Bonds of Obsession (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #3)

14. Quinn

14

QUINN

Ambrose’s eyes go wide, his lips parting in shock. The sight would be almost comical if there wasn’t so much at stake. My shoulder throbs where they burned off my marker, but the pain only fuels my focus. I can see the exact moment his brain catches up with my words—keeping my membership—and his hand moves toward his gun.

But I’m already speaking again, the words tumbling out before he can recover or make a move. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear myself over the rush of blood in my ears. This is the moment everything hinges on. If I hesitate, if I stutter, if I show even a hint of weakness, it’s all over.

“I hereby invoke my first votum.”

The words ring out across the cemetery, clear and strong despite the nerves building up inside me. Around us, the Syndicate members go absolutely still. Malcolm’s eyes gleam with something that might be respect or might be fury, and it’s impossible to tell how this is going to go.

I force myself to look only at Atlas as I continue speaking. If I let myself focus on anything else—the guns still trained on him, the way Ambrose’s face is twisting with rage, or the dozen other ways this could go wrong—I might lose my nerve.

But Atlas’s gaze locks with mine, and I see the moment he realizes what I’m doing. A flash of fear crosses his face, not for himself but for me.

Always for me.

I just paid in literal blood and pain for this membership. For this moment. For this one chance to turn everything around. My father’s voice echoes in my head—his lessons about power, about sacrifice, about never showing weakness.

About using every hint of an advantage, no matter the cost.

Well, I’m about to use every single advantage I’ve got. The words are already forming on my tongue, and I know there’s no going back after this. But then, Ambrose made that decision the moment he took Atlas. I only reaffirmed it when I decided he was worth any price to get back.

The Syndicate members tense slightly, waiting. I understand as well as they do that a votum is sacred. Inviolable. The entire foundation of their brotherhood rests on this one absolute rule—when a member calls for aid through a votum, everyone must help.

No exceptions.

“I call upon every member of the Dark Lotus Syndicate to free Atlas from his captors.” I do my best to get the words out quickly and forcefully. “Right now. Get him away from Ambrose and his men.”

The words hang in the air for a heartbeat. Two. Three. Then the cemetery explodes into motion as the Syndicate members signal their guards. I catch Malcolm’s slight nod—the tiniest dip of his chin that sets everything in motion.

Whatever he might think of me personally, he has to honor the votum.

They all do.

Watching the Dark Lotus Syndicate’s security teams move is like watching a perfectly choreographed dance of death. They emerge from the shadows between monuments, weapons already drawn, surrounding Ambrose’s men with practiced precision. The guards holding Atlas hesitate, their grips on their weapons tightening as they look to Ambrose for direction.

But I know we’ve already won this part.

The Syndicate’s influence stretches too far and holds too much power. Even Ambrose’s men won’t risk defying them, not when every member present is bound by the votum to see this through.

My gamble—burning my first and most powerful request within seconds of joining their ranks—might cost me later, but right now, it’s exactly what we need.

The rage that twists Ambrose’s features makes him look more a demon than The Saint he called himself. His carefully crafted mask of control shatters as he realizes exactly how thoroughly I’ve fucked up his plans. A stream of curses tears from his throat as he dives behind a marble angel, bullets already flying as the Syndicate’s guards move in.

Even the members who are clearly pissed at me, who look at me with barely concealed contempt for exercising my prerogative so quickly, fall in line. They have to. It’s the foundation their entire organization is built on—when a member calls for aid through a votum, everyone responds. No exceptions, no hesitation, no room for personal feelings.

Malcolm’s security team takes point, their movements precise and lethal as they push Ambrose’s men back from Atlas. The rest of the Syndicate’s guards flow around them like water, cutting off escape routes and forcing Ambrose’s mercenaries to cluster together. The sound of gunfire echoes off marble monuments and towering trees, turning the sacred ground into a war zone.

The Dark Lotus guards execute a perfect pincer movement, forcing Ambrose’s men away from Atlas while another team cuts in to extract him. The precision of it is a hell of thing to see. These aren’t just hired muscle; they’re elite operators who obviously train together and know exactly how to coordinate an assault like this.

The kinds of guards third-world dictators would literally kill to have on their payrolls.

With nowhere else to go, Ambrose’s men start to regroup. It’s an actual gunfight now, and the confined space makes the sounds of killing and dying that much louder. The few guards remaining with Atlas try to use him as a shield, but they’re outmaneuvered and outgunned. The Syndicate’s security teams pick them off with surgical precision, always careful of their shot angles to avoid hitting Atlas.

