Page 219 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

“Keep moving,” I say, clenching my teeth and watching our backs as we descend. The metal steps rattle with each step, making too much goddamn noise for my liking.

We’re three floors down when Killian’s leg gives out. Atlas catches him before he can fall, but not before Killian lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

“We’re almost there,” I tell him, although we’ve still got two more floors to go. He grimaces, letting Atlas take more of his weight.

The ground-level door bursts open below us, and I snap my weapon up, but it’s just Malcolm’s guys coming to secure our exit. They move with practiced efficiency, checking angles and establishing a perimeter.

“The area is clear,” one of them calls up. “But not for long.”

We pick up the pace, practically dragging Killian down the last flight. His breathing is ragged, but he doesn’t complain.

Finally, our boots hit pavement. The sounds of battle are still echoing through the streets, but we’re mobile now.

Movement catches my eye. It’s a too-familiar silhouette trying to slip away through the chaos.

Ambrose.

That fucking coward is running now that things aren’t going his way.

“There!” I point him out to my men. “He’s heading east!”

“Go,” Killian grunts, still leaning heavily on Atlas. “Don’t let that bastard get away.”

I hesitate for a split second, not wanting to leave him when he’s hurt. But he’s right—we can’t let Ambrose escape now. Not after everything he’s done.

“Imogen’s crew, with me!” I shout, already moving. Two of her people immediately fall in behind me, weapons ready. “Malcolm’s team, cut off the east exit! Don’t let this fucker slip through!”

Nico appears at my side as we run, matching my pace. His expression is pure predator, and I know he’s thinking about what Ambrose did to Atlas and me.

We round a corner just in time to see Ambrose duck into an alley. The bastard knows these streets, but so do we. And now he’s got nowhere to hide.

“Spread out!” I order the Syndicate muscle. “Box him in! He’s probably armed, so watch your fucking backs!”

The professionals move smoothly into position, cutting off escape routes with practiced precision. This is what they’re paid for, and they’re earning every penny tonight.

My blood pounds in my ears as we close in. After everything this fucker has taken from me—my home, my gang, my peace of mind—it’s finally time to end this and put him in the ground where he belongs.

“Quinn.” Nico’s voice is tight with tension. “On your three o’clock.”

I spot movement in the shadows. Ambrose is trying to double back. That’s not fucking happening though. Not this time.

“All units over here!” I shout into the night. “Target spotted! Don’t let him get past you!”

More of the Syndicate’s people appear with their weapons trained on the alley. Ambrose is running out of options, and he knows it. I can almost smell his desperation.

“No more running,” I mutter, moving forward slowly and carefully. Lethally. “It’s time to face what’s coming to you, you son of a bitch.”

The sound of running footsteps echoes off brick walls as we search the maze of alleys. Ambrose is in here somewhere, the rat trying to find a hole to slip into. But there’s nowhere left to hide.

“Movement,” Nico whispers, gesturing toward a shadowy doorway. I signal the Syndicate muscle to hold position while we check it out.

It’s nothing. Just garbage and broken glass. But he was here. I can see fresh blood drops on the concrete. It looks like one of us managed to clip the bastard at some point during the gunfight.

“Spread out,” I order the professionals flanking us. “Check every shadow, every doorway. I want this fucker found.”

They move with silent efficiency, sweeping the area in a coordinated pattern.

Another glimpse of movement catches my eye—just a flash, there and gone. But it’s enough. “There!” I point toward the end of the alley where it opens onto the next street.

We surge forward, our boots pounding on wet pavement. Then I spot him. It’s Ambrose’s actual shape this time, not just a shadow. He’s running hard, but he’s definitely hurt and bleeding.

“Don’t let him—” The crack of a gunshot cuts me off mid-sentence. Sharp. Close.

“Which direction?” Nico demands, gun up and scanning.

Another shot rings out, the sound bouncing off the walls around us. Then nothing but heavy silence.

“This way,” I say, already moving toward where the shots came from. My heart pounds against my ribs in equal parts anticipation and rage. If someone else took my shot at Ambrose, there will be hell to pay.

There’s more blood on the ground, a lot more this time. We’re getting close.

“Quinn.” Nico points ahead where the alley opens up into some kind of loading area.

We round the corner and there he is, sprawled on his back in a growing pool of blood. One of Elliot’s guys stands over him with his weapon still trained on the bastard’s chest.

“I couldn’t let him get away,” the guy says with a shrug. “Elliot’s orders.”

I should be pissed that someone else shot him, but right now I don’t give a fuck. Ambrose is still alive, if only for a few more minutes.

I step forward, splashing through puddles of his blood. The sight of him finally brought down is just as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be.

His chest rises and falls in wet, ragged gasps as his eyes focus on me.

I plant my boot directly on his bullet wound and grind down hard until his scream echoes off the brick walls around us.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Does that hurt?” I increase the pressure, watching him writhe. “That’s nothing compared to what you deserve.”

He tries to reach for me, but he’s too weak. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth as he struggles to speak.

“I should’ve killed you that first night,” I tell him, leaning more weight onto my foot. “Or maybe you should’ve known better than to keep coming after what’s mine.”

Something flickers in his eyes. It isn’t fear or pain, but something else. Something that sends a shiver down my spine as his bloody lips curve into a smile.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I lean down, wanting to hear his last words. Wanting to know what could make a dying man smile like that.

His voice is barely a whisper, and wet with blood. “You think… this is over?” He coughs, spraying red. “I’ll be… seeing you soon.”

Then his eyes go glassy, fixed on nothing. Just like that, the Saint is gone.