Page 49 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

ZVER

I check my phone.

A thin blue dot blinks back at me from the screen.

Riley .

The signal leads straight to a rundown clinic on the edge of town. The same one she’d been to before.

Why here?

Was she brought back?

Or did she escape and crawl her way here?

I kill the engine and slide out, parking close enough to the front for a sprint but far enough not to draw eyes.

Silent steps carry me along the wall until I reach the front window. I press in tight, and peer inside.

Two guards.

Each one built bigger than my fucking car.

They’re both posted at the door down the hall like concrete statues.

And between them, Elena.

I don’t waste a second wondering what the hell she’s got smeared all over her face. Though it looks a lot like she drank Kool-Aid straight from the goddamn pitcher.

I studied the three again, realizing Riley has to be in the door behind them.

I’ve got one shot. And I’m running out of time.

Adrenaline tears through me, wildfire licking every vein. Glock locked in my grip, I move. Fast.

The door slams open under my shoulder.

One squeeze—my round punches through the guard’s shoulder, a spray of crimson across the wall.

He staggers back, roaring, his massive frame folding as his arm hangs useless at his side.

Two more rounds explode from the barrel, ripping into the second guard’s knees. Bone shatters as he crashes down, bellowing like a slaughtered bull.

Elena throws her hands up, eyes wide, voice pitched high. “Thank God, you’re here! You have to help me. They tortured me?—”

Cold and steady, I level the barrel between her eyes.

“I’ll deal with you later. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Her face drains, lips trembling, but she steps aside.

I move past her and grab the handle. Locked.

One hard kick and the door flies open.

“Pom?”

That’s when it hits—white-hot agony detonating at the base of my skull.

My knees buckle. The floor lunges up in a blur of black and gray, swallowing my balance.

I roll halfway, dazed, vision splitting—swimming.

The doctor looms over me.

One hand wrapped in filthy bandages. Powder crusting his nose like a junkie’s badge of honor.

And in the other, some sort of small tank, clutched like a sledgehammer, slick with blood.

His?

Or maybe mine, judging by the sticky warmth sliding down the back of my neck.

“Nighty night, asshole.”

The plastic mask slams over my face, trapping the reek of chemicals. Sweet. Sickening. Suffocating.

Anesthesia .

I thrash once—twice—but the fight drains out of me fast, stripped with every forced breath.

Darkness closes in.

And that’s it. Lights out.