Chapter 16
Sixteen
Sienna
Homicide - Merkules
Riot doesn’t say a word as he carries me back through the pit, but every step is loaded like a goddamn bullet.
Not with rage this time.
With something heavier.
His arms are tight around me, jaw locked, eyes straight ahead like if he blinks, I might vanish. I can feel his heart hammering through his chest and the flex of every muscle in his body like he’s still ready to fight someone. Anyone. Everyone.
It's almost sweet, if it didn’t scare the shit out of me.
Back in the quarters, the door slams open and we’re inside. He doesn’t ease me down like I’m fragile. He sets me on the edge of the bed like he’s trying not to break.
My thigh stings where the bullet kissed it, but I don’t make a sound. Not because I’m being tough but because he is.
Riot drops to his knees in front of me. Hands shaking, covered in blood. His or someone else’s, I don’t ask.
He grabs the med kit and yanks the bandage roll out like it insulted him.
“Okay, Carter,” I say, wincing as he pulls the torn fabric of my pants down “Let’s not act like I got taken out by a tank. It’s a graze.”
“You bled,” he says flatly. “And it wasn’t a fucking tank. It was a sniper.”
“Ohhh,” I mock, eyes wide. “So dramatic.”
He shoots me a look, but it’s not angry. It’s afraid. And that’s worse.
“You think this is funny?” he mutters, pulling the antiseptic out next.
I hiss as it hits the wound. “I think you storming off like the goddamn Punisher to pop a Syndicate handler in the face on live feed was maybe a little excessive.”
“He shot you.”
“He nicked me.”
“Same fucking thing,” Riot growls. “If you hadn’t shifted when you did—”
“But I did, Riot.” I grab his wrist, hard enough to stop him. “I’m here. Breathing. Mostly fine. And you? You’re one impulsive move away from them putting a bullet through your head.”
His jaw twitches and his eyes meet mine.
“I don’t give a fuck if they do,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Well I do.”
We’re both quiet for a second.
Riot tears a strip of bandage, his hands gentler now, wrapping it slowly. Secure. Focused. But his jaw stays tight, and I can feel how hard he’s working not to explode again.
“You scared the shit out of me, you know,” I say, voice low.
He doesn’t look up.
I nudge his chin with my boot. “You always gonna be this dramatic when I bleed?”
He finally glances at me, his eyes dark, heavy. “Only when it’s because someone tried to kill you.”
“Damn.” I smirk, leaning back on my palms. “You gonna start crying next?”
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t rise to the bait, just finishes the wrap, then reaches up and cradles my face in his bloodstained hand.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “They touch you, I’ll kill them.”
“And if they kill you, then what? I’m supposed to avenge your dramatic ass while bleeding out on the finish line?”
“You’d look hot doing it,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
But my stomach flips.
Because underneath all that cocky deflection, I know the truth. He would die for me. Wants to die for me, if it means I live. And that? That’s what terrifies me.
Because I don’t want a martyr.
I want him. Whole. Breathing.
Here.
“You’re not dying for me, Carter,” I say. “I’m not worth that.”
He leans in. His breath brushes my lips. “Too fucking late.”
My pulse kicks.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not violent. Not rough. Just… real. Hot. Careful. His mouth moves like he’s asking permission, even as he steals it.
I chase it for a second longer, pressing into him but he pulls back.
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re hurt,” he mutters, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “And I’m still pissed enough to bite you for real.”
I smirk. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
He grabs his bag and pulls out a book—the same one I saw on his shelf in Noxhaven—and sits in the chair in the corner.
“You better not sulk-read at me like some wounded poet,” I say, adjusting on the bed. “That’s not the vibe.”
He doesn’t answer.
I glare. “Seriously. Bed. Now.”
A pause.
Then he sets the book down, kicks off his boots, and slides in beside me.
He leans against the wall, broad chest rising and falling like he’s finally letting himself breathe. I curl into him, head tucked under his arm. Taz jumps up onto the mattress, circling twice before settling at our feet like a furry little heater.
“Better,” I murmur.
Riot flips the book open and starts to read.
His voice is low, steady, surprisingly nice to fall asleep to.
And as I listen—wrapped in his warmth, fingers brushing the line of his ribs—I realize something: He’s still the same cold, vicious asshole I met weeks ago.
