Chapter Fifty-Two
Adriana
I bob along on Diesel’s back like a petulant child, my eyes glued to Reaper’s body as he sits slung over Conrad’s shoulders, my heart flailing and screaming with every bounce — will he live? Will he live? Will he live?
What will I do if he doesn’t?
It’s hard to see him through the tears.
Harder still to see a future without him.
I just want a little more time with him, even if it’s just to talk and get some real closure and hear the truth about everything that happened with my sister. I don’t think I’d be happy if he died after that, but I might feel some peace.
After everything that’s happened, peace might just be the thing I need.
It feels like a moment and a lifetime on Diesel’s back before Tank’s gruff, pained voice snaps me out of a stupor and I realize we’re in a dark alley not far from Ruslan Volkov’s storage warehouse of terror and torture.
“Set her down here,” he says. Then he looks me dead in the eyes, and in his icy gaze I see the opportunity for a bright future or a lonely death.
Or perhaps something else — a lonely future.
But at least it’s alive, and the notion that I wouldn’t like whatever death Tank is offering takes hold of me.
“Listen, you don’t like what I’m doing, and that’s fine.
You saved my life, so you’ve earned that right.
But I’m going to need you to trust me right now. Can you do that?”
I don’t answer; I blink — which Tank takes for the assent it is.
Right now, I don’t trust my mouth to speak anything but sobs or invectives.
Reaper is nothing more than cargo at this point, a nearly empty blood bag slung over Mayhem’s shoulder.
For a second, my eyes lock with Conrad’s and pass that Marine the question that’s burning in my heart: how could you just go along with this?
I get no answer but the look of a man who is apparently all too comfortable following orders.
Tank raises his voice as the sirens grow louder. “Diesel, you’ll stay here with me and Reaper. Mayhem, Marine, you two know what to do. Execute your orders, and we might just make it out of this clusterfuck.”
Orders? I frown. How the fuck have I been so out of it I couldn’t pay attention when they were putting a plan together? I used to be capable. I used to be able to compartmentalize and keep my shit together even when I was deep undercover or on the most dangerous missions.
But that was all before the man sprawled lifeless — no, not lifeless, he can’t be lifeless — on the sidewalk woke my heart up.
Mayhem and Conrad nod. Mayhem does a brief salute, and then the two of them jog off toting their guns.
“What plan? What is going on? What are you going to do to help him?” I say to Tank.
“If you were paying attention, you would know. But since you weren’t, I sure as fuck don’t have the time to give you a fucking replay.
” The sirens grow closer, so loud that they’re screaming in my ears.
Tank gets closer, seizes my chin in his grip, and holds my eyes steady with his.
Looking into his eyes is like staring into a dark hole at the bottom of the ocean.
I want to look away, but I feel trapped, consumed, afraid.
“If you actually give a single shit about Ricky’s life, you’ll stay there, silent, and out of the fucking way.
If you don’t, or if you interfere, then I will find out how many bullets I can put in your head before your body hits the ground. ”
I swallow hard, my throat raw and constricted, the taste of copper and fear coating my tongue.
Tank's threat hangs in the air like a blade suspended over my neck, and I know — god, I know deep within my bones and my scared and anguished soul — he means every fucking word.
His grip on my chin loosens, but his eyes never leave mine; twin pools of arctic menace that make my blood run cold.
The sirens are deafening now. A symphony of chaos that seems to vibrate through my bones, through the cracked asphalt beneath us, through the very air itself, as if my entire world is screaming and shrieking.
The sound bounces off the brick walls of the alley, creating an echo chamber of approaching doom.
It's like the world is ending, like every emergency vehicle in Sacramento is converging on this one point in space and time, and we're trapped here in the mouth of hell with Reaper bleeding out on the concrete and all I want to do is scream and cry.
I press my back against the cold brick wall behind me, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I watch Diesel crouch beside Reaper's motionless form. The big man's fingers hover over Reaper's throat, checking for a pulse, and the seconds stretch into eternity before he gives Tank the slightest nod.
Still alive.
Barely.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird trying to break free; every beat feels like it might be synchronized with Reaper's last.
The sirens crescendo, and suddenly the mouth of the alley is flooded with flashing lights, red and blue strobing against the darkness like some twisted disco from hell.
I catch glimpses of vehicles racing past: police cruisers, FBI sedans with their distinctive government plates, ambulances with their urgent white bulk cutting through the night.
My breath catches. Ambulances. Medical help. Everything Reaper needs to survive is racing past us just fifty feet away, and here we are hiding in the shadows like rats.
I rise, my mouth opening to call out, to scream for help, to do anything that might save him.
The words are right there on my tongue when Tank's head snaps toward me.
The look he gives me isn't just a warning; it's a promise.
A promise of violence, of consequences that would make Ruslan Volkov's sick torture chamber look like an elementary school playground.
