her from fucking dying on his watch?

An arm curled around his neck as a tanned hand covered his, trying to pry Tabitha’s fingers free. With a hoarse shout, Grit slammed his elbow back, connecting with solid flesh, and swiftly found himself pinned beneath the weight of two of his former team mates.

Their audacity unleashed his burgeoning grief, snapping his temper at the same time. It was oddly satisfying to dig deep, well below the fathoms of his control, and tap into the truly dangerous side of himself.

Deafening the room with a bellow of pure fury, Grit levered himself up, shrugging off the mercs to regain his feet. Murphy and Sommerfeld, both new members of the A-team, eyed him with pity even as they circled him away from Tabitha’s body.

He reached out, snagging baby-faced Murphy by the collar of his Kevlar vest and hauling the boy forward into his waiting fist. Pain, he discovered, no longer held the same sensory value; he felt his knuckles connect with Murphy’s jaw, the impact radiating up his arm, but the sting, the burn, the oh fuck, why did I do that pain couldn’t compete against the agony consuming him.

“C’mon, man, don’t make me taser your ass. Not now.” Sommerfeld lifted his palms up. “McKee is our best, Grit; you know this. He’ll do what he can for her.”

“Can he put the blood back in her body?” Grit jabbed Murphy again, blocked a sloppy return, and hit him a third time. “Can he fix the holes those fucking bullets put in her?” Catching a glancing blow to his chin, Grit slammed Murphy with a punch that snapped his head back. “Can he give her back to me?”

As Murphy’s legs buckled, Grit let him go, whirling around to vent the rest of his volatile emotions out on Sommerfeld, or whomever else was in the vicinity. Instead, his eyes fell to the other body on the floor, the one responsible for the death of a good, strong, beautiful woman, and his rage swelled to impossible proportions.

The noise he made was inhuman, scoring his throat with pure hatred. Hands fisting, he strode over to Donaghue’s body and kicked it in the ribs hard enough to flip the fucker over. The crunch of bone levitated him high above any form of humanity; he whaled on the corpse like a madman, using his feet first, then straddling and pounding it as though it was nothing more than a punching bag.

He dropped headlong into the hollow hole in his heart, losing himself. Breathing grew more difficult—he convinced himself it was simply exertion, not the need to cry, that was seizing his lungs. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose, slid down his neck, his temples, his cheeks—just sweat, he told himself, not tears.

By the time his body exhausted itself, his arms too heavy to strike again, there was nothing left to identify Donaghue.

Bracing his fists on either side of the ruined head, Grit tried to catch his breath. Every muscle in his body ached, his head throbbed with pain and adrenaline, and the sense of loss haunting him was just as keen as before.

“You done, brother?”[NP2]

Grit glanced up at the man crouching in front of him. There was blood splattered over his shiny black combat boots and the legs of his camouflage pants. Tabitha’s blood, smeared over his hands. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Okay then, let’s get you on your feet. Sommerfeld, take his left.”

Arms hooked under his, dragging him off the body and supporting him as exhaustion blanketed his mind. His breathing hitched when his gaze landed on the spot where Tabitha had been; they’d taken her already, the lake of blood congealing on polished floorboards the only sign she’d been there.

“Where—”

“The chopper’s flying her to Denver,” McKee told him gently. “We notified Jasper. He’s already on his way to take you both home.”

Phoenix wasn’t home anymore, but neither was here. Grit didn’t know where he belonged now. His time in Denver, with Tabitha, had made him a better man, a more patient one, but the future and dreams he’d set in her hands were no longer bright and hopeful.

They were just ashes, skittering away in the wind.

“I’m not going back,” he rasped. “Take me back to the hotel, McKee. Leave me there. Tell Jasper I’m sorry, so fucking sorry…”

Finally, he broke.

Shattered.

He barely felt the needle poke into his arm, but he was grateful for the darkness that followed, sweeping him up and carrying him away from the ruins of what was, and what might have been.