But he’s also the only person who’s ever looked at me like I was worth keeping alive.
And maybe that’s the scariest part of all.
The blast of the door slamming open rips through the quiet like a gunshot.
Taz launches off the bed, snarling.
Riot’s already moving, his hand snapping to the gun on the nightstand. He spins toward the noise and raises it without hesitation.
“Whoa, whoa!” Ghost’s voice cracks through the doorway. He stumbles in, hands flying up. “Easy! It’s just me, man. Chill.”
Riot doesn’t lower the weapon.
Not immediately.
His jaw is locked. Breathing shallow. Finger resting too close to the trigger.
Ghost freezes under his stare, like even he doesn’t know if Riot’s going to pull it.
“Talk,” Riot growls, voice sharp enough to cut steel.
Ghost swallows hard. “It’s Doc.”
That one name pulls me all the way up. The cold under my skin turns electric.
Riot doesn’t ask if she’s okay.
He just waits.
“She’s alive,” Ghost says quickly, voice steadying. “But it’s bad. Maggie found her outside the med pit. Said she almost didn’t see her—Doc had crawled halfway behind the crates, covered in blood. Looked like she was trying to get back to us.”
I shove the blankets off and reach for my jacket, ignoring the throbbing in my leg.
Riot’s already halfway dressed, pulling on his shirt and sliding a new clip into his sidearm.
“She say anything?” he asks, his voice lower now, darker.
“Yeah.” Ghost pauses. “Right before she passed out.”
He looks between us.
“She said one word.”
“Who?” Riot snaps.
“Jace.”
Riot doesn’t react.
Not with his face, but the silence that follows is heavier than anything I’ve ever felt.
It’s not a stillness, it’s containment.
A bomb in human skin.
And Riot?
He’s not walking anymore.
He’s about to detonate.
We storm out of the quarters with Taz racing ahead of us, paws hitting the floor like warning shots.
The warehouse isn’t loud this time.
It’s too aware.
Racers pretend to work on their bikes, heads down, eyes flicking up as we pass. Syndicate handlers hover near the pit boards, their voices suddenly hushed, like they’re trying not to attract attention.
But we’re already drawing it.
Riot walks like a loaded weapon—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, every step deliberate. Not fast. Not panicked. Just final.
And they all feel it.
Bishop is near the workbench, smoke curling from a cigarette burning between two fingers he’s forgotten to flick. Luca leans against the scaffolding, arms crossed, mouth a tight line. Neither speaks.
Neither needs to.
They’re watching the way you watch a storm roll in over open ground—too big to outrun, too violent to survive if you’re caught in the open.
We hit the double doors of the infirmary and Riot shoves them open without hesitation.
The lights inside hum like insects—cold and unforgiving. Sterile white panels flicker overhead, illuminating the makeshift operating table at the center of the room.
The smell of antiseptic and blood hits instantly. Beneath it? Burnt flesh. Melted rubber. Something metallic and wrong.
And there she is.
Doc.
Her body’s limp, swaddled in blood-soaked gauze and strips of salvaged mesh. One eye is swollen completely shut. Her cheek’s split to the bone. Jaw wired shut. Her ribs are wrapped so tight I can’t even see her breathing.
Her arm’s in a brace—twisted in a way that tells me it didn’t just break—it shattered.
Two field medics work over her like machines—one suturing a deep gash across her side, the other adjusting the wires running from her IV port. They don’t glance up. They don’t need to.
They know the fury that just walked in doesn’t care for excuses.
Riot steps forward, slow, controlled. His hand curls into a fist at his side.
I move closer, but the sight guts me.
Because this? This wasn’t a warning.
This was retribution.
My throat’s tight.
My ears ring.
And all I can think is, she wasn’t supposed to be in this.
She doesn’t race. She doesn’t kill.
She’s just one of us.
Was.
My voice is thin. Barely mine. “She wasn’t even armed…”
Riot doesn’t look at me.
Not because he doesn’t care but because he can’t without losing the fragile leash he’s keeping wrapped around his rage.
“They wanted us to find her like this,” Ghost mutters behind me. “To make sure we knew.”
“They used her as a message,” I say, but it comes out like a confession.
