Page 59 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

I don’t have time to question Cain, and frankly, I’m not interested. I have a niggling suspicion that him reinstating the claiming ritual was meticulously planned to benefit him. Many times, he’s hinted to an important woman in his past.

I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor girl. When he catches her, her life will be a living hellscape.

I exit on the third floor with my three guys. All of us are carrying at least three guns, with several extra magazines of ammo strapped on belts or pockets. Cain had an arsenal in the trunk of his car, so we suited up appropriately.

Our first target is Sanchez. He’s approaching his fifties, and recently, he’s started to let himself go.

Nearly died on the last op he had a few months ago and failed the hit.

I had to go in and clean up the mess for him, and he didn’t give me anything but complaints, so there’s no love lost between us.

The keypad lock on his door makes beeping noises that are a dead giveaway as I type in the code. If he wasn’t aware something was off before, he’s aware of it now. I signal for Tobias and Bryan to stay in the hallway and watch, and then, I burst into Sanchez’s quarters.

The fat fuck is laid up on the couch, watching the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, of all things. The volume’s up loud, so it’s no wonder he didn’t hear the door opening.

“What the f—” he doesn’t get to finish the word before I put a bullet in his head. Blood, brains, and fluid splatter the cushions of the dusty old couch. The bowl of popcorn Sanchez was nursing spills on the floor.

A door opens somewhere in the hallway just as I’m stepping out of his room.

Lucky for me, it’s the door to Robins’ apartment.

I don’t get a moment’s notice before a bullet whizzes right past my ear—Robins knows we’re coming for him, and he’s not asking questions first. He’s using his door as a shield, pointing the barrel of a 9mm out from behind it.

The unfortunate part of hiding behind a slab of metal is Robins can’t risk taking a peek at us, or he knows we’ll shoot.

I jerk my chin at Bryan, who’s closest to Robins’ door. Quietly, he treads forward.

The next time Robins shoots, Bryan punches the gun out of his hand, grabs Robins’ forearm, and jerks him out from behind the door. He puts a bullet in Robins’ head; Robins topples to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Maybe Bryan does have the right to be cocky.

“Two down, two to go,” I say, reluctantly impressed. “Let’s get to it, boys.”

White is as easy a target as Sanchez—the hit is quick, in and out of his apartment in less than thirty seconds.

The real challenge presents itself with Smith. He’s one of the best killers the Nighthawks have had in decades, and while he’s in his fifties, he’s a sly old bastard who’s still as successful a contract killer as he was during his golden years.

The problem with him is not only that he’s the worthiest opponent, but also that he’s prepared for us.

As soon as I force open his door, an oval object hits me smack in the chest. I only register it clattering to the floor and manage to grab a brief glimpse of it before realizing what it is; a grenade .

Instead of panicking, my instincts take over.

I kick the grenade back into the apartment and shut the steel door, leaning against it.

Three seconds later, a loud boom sounds, and the fire alarms start going off.

Too impatient to type in the code to the door again, I shoot it open and burst inside, holding my gun in front of me, poised to shoot .

Smith is nowhere in sight. The only thing that greets me is a cough-inducing cloud of smoke and a simmering scorch mark on the floor.

Smith’s quarters have a similar setup to mine.

Open-floor living room and connected kitchen, office door, bedroom door.

The bedroom’s door is wide open, so I doubt he’s in there, but I motion for Elijah to check it anyway while approaching the office door.

I gaze at the keypad for a beat before raising my gun and taking my shot.

As soon as I open the door, Smith launches himself at me full-force.

He was waiting right on the other side of the door.

The impact of his large, muscled body slamming into mine takes us both to the floor.

My gun falls out of my hand and Smith grabs it.

He cocks it and presses the barrel to my head.

My breathing hitches as fear bathes my chest. This is a fuckall situation, and I’m at a massive disadvantage. Smith could choose to shoot any moment, and then, I’d be gone from this world. In the corner of my eye, I see Bryan point a gun at Smith.

“Shoot and he dies,” Smith says flatly. The words are addressed to Bryan, but Smith doesn't remove his stare from me. My heart beat, already speedy from adrenaline, picks up pace until I can hear the sound of my thudding heart in my ears. Dread overcomes me.

I could reach for one of my other weapons, but the moment I do, Smith will shoot. I’m staring death straight in the face, and for once, it scares me. I haven’t been frightened at the possibility of dying in years, but things are different now.

Everything’s changed, because now, I have something to live for. To look forward to . Scarlett, my little Flower, and the only woman who’s ever inspired this deep, aching affection and obsession within me. A feeling so strong, so poignant I can only categorize it as the fiercest sort of love .

“You fucking traitor,” Smith mutters. “I knew you and that psychopath, Cain, were planning something. I could smell it in the air, see it in every move you made. I tried to warn Boyce. Did my best, but he didn’t listen—”

“Spare me the villain monologue,” I interrupt. “It won’t do favors for either of us. What do you want?”

“To kill you,” Smith seethes. “To kill you slowly, painfully. But I can see I won’t get that, so instead, you’re going to get me out of here, you fucking cunt .

You’ll let me leave. And you’ll live with the knowledge that one day, I’ll come for you.

” A slow, sinister smile spreads on his lips.

“I’ll come for you and that pretty little toy of yours. That hot piece of redheaded ass—”

I move without thinking, not caring that I’m risking my life in the process.

I jab my elbow into Smith’s wrist, souring his aim.

He shoots instinctively, but the gun misfires, burying into the hardwood floor.

Him threatening my life is one thing; threatening Scarlett is the surefire way to bring out the feral beast living deep inside me. The monster that Scarlett calls me.

I don’t give Smith a moment to recover before driving a sharp, hard fist into his throat.

He falls right off me as if pulled by an invisible string, hands flying to his throat.

His eyes widen and bulge as he tries to suck in a gasp of air.

Fails. Tries again as his entire body starts to shake.

He claws at his neck with fingernails, desperate for air and unable to get any.

His eyes fix on me. Already, his face is growing red, and vessels are bursting around his irises. He’ll never take another breath, because I just crushed his windpipe. It’s a simple yet remarkably effective kill technique in guerilla warfare.

“Say whatever the fuck you want about me,” I pant, standing. I spit on Smith, watching the gob of saliva land on his face. He flinches, tries to retch, and fails. “But a single word against my woman is a death sentence you’ll never escape.”

“Want a bullet in his head, boss?” Elijah asks. My eyebrows raise slightly at the honorific, but I suppose it’s true. The Nighthawks have never worked in units before, not really, though implementing units is a pretty solid idea

“No,” I reply. “I want him to die desperate for oxygen, writhing on the floor like a fish out of water. He doesn’t get the honor of a quick death.”