Page 166 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

Ambrose’s eyes go wide, his lips parting in shock.

The sight would be almost comical if there wasn’t so much at stake.

My shoulder throbs where they burned off my marker, but the pain only fuels my focus.

I can see the exact moment his brain catches up with my words—keeping my membership—and his hand moves toward his gun.

But I’m already speaking again, the words tumbling out before he can recover or make a move. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear myself over the rush of blood in my ears. This is the moment everything hinges on. If I hesitate, if I stutter, if I show even a hint of weakness, it’s all over.

“I hereby invoke my first votum.”

The words ring out across the cemetery, clear and strong despite the nerves building up inside me. Around us, the Syndicate members go absolutely still. Malcolm’s eyes gleam with something that might be respect or might be fury, and it’s impossible to tell how this is going to go.

I force myself to look only at Atlas as I continue speaking. If I let myself focus on anything else—the guns still trained on him, the way Ambrose’s face is twisting with rage, or the dozen other ways this could go wrong—I might lose my nerve.

But Atlas’s gaze locks with mine, and I see the moment he realizes what I’m doing. A flash of fear crosses his face, not for himself but for me.

Always for me.

I just paid in literal blood and pain for this membership. For this moment. For this one chance to turn everything around. My father’s voice echoes in my head—his lessons about power, about sacrifice, about never showing weakness.

About using every hint of an advantage, no matter the cost.

Well, I’m about to use every single advantage I’ve got. The words are already forming on my tongue, and I know there’s no going back after this. But then, Ambrose made that decision the moment he took Atlas. I only reaffirmed it when I decided he was worth any price to get back.

The Syndicate members tense slightly, waiting. I understand as well as they do that a votum is sacred. Inviolable. The entire foundation of their brotherhood rests on this one absolute rule—when a member calls for aid through a votum, everyone must help.

No exceptions.

“I call upon every member of the Dark Lotus Syndicate to free Atlas from his captors.” I do my best to get the words out quickly and forcefully. “Right now. Get him away from Ambrose and his men.”

The words hang in the air for a heartbeat. Two. Three. Then the cemetery explodes into motion as the Syndicate members signal their guards. I catch Malcolm’s slight nod—the tiniest dip of his chin that sets everything in motion.

Whatever he might think of me personally, he has to honor the votum.

They all do.

Watching the Dark Lotus Syndicate’s security teams move is like watching a perfectly choreographed dance of death.

They emerge from the shadows between monuments, weapons already drawn, surrounding Ambrose’s men with practiced precision.

The guards holding Atlas hesitate, their grips on their weapons tightening as they look to Ambrose for direction.

But I know we’ve already won this part.

The Syndicate’s influence stretches too far and holds too much power. Even Ambrose’s men won’t risk defying them, not when every member present is bound by the votum to see this through.

My gamble—burning my first and most powerful request within seconds of joining their ranks—might cost me later, but right now, it’s exactly what we need.

The rage that twists Ambrose’s features makes him look more a demon than The Saint he called himself.

His carefully crafted mask of control shatters as he realizes exactly how thoroughly I’ve fucked up his plans.

A stream of curses tears from his throat as he dives behind a marble angel, bullets already flying as the Syndicate’s guards move in.

Even the members who are clearly pissed at me, who look at me with barely concealed contempt for exercising my prerogative so quickly, fall in line.

They have to. It’s the foundation their entire organization is built on—when a member calls for aid through a votum, everyone responds.

No exceptions, no hesitation, no room for personal feelings.

Malcolm’s security team takes point, their movements precise and lethal as they push Ambrose’s men back from Atlas.

The rest of the Syndicate’s guards flow around them like water, cutting off escape routes and forcing Ambrose’s mercenaries to cluster together.

The sound of gunfire echoes off marble monuments and towering trees, turning the sacred ground into a war zone.

The Dark Lotus guards execute a perfect pincer movement, forcing Ambrose’s men away from Atlas while another team cuts in to extract him.

The precision of it is a hell of thing to see.

These aren’t just hired muscle; they’re elite operators who obviously train together and know exactly how to coordinate an assault like this.

The kinds of guards third-world dictators would literally kill to have on their payrolls.

