Chapter Ten
DALLAS
Night swallows the industrial park like it’s been waiting for us. The air smells like salt from Puget Sound, and in the distance, the cranes from Seattle’s port spear into the sky.
Roark’s building sits at the far end of a row of warehouses. Cameras on each corner sweep the lot, while a bored guard on a smoke break scrolls through his phone.
I watch from the shadows, feeling a familiar calm wash over me.
Beside me, Bronco whispers, “This feels like a trap.” He's packed with more weapons than Anson and I put together. But then he favors close combat. Distance is my best skill.
Not tonight.
“It is. That’s why we’re going in fast,” I reply.
A shadow shifts on his left.
Anson Blackwood steps out of the dark like a wraith. He doesn’t speak. He just lifts two fingers and points toward the roofline.
Two on overwatch.
I nod and wait for Anson to take position.
Rifle strapped to his back, he sprints across the lot and climbs to the roof of the warehouse next door.
"Ready," he whispers in our earpieces.
The lot is open for twenty feet, but it might as well be fifty. I dart between camera sweeps and reach the side door just as the guard flicks ash off his cigarette. I'm behind him before he registers my presence.
One twist and he drops to the ground.
Bronco exhales through his nose. “Jesus.” He drags the body behind a pallet, then looks at the keypad.
Anson’s voice comes again. "They're down. Go."
“You’re spooky, Blackwood. I didn’t hear a damn thing,” Bronco mutters.
“Copy that,” he replies.
Blackwood uses special kit for his silent shots. Even if he didn’t, he’s the best there is.
With the two on the roof secure, I pull a slim tool from my pocket, crack the panel, and cut the wires. The door clicks open.
Bronco holds his weapon tight and slips inside.
Dumping the tools, I reach for my gun and am right on his tail.
We work our way through the main warehouse.
It’s deadly silent. Like even the rats took the night off. I don’t trust it. One look at Bronco and I know he’s feeling the same prickle of danger that I am. We move up to Roark’s private floor.
It’s quiet. Too quiet, and eerie as hell.
We move down the hall at a fast clip to the heavy door at the end.
I signal to Bronco to hold the hall and slip inside, weapon raised.
Roark sits behind a desk the size of a truck bed, a glass of whiskey near his right hand and a gun near his left. The office smells like leather, money, and men who think they’re untouchable.
I’m here to remind him that he’s not.
He looks up like he’s been waiting.
He smiles. “Well. Look at you.” Roark’s gaze flicks over me. “You should be dead.”
"Surprised?"
"No. You always were my best."
“You tried to retire me and kill her. After you gave me her father’s contract.”
Roark’s smile widens just a fraction, like he’s pleased he found the crack. “Ah.”
He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers like this is business. “I didn’t send men to hurt her. I sent men to clean up loose ends.”
“I’m not a loose end, asshole. Neither is she.”
Roark lifts a brow. “And yet here you are. Standing in my office instead of bleeding out in an alley.”
I step closer.
Roark doesn't reach for his gun.
In the hall, I hear rapid gunfire. The trap finally sprang, but I’m not concerned. Bronco’s got this.
“Your men are sloppy, Roark. Hard to imagine why I’m still alive.”
He scowls. “Yet you’re doing this over a girl? That’s disappointing.”
"I'm doing this for everyone."
Roark isn’t afraid, but he's greatly underestimated me.
“I didn’t set the original contract. Your mark did. His partners did. I simply provide the service.” Roark tilts his head. “But you… you thought you could leave the company.”
I take another step forward, close enough now that Roark’s whiskey smells sharp and bitter. “Cancel the contract on us and I let you live.”
His eyes turn calculating. “What did she do to convince you to be her champion? Cry for you? Beg? Look at you like you were something other than what you are?”
“She trusted me,” I reply. “Last chance.”
“You’re making this emotional.”
“No. I’m making this final.”
“I can call it off,” Roark says. “The contract. The bounty. I can make it all disappear. With one condition—you stay.”
I stare him down, weighing the offer. Roark is ruthless and he’s never let a contract go. Would he do so now just to keep me employed?
His right eye twitches.
It’s the same tell he’s had for years.
He only twitches when he lies. If I give in, we’re both as good as dead.
“She’ll never be safe as long as you’re breathing.”
Roark leans forward slowly, his voice sharp. “Wake up, King. Men like you don’t get to have a life. You don’t get a wife or a family. What’s going to happen the first time a kid wants you to tell the class what daddy does for a living?” He snorts. “You don’t deserve happiness.”
"Fuck you, Roark."
He smiles. Then goes for his gun.
I'm faster, firing once.
Roark jerks, shock snapping through his body as the bullet hits low and precise—right through his shoulder, driving him back in his chair.
Not a kill shot.
A lesson.
He snarls, clutching his arm, trying to raise the gun with his other hand.
I cross the distance in two steps and knock the gun out of reach.
Metal skitters across the floor.
“You—”
I haul him up, slamming him against the wall behind the desk hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Roark’s eyes burn. “You think killing me ends it? You think my people stop because you feel—”
I don't let him finish. I press the muzzle of my gun to his sternum.
Roark’s eyes flicker, finally afraid.
“You should’ve let me disappear,” I say calmly. “You should have let her walk away. She wasn’t part of his business.”
He spits blood and rage. “No one leaves.”
"I do." I fire once more.
Roark’s body goes slack and sinks to the floor.
Bronco steps into the doorway, weapon raised. His eyes sweep the room, landing on the dead man. No surprise. No judgment. “It’s done?”
“Almost. There's still Gemma's shell company.”
Anson appears, shoulders filling the hall. He stares at the body on the floor, then looks at me.
“Light it up,” Bronco mutters.
"And her company?"
"Call Derek at Citadel. His wife Riley will take care of it."
"She's a hacker," Anson adds. He goes to the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a folder. Then another, and a ledger. He flips through them with quick, precise movements. “Contracts. Client list. Payment records.”
“Find hers.”
Anson’s fingers stop. He slides a page out and holds it up.
Gemma’s name, with the price and signatures. Her death sentence.
I look at my brother and nod. "Light it up."
Bronco grabs the whisky and splashes it around the room. Anson hands him a lighter without a word, and the room goes up in flames.
Heat hits my face as I watch, and something inside loosens.
One last call to make. Then it's done.
The farmhouse lights glow against the dark when I pull into the drive the next day.
For a second, I sit there with my hands on the wheel, the engine ticking beneath the hood, smoke still clinging to my jacket. The scent of ash follows me—in my hair, on my skin. In my lungs.
War leaves marks.
So do choices.
The front door opens before I even cut the engine.
Gemma.
She runs down the porch steps barefoot, not caring about gravel or cold or the fact that I probably look like something dragged out of hell.
I step out of the truck just in time to catch her.
She slams into me, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressing into my chest like she’s checking to see if I’m real.
I hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then I fold my arms around her.
My hands slide into her hair, down her back, pulling her tight against me. She smells like soap and something sweet from the kitchen. She’s safe. Alive.
Mine.
“I’m here,” I murmur into her hair, my voice rough from smoke and death.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her fingers trace the soot on my cheek, the edge of dried blood at my collar.
More of Roark’s men were waiting when we left the warehouse. The battle was short, but intense. And none of the blood is mine.
“You walked through fire,” she whispers.
“For you.”
Her eyes shine, not with fear—but with something stronger.
“It’s over,” I tell her. “No one will ever use your name again.”
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.
And when she kisses me, it isn’t desperate.
It’s certain.
I walked into hell tonight.
But I came back to her.
And this time, I’m staying.