I want to run to him, to help, but moving now would just make me a target and complicate the extraction. Instead, I track the firefight, marking positions and counting shots, waiting for my moment. Nico and Killian do the same on either side of me, keeping their weapons ready in case we need to bolster the Syndicate’s ranks.

The mercenary holding Atlas makes a desperate move, trying to drag him behind a massive stone mausoleum. But he’s exposed for a split second too long. Three shots ring out in perfect synchronization—the Syndicate’s guards working as one—and Atlas’s last captor crumples. Atlas himself drops and rolls, his own survival instincts no doubt kicking in as he gets himself clear of the killing zone.

Ambrose’s remaining men are firing from whatever cover they can find, but they’re caught in a crossfire, with the Syndicate’s guards steadily advancing from multiple angles. The outcome is inevitable—and I’m pretty sure everyone in this cemetery can see the writing on the wall.

“Time to get his ass,” I say loud enough for Nico and Killian to hear. “Ambrose and the rest of his men die here and now.”

The moment Atlas is clear of Ambrose’s men, I signal to Nico and Killian. We break from our position, weapons drawn. There’s no hesitation—just the three of us ready to do whatever we have to in order to win this fucking fight.

“Nine o’clock!” Killian’s voice cuts through the chaos as he spots movement behind a granite headstone. His shot rings out before the word is fully formed, and one of Ambrose’s men drops with a wet gurgle.

I keep moving, using the tombstones for cover, trying to get a better angle on where Ambrose disappeared behind that angel statue. My hands are steady on my gun despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Another mercenary breaks cover, trying to flank the Syndicate’s security team. I put two rounds in his chest before he can get off a shot.

“Got eyes on The Saint?” Nico calls out.

“Lost him after—” My words cut off as the gunfire starts up again from my right. I dive behind a stone cross, feeling chips of marble spray across my back as bullets strike too close for comfort. But the move gives me a clear line of sight to where two more of Ambrose’s men are trying to push through the Syndicate’s perimeter.

“Quinn!” Nico shouts. “They’re trying to box us in. Three more coming up from the south entrance.”

“I see them.” Killian’s already moving to intercept, his massive frame somehow graceful as he executes a perfect flanking maneuver. “Got the two on the left. Quinn, take center. Nico?—”

“Right side’s mine,” Nico confirms, already shifting position.

A burst of automatic fire forces me to duck lower behind the cross. One of Ambrose’s men has an MP5, spraying bullets with more enthusiasm than aim. Amateur. I count the shots, waiting for the pause I know is coming. When it comes, I pop up and put a round through his throat before he can reload.

“Movement at your four!” One of the Syndicate guards calls out. “We need to get a?—”

The rest of his warning is lost as Killian opens up with controlled bursts from his position, forcing two more mercenaries back into cover. I use the distraction to advance, keeping low, getting a better angle on their position. Nico mirrors my movement on the opposite side, and just like that, we’ve got them in a crossfire.

Four shots later, they’re down.

But something’s wrong. The tactical part of my brain is screaming that we’re missing something, that Ambrose wouldn’t just lay low while his men are getting picked off one by one all around him.

“He’s making a break for it!” One of the Syndicate guards shouts from the eastern edge of the cemetery. “Heading for the service road!”

“Two vehicles!” Another voice cuts in. “Two black SUVs.”

More gunfire drowns out the rest of his words. I sprint toward the sound, heart pounding, but I already know we’re too late. Ambrose planned this—had an escape route ready. While his men died buying him time, he slipped away like the snake he is.

“Fuck!” I slam my palm against cold marble, frustration burning through me. “Anyone got eyes on him?”

“Negative,” one of the Syndicate’s operators reports. “Both vehicles cleared the perimeter. We’ve got three teams in pursuit, but?—”

“But he knows these streets,” Nico finishes, coming up beside me. “And he’ll have backup routes planned.”

The answering silence tells me everything I need to know. Everything has gone quiet except for the scrape of boots on gravel and the labored breathing of the wounded. My eyes immediately find Atlas, and my heart clenches at the sight of him. He’s upright only because Nico and Killian are supporting him, one on each side. Even in the dim moonlight, I can see the damage Ambrose inflicted—the bruises, the cuts, the way he’s favoring his left side.

I cross the distance between us in quick strides, my hand reaching for his face before I can stop myself. His skin is clammy under my fingers, but his eyes—those intense, kind eyes I’ve dreamed about every night since they took him—lock on to mine with the same intensity they’ve always held.

