Page 218 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

My hands are starting to shake as I fire another shot, taking out one of Ambrose’s men who was getting too fucking close to the edge of the roof. The bastard falls back with a satisfying scream, but the victory is short-lived. I check my clip and see three bullets left. Fuck.

“Running low,” I call out to my men, my voice hoarse from shouting over gunfire.

“Same here,” Atlas grunts, ducking behind the air conditioning unit as bullets ping off the metal. The sound makes my teeth rattle.

Blood is dripping down the side of Killian’s face, a steady trickle from the gash on his temple where he hit the ground when his bike went down.

Road rash covers his arms, the raw skin gleaming wet and angry in the dim light.

But the crazy fucker acts like he doesn’t even feel it, methodically picking off targets with that insanely intense focus of his.

Another volley of gunfire forces me to press myself flat against the roof’s edge. Concrete chips spray my face as bullets strike too damn close. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else.

“Two clips left between us,” Nico says, the tension clear in his voice. I can tell he’s running calculations in his head, trying to figure out how long we can hold them off and how many bullets per mercenary we’ll need.

I can save him the trouble. The answer is that we don’t have nearly fucking enough.

I peek over the edge again, counting at least eight men still advancing on our position. They’re getting bolder, pressing closer now that our return fire has slowed. They know we’re running out of ammo.

“Fuck,” I mutter, squeezing off another precious round to force back a merc who was setting up with a better angle on Atlas. Two bullets left. “We need to figure something out fast.”

But as I look at my men—at Killian bleeding but unbroken, at Atlas favoring his left side, at Nico’s grim expression—I know we’re running out of options.

The sound of boots on metal draws my attention. They’re coming up the fire escape now, and getting ready to rush us.

My finger tightens on the trigger. If we’re going down, we’re taking as many of these fuckers with us as we can.

But Christ, I hope Malcolm comes through. Because if he doesn’t, this roof might be where it all ends.

“On your left!” Killian shouts. I dive to the side as bullets tear through the space where I was just standing.

More footsteps thunder up the fire escape. At least three sets of boots, maybe more. We’re about to be overrun, and my last desperate bet with the Syndicate might have been for nothing.

“If they come through that door,” Atlas says grimly, “we go down swinging.”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. My men look at me with absolute trust, even now.

The door to the roof starts to open, metal screeching against metal. I raise my empty gun anyway, refusing to show fear. If this is it, I’ll face it standing.

The door bursts open, and I brace myself for the end. But before Ambrose’s men can pour through, a shot rings out from the street below. It’s different from the others—a different caliber bullet from a different gun.

One of the mercenaries on the ground jerks backward, sending blood spraying in an arc. He goes down hard, and doesn’t get back up.

“What the fuck?” Atlas mutters, peering over the edge.

Another shot cracks through the night. Another merc falls. The ones still standing whirl around, suddenly caught between us above and whatever the hell is happening below.

My heart leaps into my throat as I spot movement in the shadows. Dark figures emerging from alleys and doorways, weapons raised. Professional killers, moving with lethal purpose.

“Looks like the cavalry finally fucking showed up,” Killian says, a savage grin splitting his bloody face.

Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. The Dark Lotus Syndicate might be a nest of vipers, but at least they honor their debts. For now.

The mercenaries at the roof access door hesitate, caught off guard by the chaos erupting below. That’s a fatal mistake. Nico takes advantage of their distraction, charging forward and slamming the door shut. The sound of their bodies tumbling down the metal stairs is sweeter than any music.

“Looks like a hell of a party you invited us to,” a gravelly voice calls up from the street. One of Imogen’s guys, I think. “I hope you don’t mind if we crash it.”

More gunfire erupts below, but this time it’s not all aimed at us. Ambrose’s men scramble for cover, suddenly finding themselves outflanked and outnumbered.

I share a look with my men, seeing my own incredulous joy reflected in their eyes. We’re not dead yet. And now these fuckers are about to learn what happens when you corner a bunch of rabid dogs.

“Let’s make this count,” I say, collecting a fallen merc’s weapon and checking the clip. Full. Perfect. “Time to remind these assholes why they should’ve stayed the fuck away from what’s mine.”

More figures materialize from the darkness below. They aren’t the Dark Lotus Syndicate members themselves—of course those fancy fucks wouldn’t get their own hands dirty. But their hired muscle is just as lethal, maybe more so.

