Page 237 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

ATLAS

The muffled buzzing in my ear is driving me fucking crazy.

I shake my head as if that’ll somehow fix it, but all it does is remind me that this might be permanent.

That guard’s gun going off right next to my head did more damage than I want to admit, even to myself.

Killian keeps saying it might get better, but it’s been days, and the world still sounds like it’s underwater on one side.

The basement storage room is dark and musty, and it’s lit by a single bare bulb that casts more shadows than light.

Dusk is creeping up fast outside, which means we need to move soon.

I take a quick mental inventory of the weapons we’ve managed to collect—a couple of handguns, some extra clips, a few knives.

Not nearly enough firepower if the Syndicate catches up to us, but it’ll have to do for now.

As I move deeper into the room, I spot what I came down here to get.

There’s an old weapons cache in the corner that we stashed here back when this was still Carnage territory, back before everything went to shit.

Most of it is probably useless now—corroded from the damp or just too old to trust. But I dig through it anyway because we can’t afford to be picky.

The silence in my bad ear makes me feel vulnerable, and I fucking hate it.

Someone could sneak up on me and I wouldn’t know until it was way too late.

Knowing that I’m not fully up to speed has me tense and jumpy.

We’ll all need to punch above our weight if shit goes down on the way out of town, and it kills me to know that I might actually be slowing us down.

That’s not who I am. That’s not what I fucking do.

I find a box of shells that might still be good and shove them in my pocket. Every little bit helps when you’re running for your life. I stuff a few more clips into the duffel bag I brought down here with me, then do one last scan of the room to make sure I haven’t missed anything useful.

Nope. Time to get the fuck out of here. The sooner we load up and get out of Detroit, the better our chances of staying alive.

I start back up the stairs, then stop just as I reach the top step.

I don’t know what I just heard, but something filtered through the constant buzz in my bad ear.

I freeze, straining to hear past some muffled sounds that might just be in my head.

Fuck, I hate this. I used to trust my instincts, but now?

Now I second-guess every goddamn thing I think I hear on my left side.

After a few seconds of silence, I shake it off. Paranoia is going to be the death of me if I let it. I take another step forward and adjust my grip on the heavy bag.

The attack comes out of nowhere.

A shape in black launches itself at me from the shadows, and the bag hits the floor as I throw my arms up to block.

The impact drives me back against the wall, sending my head cracking against the plaster.

Pain explodes through my skull, but adrenaline is already flooding my system and drowning it out.

“Motherfucker!” I snarl as the guy tries to get his hands around my throat.

My fist connects with his ribs, but he’s wearing some kind of body armor. The hit that should’ve cracked bones barely makes him flinch. He’s good—trained and experienced. This isn’t some random asshole looking to rob the place. This is a professional, which means the Syndicate found us.

We grapple in the narrow hallway, trading blows in the confined space. He’s strong, but I’ve got rage and desperation on my side. Plus a lifetime of fighting dirty. I drive my knee up into his groin, and even with whatever protection he’s wearing, that shit has to hurt.

He stumbles back half a step, just enough space for me to slam my forehead into his face. The crunch of cartilage is satisfying, but I don’t have time to enjoy it. If one of Malcolm’s men found us, there are probably more coming.

And just as the thought pops into my head, more shapes in black tactical gear pour through the doorway like fucking cockroaches, with their weapons raised.

“They’re here!” I roar the warning as loud as I can, praying the others will hear me in time to save themselves. “The Syndicate! Get out now!”

The first guy takes advantage of my split-second distraction, driving his knee into my stomach. The hit knocks the wind out of me, but I manage to slam him into the wall with a satisfying thud.

But there’s already another one on me.

The second attacker catches me from behind and wraps his arm around my throat. I throw my weight forward, trying to flip him over my shoulder, but the first guy is there again. A fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head to the side.

“Fuck!” The curse tears from my throat as I fight to stay on my feet. Two against one in this narrow hallway is bad fucking odds, but I’ve had worse.

I hear gunfire from somewhere in the house, and I hope it’s a good sign. I hope it means my warning got through, and the others are fighting back. I just need to hold these fuckers off long enough for Quinn, Nico, and Killian to get clear.

The thought gives me a surge of energy, and I manage to break the chokehold. My elbow flies back, catching one of them in the face. But before I can press the advantage, something slams into my temple.