I sink back against the wall. The words die bitter in my mouth. The parade of emergency vehicles continues past, salvation for Reaper speeding by in a blaze of flashing lights.
A sob rips through my throat.
Just one, I fight down the rest and wrestle control over my quaking heart. If Reaper is going to die, I don’t want the last thing he might see or hear from me to be uncontrollable crying. I can cry after he’s dead.
The minutes crawl by like wounded animals, each second stretching into an eternity of watching Reaper's chest barely rise and fall.
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms as I count his breaths, terrified that each one might be his last. The emergency vehicles have mostly passed now, their sirens fading into the distance, leaving us in this tomb of shadows and despair.
Tank stands like a sentinel, his massive frame blocking part of the alley mouth, his eyes scanning the street beyond.
Diesel hasn't moved from Reaper's side, one hand still pressed against his throat, monitoring that thread-thin pulse that's the only thing keeping my world from completely shattering.
Then Tank's phone buzzes.
The sound cuts through the heavy silence like a gunshot. Tank pulls the device from his pocket, glances at the screen, and answers without saying hello.
I strain to hear the conversation over the distant wail of sirens and the thundering of my heartbeat, but the voice on the other end is just an indistinct murmur. Tank's responses are clipped, monosyllabic grunts that tell me nothing.
"Yeah."
"How long?"
"Copy that."
The call lasts maybe thirty seconds before Tank ends it and slides the phone back into his pocket. When he turns to face us, something in his expression has shifted. There's still that hard, dangerous edge, but underneath it I glimpse something that might be hope.
"It's done. They're ready," Tank says, his voice cutting through the darkness with military precision.
He jerks his head toward Diesel. "Pick him up. We move now."
Diesel doesn't hesitate. He slides his arms under Reaper's limp form with surprising gentleness, cradling him like he's made of spun glass.
A soft moan escapes Reaper's lips as he's lifted, and my heart lurches.
It's the first sound he's made since the warehouse, and I don't know if it's a good sign or a death rattle.
Tank's stony gaze finds mine. "You can come with us if you want, as long as you keep your fucking mouth shut and do exactly what I tell you.
Otherwise, you can fuck off and find your own way home.
" His voice drops to a deadly whisper again.
"But nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to stop me from doing everything I can for Reaper. Are we clear?"
I nod frantically, not trusting my voice. Wild horses couldn't drag me away from Reaper's side now.
"Good. Stay close, stay quiet, and try not to get us all killed."
Tank turns and melts into the deeper shadows of the alley. Diesel follows, moving with surprising stealth for such a big man carrying a body. I fall in behind them, my feet finding the patches of darkness between the scattered streetlight that filters down from the main road.
We move like ghosts through a maze of interconnected alleys, ducking under fire escapes and skirting around dumpsters that reek of rotting food and human desperation.
The further we go, the more the sounds of the chaos behind us fade into a distant rumble, like thunder from a storm that's moved on to terrorize someone else.
My legs feel like jelly, but I force myself to keep up. Every few seconds I catch glimpses of Reaper's pale face in Diesel's arms, and each time my heart clenches tighter. His head lolls against Diesel's chest, and in the shifting shadows I can't tell if he's breathing.
Tank moves with the silent efficiency of a predator, leading us through what seems like an endless labyrinth of narrow passages and forgotten corners of the city.
Left turn, right turn, straight for fifty yards, then another sharp left.
I lose track of where we are, my sense of direction completely shot.
All I know is we're moving away from the warehouse, away from the sirens, away from any chance of conventional help.
But Tank said, ‘They're ready.’ Ready for what? Ready who? The questions burn in my throat, but his earlier threat keeps my mouth sealed shut.
We emerge from a narrow passage between two crumbling brick buildings, and suddenly we're standing at the edge of a different street entirely.
The sounds of emergency vehicles are barely audible now, just a faint whisper of chaos from what feels like another world.
Streetlights cast pools of sickly yellow light across cracked asphalt, and the air smells different here — less like smoke and gunshot, more like urban decay and forgotten dreams.
Tank holds up a hand, signaling us to stop. He peers around the corner of the building, scanning the empty street with those predator eyes of his. After what feels like an eternity, he motions us forward.
"Almost there," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Almost where? I want to scream, but I bite my tongue and follow.
We cross the street quickly, Diesel moving with surprising grace despite Reaper's dead weight in his arms. My heart pounds as we're exposed under the streetlights, feeling like targets painted against the night.
But the street remains empty, abandoned, as if the rest of the city has simply evaporated.
Tank leads us toward what looks like another alley mouth when I see them — flashing lights cutting through the darkness, growing brighter as they approach from the far end of the street. Whatever plan Tank had for saving Reaper’s life and getting us out of here is now dead in the water.