I recognize some of Imogen’s crew by their distinctive tactical gear. A group of Malcolm’s stone-faced enforcers takes up position across the street. Even that bastard Elliot sent some of his people.

“Quite the collection of killers you’ve called up,” Atlas says, watching as the professionals below systematically begin to dismantle Ambrose’s forces.

“Fucking beautiful, isn’t it?” Killian’s bloody grin grows wider as another of Ambrose’s men goes down screaming.

These aren’t just thugs with guns. These are trained killers who get paid top dollar to do this shit. The difference shows in every precise shot and every coordinated movement. Ambrose’s mercenaries and ex-cons might be tough, but they’re outclassed and they know it.

One of Malcolm’s guys catches my eye and gives me a sharp nod. “Orders?” he calls up.

“Take them apart,” I shout back. “But leave Ambrose breathing. That fucker is mine.”

He acknowledges with a curt gesture, then signals to his team. They move like a well-oiled machine, pressing Ambrose’s men back with ruthless efficiency.

“Shit,” Nico mutters appreciatively as we watch Imogen’s crew execute a textbook flanking maneuver. “It was almost worth you joining that snake pit just for backup like this.”

Another wave of reinforcements arrives—Cassandra’s personal security team, I think. They’re geared differently than the others, but just as deadly. The night fills with gunfire and screams as they join the assault.

I feel the balance of power shifting beneath us. For the first time since this shit started, we might actually have a chance to end this. To end Ambrose.

“Ready to join the party?” I ask my men, checking the weapon I scavenged.

Three savage grins answer me. Time to remind everyone why you don’t fuck with the Princes of Carnage… or their princess.

The pressure eases off us as Ambrose’s men scramble to deal with the new threat. Instead of pushing up toward our position, they’re forced to pull back, trying to avoid getting boxed in by the professionals below.

“They’re splitting up,” Atlas calls out, tracking movement through his gun sight. “Ambrose’s men are getting sloppy.”

He’s right. The mercs are losing their cohesion, with some taking cover behind parked cars while others try to retreat down side streets. Too bad Imogen’s crew is waiting in those shadows, and they’re not taking prisoners.

I watch one guy make a break for it, sprinting toward what he thinks is safety. One of Malcolm’s shooters drops him with a single shot.

“I think I’m starting to see why the Dark Lotus Syndicate has so much power,” Nico mutters, the appreciation clear in his voice as we watch the slaughter below.

Killian laughs. “No shit. It almost makes me wish we’d joined up with them sooner.”

The battlefield has transformed. Instead of being pinned down by superior numbers, the tide has turned and we’re crushing Ambrose’s forces with the help of some Dark Lotus muscle. His men are trapped between our elevated position and the ruthlessly efficient killers on the ground.

“Two of them are trying to circle around back.” I spot the movement and signal to Cassandra’s team. They acknowledge and move to intercept, cutting off the escape route.

Desperate screams ring out as Ambrose’s men realize just how fucked they are.

“Those bastards are getting what they fucking deserve,” Atlas says with grim satisfaction as another merc falls.

I nod, but my eyes are scanning the chaos below, searching for one particular target. Ambrose is down there somewhere, watching his forces get torn apart. And soon, very fucking soon, he’s going to learn exactly what it means to cross me and mine.

“Let’s make sure none of these fuckers slip through,” I say, sighting down my weapon. “Then we’ll take out Ambrose.”

“There’s our opening,” Nico says, nodding toward the east side of the building where the Syndicate’s muscle has cleared a path. “We need to move now before they regroup.”

I glance at Killian, who has gone even paler, with fresh blood still trickling from his head wound. He catches my look and straightens up. “I’m fine.”

He’s not, but there’s no point arguing with the stubborn bastard. “Atlas, help him. Nico and I will cover you.”

We make our way toward the fire escape, staying low. My heart pounds as we emerge from our cover, but the pressure from below has shifted. Most of Ambrose’s men are too busy trying to stay alive to worry about us anymore.

“Fucking stupid-ass stairs,” Killian mutters as we start down. He’s limping badly now, with each step clearly taking a lot out of him. But he keeps moving. Atlas stays close, ready to catch him if he stumbles.

A burst of gunfire sends us pressing against the metal railings. One of Ambrose’s men spots us, but Imogen’s crew takes him out before he can get another shot off.