44. Quinn
44
QUINN
My hands are starting to shake as I fire another shot, taking out one of Ambrose’s men who was getting too fucking close to the edge of the roof. The bastard falls back with a satisfying scream, but the victory is short-lived. I check my clip and see three bullets left. Fuck.
“Running low,” I call out to my men, my voice hoarse from shouting over gunfire.
“Same here,” Atlas grunts, ducking behind the air conditioning unit as bullets ping off the metal. The sound makes my teeth rattle.
Blood is dripping down the side of Killian’s face, a steady trickle from the gash on his temple where he hit the ground when his bike went down. Road rash covers his arms, the raw skin gleaming wet and angry in the dim light. But the crazy fucker acts like he doesn’t even feel it, methodically picking off targets with that insanely intense focus of his.
Another volley of gunfire forces me to press myself flat against the roof’s edge. Concrete chips spray my face as bullets strike too damn close. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else.
“Two clips left between us,” Nico says, the tension clear in his voice. I can tell he’s running calculations in his head, trying to figure out how long we can hold them off and how many bullets per mercenary we’ll need.
I can save him the trouble. The answer is that we don’t have nearly fucking enough.
I peek over the edge again, counting at least eight men still advancing on our position. They’re getting bolder, pressing closer now that our return fire has slowed. They know we’re running out of ammo.
“Fuck,” I mutter, squeezing off another precious round to force back a merc who was setting up with a better angle on Atlas. Two bullets left. “We need to figure something out fast.”
But as I look at my men—at Killian bleeding but unbroken, at Atlas favoring his left side, at Nico’s grim expression—I know we’re running out of options.
The sound of boots on metal draws my attention. They’re coming up the fire escape now, and getting ready to rush us.
My finger tightens on the trigger. If we’re going down, we’re taking as many of these fuckers with us as we can.
But Christ, I hope Malcolm comes through. Because if he doesn’t, this roof might be where it all ends.
“On your left!” Killian shouts. I dive to the side as bullets tear through the space where I was just standing.
More footsteps thunder up the fire escape. At least three sets of boots, maybe more. We’re about to be overrun, and my last desperate bet with the Syndicate might have been for nothing.
“If they come through that door,” Atlas says grimly, “we go down swinging.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. My men look at me with absolute trust, even now.
The door to the roof starts to open, metal screeching against metal. I raise my empty gun anyway, refusing to show fear. If this is it, I’ll face it standing.
The door bursts open, and I brace myself for the end. But before Ambrose’s men can pour through, a shot rings out from the street below. It’s different from the others—a different caliber bullet from a different gun.
One of the mercenaries on the ground jerks backward, sending blood spraying in an arc. He goes down hard, and doesn’t get back up.
“What the fuck?” Atlas mutters, peering over the edge.
Another shot cracks through the night. Another merc falls. The ones still standing whirl around, suddenly caught between us above and whatever the hell is happening below.
My heart leaps into my throat as I spot movement in the shadows. Dark figures emerging from alleys and doorways, weapons raised. Professional killers, moving with lethal purpose.
“Looks like the cavalry finally fucking showed up,” Killian says, a savage grin splitting his bloody face.
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. The Dark Lotus Syndicate might be a nest of vipers, but at least they honor their debts. For now.
The mercenaries at the roof access door hesitate, caught off guard by the chaos erupting below. That’s a fatal mistake. Nico takes advantage of their distraction, charging forward and slamming the door shut. The sound of their bodies tumbling down the metal stairs is sweeter than any music.
“Looks like a hell of a party you invited us to,” a gravelly voice calls up from the street. One of Imogen’s guys, I think. “I hope you don’t mind if we crash it.”
More gunfire erupts below, but this time it’s not all aimed at us. Ambrose’s men scramble for cover, suddenly finding themselves outflanked and outnumbered.
I share a look with my men, seeing my own incredulous joy reflected in their eyes. We’re not dead yet. And now these fuckers are about to learn what happens when you corner a bunch of rabid dogs.
“Let’s make this count,” I say, collecting a fallen merc’s weapon and checking the clip. Full. Perfect. “Time to remind these assholes why they should’ve stayed the fuck away from what’s mine.”
More figures materialize from the darkness below. They aren’t the Dark Lotus Syndicate members themselves—of course those fancy fucks wouldn’t get their own hands dirty. But their hired muscle is just as lethal, maybe more so.
I recognize some of Imogen’s crew by their distinctive tactical gear. A group of Malcolm’s stone-faced enforcers takes up position across the street. Even that bastard Elliot sent some of his people.
“Quite the collection of killers you’ve called up,” Atlas says, watching as the professionals below systematically begin to dismantle Ambrose’s forces.
“Fucking beautiful, isn’t it?” Killian’s bloody grin grows wider as another of Ambrose’s men goes down screaming.