White-hot pain explodes through my skull as the butt of a rifle connects. The world tilts sideways, and my knees buckle. I try to catch myself, but my arms won’t cooperate. Everything goes fuzzy around the edges.

“Got you now, fucker,” one of them growls.

Hands grab my wrists, yanking them behind my back. The sharp bite of zip ties digs into my skin as they cinch them tight enough to cut off circulation.

Blood is trickling down the side of my face as I try to fight back, to twist away from their grip, but the hit to my head has fucked up my equilibrium. The room spins every time I move. All I can do is hope that my warning gave the others enough time to get the upper hand or get out completely.

They drag me into the living room, and my stomach drops straight through the floor. The scene in front of me is every nightmare I’ve ever had, come to life in vivid fucking detail.

Killian is on my right, zip tied like me but still fighting like a rabid animal against the three men holding him down. His face is bloody, and there’s murder in his eyes. One of Malcolm’s men shoves a gun against his temple.

“Move another fucking muscle, and I’ll paint the wall with your brains.”

Killian goes still, but his chest is heaving, and I can practically feel the rage radiating off him. The look in his eyes promises a slow, painful death to every intruder in this room.

Nico is already on his knees a few feet away, with his hands bound behind his back.

There’s a split in his lip and the beginning of what’s going to be one hell of a black eye, but he’s not fighting anymore.

Not yet, anyway. If I know him, he’s watching and waiting, looking for any opening he can use.

The men holding me force me down beside my brothers, and that’s when Malcolm steps out of the shadows like the fucking theatrical asshole he is. His calculating gaze moves over us one by one, like he’s deciding which one to gut first.

But none of that matters when I see Quinn.

She’s being held at gunpoint by one of Malcolm’s lackeys, and my heart fucking stops.

She’s favoring her left side—the healing stab wounds must’ve gotten banged up a bit in the fight.

But she’s standing tall with her chin raised and that familiar spark of defiance in her eyes, even with a gun pressed to her head.

Seeing her like this, captured and hurt and in danger… it’s worse than any torture Ambrose put me through. At least then, the pain was just physical. This? This is watching my whole world balance on a knife’s edge, knowing that one wrong move, one pulled trigger, and it will all come crashing down.

A cold smile spreads across Malcolm’s face as he looks at each of us in turn. “Well,” he says, straightening his perfectly pressed suit jacket. “Isn’t this a pleasant reunion? I would say it’s good to see each of you here, but I think we all know better.”

He turns his attention to Quinn and adjusts his cuffs like we’re at a business meeting instead of a fucking hostage situation, “You see, the last time we met, I made the mistake of underestimating how loyal your attack dogs could be.” His cold eyes flick over me and my brothers.

“I won’t make that mistake twice. Hence the restraints. ”

My wrists ache where the zip ties are cutting into them, but the pain just feeds my rage. Next to me, I can feel Killian vibrating with the same helpless fury. The guard behind him seems to dig the gun harder against his skull, like he knows exactly how close Killian is to snapping.

“The rest of the Syndicate is still searching,” Malcolm continues. “They’re busy tearing apart your old territories, checking every safehouse they know about.” His smile widens. “But I found you first.”

“Let me guess.” Nico speaks up from beside me. “You wanted to finish the job yourself? Wanted to get your hands dirty for once instead of letting others do your killing?”

Malcolm actually laughs at that, making my jaw clench involuntarily. “Oh, no. I didn’t come here to kill.” He straightens his tie, taking his time like he’s savoring the moment. “I came to offer a deal.”

A deal? From the man who ordered Quinn’s execution? Who had her chained to a wall and stabbed? My hands curl into fists behind my back, and I have to fight the urge to launch myself at him, zip ties or no zip ties.

“Go fuck yourself.” I spit in his direction, satisfaction flaring through me when a bit of bloody saliva lands on his polished shoes. “We’re not making any deals with a shit stain like you.”

Malcolm’s face hardens as he looks down at his shoe, his mask of civility cracking just enough to show the monster underneath. When he raises his eyes again, that shark-like coldness is back, but there’s something else there too. Something almost like amusement.

“You misunderstand me. I’m not offering the deal to you.”

The words take a second to sink in. Next to me, I feel both my brothers go still as the meaning hits them as well.

“The deal,” Malcolm continues with a slight nod in Quinn’s direction, “is for her.”