Because it was meant for me.
Riot killed Jace’s crew for putting me in their sights.
I put a bullet in Ash before the checkpoint.
And now…
Now Doc is lying there, barely holding on.
“I’m going to kill him,” Riot says, voice flat and steady.
Not a threat.
A sentence.
“I’m going to make sure Jace never takes another breath. I’ll gut him in the middle of a Syndicate broadcast and send pieces to whatever’s left of his team. And if they come for me, they’ll go down screaming.”
I step up beside him, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him.
“You’re not doing this alone.”
He turns toward me like he’s about to argue.
I don’t let him.
“I don’t care if my leg’s still bleeding. I don’t care if I’m a target. She would’ve gone to war for me and she did. So don’t you dare try to shut me out.”
“This isn’t your fight.”
I shove him.
It’s small, it doesn’t move him but it makes him listen.
“It became my fight the second Jace painted a bullseye on my back. But now it’s more than that. He didn’t just come for me. He came for her. For us.”
I stare at the mess of wires and tubing wrapped around the strongest woman I’ve ever met.
“She’s not gonna fight alone. And neither are you.”
Riot’s eyes don’t soften.
They sharpen.
But he nods.
Once.
And just like that, we’ve drawn our line in the sand.
They came for one of ours.
Now we’re coming for all of them.
Ghost pulls up the layout on his feed, the drone footage grainy but sharp enough to make out movement, heat signatures, and patterns. He leans over the table, fingers swiping across the projected map.
“I’ve been watching their rotations since we got here,” he says. “This warehouse here—off-grid, east side of the rail hub. They’ve been using it for private deals. Weapons. Bikes. Parts. One of Jace’s lieutenants drops in regularly. He’s due back tonight.”
I study the screen. The area is mostly shadows and steel. Minimal Syndicate patrols. Low camera traffic.
“Can we hit it without drawing handler heat?” I ask.
Ghost shrugs. “There’s no rules, but off-track kills make them twitchy. Too much cleanup. Too much attention. We need a distraction.”
Bishop steps forward, cracking his knuckles. “I can stir up shit at the checkpoint. Throw just enough smoke and noise to keep the Syndicate wranglers busy.”
Ghost nods. “That’ll give you about twenty minutes before they realize it’s a fake lead.”
“Plenty,” I mutter.
Bishop crosses his arms. “And Doc?”
Riot’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
“I’ll stay back and sit with her,” Luca says before anyone else can speak. “Leave Taz with me too, we’ll be fine.”
I nod, throat tight. “Thank you.”
Ghost taps the table once, sharp and final. “Then it’s set. Bishop draws attention west. Luca guards the infirmary. You two hit the east route—get in, clean, send a message.”
No applause. No rallying cry. Just quiet resolve settling in our bones.
We move out.
By the time Riot and I make it back to our quarters, the air’s already changed. He closes the door behind us, and the weight of what we’re about to do settles over the room like smoke.
Not fear, focus.
Riot moves to the locker without a word. I peel off my jacket and drape it over the back of the chair, jaw tight, hands steady. Every move I make is quick, practiced. He watches me for a second like he wants to say something, then turns back to the gear.
He pulls out a handgun, checks the mag, then holds it out toward me.
“Take it. Loaded. Clean shot.”
I meet his eyes, fingers brushing his for just a second as I take it. No hesitation. No questions. I holster it at my thigh and nod once.
He offers me a blade next. Compact. Curved. Meant to end someone fast.
“Backup,” he says. “We’ll probably be outnumbered.”
I smirk and reach into my boot, sliding out the serrated blade I’ve had stashed since Noxhaven—slightly longer, sharper, stained with old blood.
“You think I wouldn’t carry?”
His mouth ticks up at the corner. “Expected you to. But more steel never hurts.”
I slide the knife back into my boot and shrug, grinning. “Especially when you’ve got a habit of pissing off entire districts.”
“And you’ve got a habit of running toward the chaos.”
“Maybe I just like the view.”
He doesn’t respond, but the look he gives me? It says enough.
We finish gearing up in silence. No nerves. No hesitation.
Just two predators, armed, synced, and ready to paint the walls red.
Hell’s waiting.
And we’re walking straight into it.