These aren’t just thugs with guns. These are trained killers who get paid top dollar to do this shit. The difference shows in every precise shot and every coordinated movement. Ambrose’s mercenaries and ex-cons might be tough, but they’re outclassed and they know it.
One of Malcolm’s guys catches my eye and gives me a sharp nod. “Orders?” he calls up.
“Take them apart,” I shout back. “But leave Ambrose breathing. That fucker is mine.”
He acknowledges with a curt gesture, then signals to his team. They move like a well-oiled machine, pressing Ambrose’s men back with ruthless efficiency.
“Shit,” Nico mutters appreciatively as we watch Imogen’s crew execute a textbook flanking maneuver. “It was almost worth you joining that snake pit just for backup like this.”
Another wave of reinforcements arrives—Cassandra’s personal security team, I think. They’re geared differently than the others, but just as deadly. The night fills with gunfire and screams as they join the assault.
I feel the balance of power shifting beneath us. For the first time since this shit started, we might actually have a chance to end this. To end Ambrose.
“Ready to join the party?” I ask my men, checking the weapon I scavenged.
Three savage grins answer me. Time to remind everyone why you don’t fuck with the Princes of Carnage… or their princess.
The pressure eases off us as Ambrose’s men scramble to deal with the new threat. Instead of pushing up toward our position, they’re forced to pull back, trying to avoid getting boxed in by the professionals below.
“They’re splitting up,” Atlas calls out, tracking movement through his gun sight. “Ambrose’s men are getting sloppy.”
He’s right. The mercs are losing their cohesion, with some taking cover behind parked cars while others try to retreat down side streets. Too bad Imogen’s crew is waiting in those shadows, and they’re not taking prisoners.
I watch one guy make a break for it, sprinting toward what he thinks is safety. One of Malcolm’s shooters drops him with a single shot.
“I think I’m starting to see why the Dark Lotus Syndicate has so much power,” Nico mutters, the appreciation clear in his voice as we watch the slaughter below.
Killian laughs. “No shit. It almost makes me wish we’d joined up with them sooner.”
The battlefield has transformed. Instead of being pinned down by superior numbers, the tide has turned and we’re crushing Ambrose’s forces with the help of some Dark Lotus muscle. His men are trapped between our elevated position and the ruthlessly efficient killers on the ground.
“Two of them are trying to circle around back.” I spot the movement and signal to Cassandra’s team. They acknowledge and move to intercept, cutting off the escape route.
Desperate screams ring out as Ambrose’s men realize just how fucked they are.
“Those bastards are getting what they fucking deserve,” Atlas says with grim satisfaction as another merc falls.
I nod, but my eyes are scanning the chaos below, searching for one particular target. Ambrose is down there somewhere, watching his forces get torn apart. And soon, very fucking soon, he’s going to learn exactly what it means to cross me and mine.
“Let’s make sure none of these fuckers slip through,” I say, sighting down my weapon. “Then we’ll take out Ambrose.”
“There’s our opening,” Nico says, nodding toward the east side of the building where the Syndicate’s muscle has cleared a path. “We need to move now before they regroup.”
I glance at Killian, who has gone even paler, with fresh blood still trickling from his head wound. He catches my look and straightens up. “I’m fine.”
He’s not, but there’s no point arguing with the stubborn bastard. “Atlas, help him. Nico and I will cover you.”
We make our way toward the fire escape, staying low. My heart pounds as we emerge from our cover, but the pressure from below has shifted. Most of Ambrose’s men are too busy trying to stay alive to worry about us anymore.
“Fucking stupid-ass stairs,” Killian mutters as we start down. He’s limping badly now, with each step clearly taking a lot out of him. But he keeps moving. Atlas stays close, ready to catch him if he stumbles.
A burst of gunfire sends us pressing against the metal railings. One of Ambrose’s men spots us, but Imogen’s crew takes him out before he can get another shot off.
“Keep moving,” I say, clenching my teeth and watching our backs as we descend. The metal steps rattle with each step, making too much goddamn noise for my liking.
We’re three floors down when Killian’s leg gives out. Atlas catches him before he can fall, but not before Killian lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
“We’re almost there,” I tell him, although we’ve still got two more floors to go. He grimaces, letting Atlas take more of his weight.
The ground-level door bursts open below us, and I snap my weapon up, but it’s just Malcolm’s guys coming to secure our exit. They move with practiced efficiency, checking angles and establishing a perimeter.
“The area is clear,” one of them calls up. “But not for long.”
We pick up the pace, practically dragging Killian down the last flight. His breathing is ragged, but he doesn’t complain.
Finally, our boots hit pavement. The sounds of battle are still echoing through the streets, but we’re mobile now.