“Took you long enough,” he manages, his voice rough but his lips curving into that familiar half-smile that makes my chest ache.

“Traffic was hell.” The words come automatically, our banter a lifeline in this chaos. “Plus, someone decided to play hero at the tattoo parlor.”

“Couldn’t let them get to you.” He winces as he shifts his weight. “They knew about the marker. Emmett?—”

“I know.” I cut him off, not wanting him to waste energy explaining what I’ve already figured out. “That particular loose end is being handled.”

“You shouldn’t have used the marker.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “We had other options.”

“This—the Syndicate—was the only play we had, and you know it.” My fingers skim over a particularly nasty cut along his jawline. “We need to get you looked at. Some of these cuts look like they might be infected.”

“I’m fine.” He tries to straighten up, to take his weight off Nico and Killian, but his legs buckle. Only their quick reactions keep him from hitting the ground.

“Sure you are.” Killian’s tone is light, but his green eyes are hard as he scans the area. “Just like that time in Memphis when you said you were fine with three broken ribs and a punctured lung.”

“That was different,” Atlas protests weakly.

“Yeah,” Nico agrees. “This time you look worse.”

“We need to move soon,” I say, noting how Atlas’s breathing is becoming more labored.

“Yeah, we do,” Killian agrees. “I can patch him up as soon as we get home.”

I do a quick sweep of the bodies scattered across consecrated ground, my stomach dropping as I confirm what I already suspected. Every corpse wears the generic tactical gear of a hired gun. None of them are Ambrose.

“He got away.” It’s almost impossible to keep the accusatory tone from my voice. I turn to face the assembled members of the Dark Lotus Syndicate. “You let him slip right through your fingers.”

“Watch your tone,” the man with the slightly crooked nose bites out.

The woman with platinum blonde hair steps forward, her light green eyes narrowed. She was the last one to brand me before Malcolm did, and when she speaks, her voice could freeze hell itself. “When you decided to use your first votum three seconds after joining our ranks, you specifically requested that we ‘free Atlas from his captors.’ Those were your exact words.” Her head tilts slightly. “You never specified that you wanted Ambrose dead.”

“You knew exactly what I wanted,” I snap back. “You had him cornered.”

“Did we?” The man with the long hair and beard speaks up. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been so hasty with your votum, if you’d taken a moment to think strategically rather than emotionally, you’d have gotten everything you wanted.”

“Enough, Owen.” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the tension. “The votum was called and answered. Whatever else happened here tonight is… unfortunate, but not a violation of our agreement.”

The other Syndicate members remain motionless, but I can feel their judgment radiating through their silence. They fulfilled the letter of my request—nothing more, nothing less.

“We did exactly what you asked,” the blonde woman continues, echoing my own thoughts. “Maybe next time you’ll be more specific in your requests. Assuming, of course, you survive long enough to make another one.”

Every single one of them clearly disapproves of the way I’ve handled myself tonight. None of them bothered to hide their contempt when I revealed my true intentions for the marker, and now that contempt has crystallized into something harder and more dangerous.

Something that, as the blonde woman hinted, could get me killed if I’m not careful.

But I didn’t survive this long—especially as the leader of Enigma—by backing down when people tried to intimidate me.

“Is that a threat?” I keep my voice casual, almost sweet. “Because I’d hate for there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

“Think of it as an observation,” she replies smoothly. “That man, Ambrose, can’t be happy about the fact that you betrayed him. You’ve made things personal for him.”

“Everything’s personal in this business.” I meet her gaze, then let my eyes sweep across all six of the Syndicate members. I keep my chin high, my spine straight, channeling every lesson my father ever taught me about projecting power even when you’re outnumbered.

“You’re right,” I add, letting a hint of steel enter my voice. “I should have been more specific. That’s on me. But let’s be clear about something—when and how I use my votum is my business. The marker was mine to call in however I saw fit.”

“You lied about your intentions,” the man named Owen says. “Claimed you wanted membership for someone else.”

“I changed my mind.” I take a deliberate step forward, feeling Atlas, Nico, and Killian at my back. “As far as I’m aware, I haven’t broken a single rule of the Dark Lotus Syndicate. So unless someone wants to officially accuse me of violating our agreement…” I let the challenge hang in the air. “I suggest we all remember that I’m a full member now, whether any of us likes it or not.”

“Very well.” Malcolm’s voice holds a hint of amusement. “Welcome to the family, Miss Kent. I look forward to seeing how you adapt to our ways.”