With nowhere else to go, Ambrose’s men start to regroup.

It’s an actual gunfight now, and the confined space makes the sounds of killing and dying that much louder.

The few guards remaining with Atlas try to use him as a shield, but they’re outmaneuvered and outgunned.

The Syndicate’s security teams pick them off with surgical precision, always careful of their shot angles to avoid hitting Atlas.

I want to run to him, to help, but moving now would just make me a target and complicate the extraction.

Instead, I track the firefight, marking positions and counting shots, waiting for my moment.

Nico and Killian do the same on either side of me, keeping their weapons ready in case we need to bolster the Syndicate’s ranks.

The mercenary holding Atlas makes a desperate move, trying to drag him behind a massive stone mausoleum.

But he’s exposed for a split second too long.

Three shots ring out in perfect synchronization—the Syndicate’s guards working as one—and Atlas’s last captor crumples.

Atlas himself drops and rolls, his own survival instincts no doubt kicking in as he gets himself clear of the killing zone.

Ambrose’s remaining men are firing from whatever cover they can find, but they’re caught in a crossfire, with the Syndicate’s guards steadily advancing from multiple angles. The outcome is inevitable—and I’m pretty sure everyone in this cemetery can see the writing on the wall.

“Time to get his ass,” I say loud enough for Nico and Killian to hear. “Ambrose and the rest of his men die here and now.”

The moment Atlas is clear of Ambrose’s men, I signal to Nico and Killian. We break from our position, weapons drawn. There’s no hesitation—just the three of us ready to do whatever we have to in order to win this fucking fight.

“Nine o’clock!” Killian’s voice cuts through the chaos as he spots movement behind a granite headstone. His shot rings out before the word is fully formed, and one of Ambrose’s men drops with a wet gurgle.

I keep moving, using the tombstones for cover, trying to get a better angle on where Ambrose disappeared behind that angel statue.

My hands are steady on my gun despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Another mercenary breaks cover, trying to flank the Syndicate’s security team.

I put two rounds in his chest before he can get off a shot.

“Got eyes on The Saint?” Nico calls out.

“Lost him after—” My words cut off as the gunfire starts up again from my right.

I dive behind a stone cross, feeling chips of marble spray across my back as bullets strike too close for comfort.

But the move gives me a clear line of sight to where two more of Ambrose’s men are trying to push through the Syndicate’s perimeter.

“Quinn!” Nico shouts. “They’re trying to box us in. Three more coming up from the south entrance.”

“I see them.” Killian’s already moving to intercept, his massive frame somehow graceful as he executes a perfect flanking maneuver. “Got the two on the left. Quinn, take center. Nico?—”

“Right side’s mine,” Nico confirms, already shifting position.

A burst of automatic fire forces me to duck lower behind the cross. One of Ambrose’s men has an MP5, spraying bullets with more enthusiasm than aim. Amateur. I count the shots, waiting for the pause I know is coming. When it comes, I pop up and put a round through his throat before he can reload.

“Movement at your four!” One of the Syndicate guards calls out. “We need to get a?—”

The rest of his warning is lost as Killian opens up with controlled bursts from his position, forcing two more mercenaries back into cover.

I use the distraction to advance, keeping low, getting a better angle on their position.

Nico mirrors my movement on the opposite side, and just like that, we’ve got them in a crossfire.

Four shots later, they’re down.

But something’s wrong. The tactical part of my brain is screaming that we’re missing something, that Ambrose wouldn’t just lay low while his men are getting picked off one by one all around him.

“He’s making a break for it!” One of the Syndicate guards shouts from the eastern edge of the cemetery. “Heading for the service road!”

“Two vehicles!” Another voice cuts in. “Two black SUVs.”

More gunfire drowns out the rest of his words. I sprint toward the sound, heart pounding, but I already know we’re too late. Ambrose planned this—had an escape route ready. While his men died buying him time, he slipped away like the snake he is.

“Fuck!” I slam my palm against cold marble, frustration burning through me. “Anyone got eyes on him?”

“Negative,” one of the Syndicate’s operators reports. “Both vehicles cleared the perimeter. We’ve got three teams in pursuit, but?—”