Movement catches my eye. It’s a too-familiar silhouette trying to slip away through the chaos.
Ambrose.
That fucking coward is running now that things aren’t going his way.
“There!” I point him out to my men. “He’s heading east!”
“Go,” Killian grunts, still leaning heavily on Atlas. “Don’t let that bastard get away.”
I hesitate for a split second, not wanting to leave him when he’s hurt. But he’s right—we can’t let Ambrose escape now. Not after everything he’s done.
“Imogen’s crew, with me!” I shout, already moving. Two of her people immediately fall in behind me, weapons ready. “Malcolm’s team, cut off the east exit! Don’t let this fucker slip through!”
Nico appears at my side as we run, matching my pace. His expression is pure predator, and I know he’s thinking about what Ambrose did to Atlas and me.
We round a corner just in time to see Ambrose duck into an alley. The bastard knows these streets, but so do we. And now he’s got nowhere to hide.
“Spread out!” I order the Syndicate muscle. “Box him in! He’s probably armed, so watch your fucking backs!”
The professionals move smoothly into position, cutting off escape routes with practiced precision. This is what they’re paid for, and they’re earning every penny tonight.
My blood pounds in my ears as we close in. After everything this fucker has taken from me—my home, my gang, my peace of mind—it’s finally time to end this and put him in the ground where he belongs.
“Quinn.” Nico’s voice is tight with tension. “On your three o’clock.”
I spot movement in the shadows. Ambrose is trying to double back. That’s not fucking happening though. Not this time.
“All units over here!” I shout into the night. “Target spotted! Don’t let him get past you!”
More of the Syndicate’s people appear with their weapons trained on the alley. Ambrose is running out of options, and he knows it. I can almost smell his desperation.
“No more running,” I mutter, moving forward slowly and carefully. Lethally. “It’s time to face what’s coming to you, you son of a bitch.”
The sound of running footsteps echoes off brick walls as we search the maze of alleys. Ambrose is in here somewhere, the rat trying to find a hole to slip into. But there’s nowhere left to hide.
“Movement,” Nico whispers, gesturing toward a shadowy doorway. I signal the Syndicate muscle to hold position while we check it out.
It’s nothing. Just garbage and broken glass. But he was here. I can see fresh blood drops on the concrete. It looks like one of us managed to clip the bastard at some point during the gunfight.
“Spread out,” I order the professionals flanking us. “Check every shadow, every doorway. I want this fucker found.”
They move with silent efficiency, sweeping the area in a coordinated pattern.
Another glimpse of movement catches my eye—just a flash, there and gone. But it’s enough. “There!” I point toward the end of the alley where it opens onto the next street.
We surge forward, our boots pounding on wet pavement. Then I spot him. It’s Ambrose’s actual shape this time, not just a shadow. He’s running hard, but he’s definitely hurt and bleeding.
“Don’t let him—” The crack of a gunshot cuts me off mid-sentence. Sharp. Close.
“Which direction?” Nico demands, gun up and scanning.
Another shot rings out, the sound bouncing off the walls around us. Then nothing but heavy silence.
“This way,” I say, already moving toward where the shots came from. My heart pounds against my ribs in equal parts anticipation and rage. If someone else took my shot at Ambrose, there will be hell to pay.
There’s more blood on the ground, a lot more this time. We’re getting close.
“Quinn.” Nico points ahead where the alley opens up into some kind of loading area.
We round the corner and there he is, sprawled on his back in a growing pool of blood. One of Elliot’s guys stands over him with his weapon still trained on the bastard’s chest.
“I couldn’t let him get away,” the guy says with a shrug. “Elliot’s orders.”
I should be pissed that someone else shot him, but right now I don’t give a fuck. Ambrose is still alive, if only for a few more minutes.
I step forward, splashing through puddles of his blood. The sight of him finally brought down is just as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be.
His chest rises and falls in wet, ragged gasps as his eyes focus on me.
I plant my boot directly on his bullet wound and grind down hard until his scream echoes off the brick walls around us.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Does that hurt?” I increase the pressure, watching him writhe. “That’s nothing compared to what you deserve.”
He tries to reach for me, but he’s too weak. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth as he struggles to speak.
“I should’ve killed you that first night,” I tell him, leaning more weight onto my foot. “Or maybe you should’ve known better than to keep coming after what’s mine.”
Something flickers in his eyes. It isn’t fear or pain, but something else. Something that sends a shiver down my spine as his bloody lips curve into a smile.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I lean down, wanting to hear his last words. Wanting to know what could make a dying man smile like that.
His voice is barely a whisper, and wet with blood. “You think… this is over?” He coughs, spraying red. “I’ll be… seeing you soon.”
Then his eyes go glassy, fixed on nothing. Just like that, the Saint is gone.