Chapter 24
Stan
I’m lying flat on a cot that was clearly not made for my perfect body or my dwindling patience level.
My stomach’s down. Legs stretched out. Arms braced forward like I’ve decided to plank until I die.
I set the damn thing up myself, which means I only have me to blame for how uncomfortable it is, but I still hate it with my whole chest.
At least the tripod is doing its job, locked under my sniper rifle. My cheek’s pressed into the stock, my eye lined up through the scope, and I’m breathing real slow. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Again and again.
I’ve got my pulse under control, and my hands are steady. My mind’s sharp enough to do some actual math, maybe some maiming and internal sarcasm at the same time.
Joking around aside, I know this job needs to be done right, and I’m not about to fuck it up just because my back hurts or my dirty mind wants to wander and think of my better thirds.
The hospital’s across from the penthouse I’m holed up in.
I may or may not have used Damon’s black card to buy this place this morning, but hey, it’s necessary for the job Damon hired me for.
Prime sightline. Perfect distance. And if Damon wants to bitch about the charge later, he can do it knowing his baby brother didn’t have to hide out on a roof in the freezing cold.
I’ve been lying here for hours, where time’s been stretching out in a strange way that my brain’s chewing on itself just to stay entertained. To top it off, my elbows ache, my lower back is complaining, and I counted all the ceiling cracks across.
Doesn’t matter. Got a job to do. So I breathe slow and watch the hospital through the scope. And wait and wait.
It’s so much waiting that if impatience burned calories, I’d be even more shredded by now. But this is the job, and I’m excellent at the job, even when sniping’s ninety percent lying still and telling my body to shut the hell up.
Out of nowhere, the hospital lights cut out.
Every window across the building drops into darkness like someone flipped a switch. Which is impressive, honestly, because I know for a fact that place has a generator. Multiple backup systems that hospitals brag about in brochures.
I’ve been waiting all day for this. Lights out is my signal.
I let out a breath and mutter, “Fucking finally,” under my breath, like the building personally pissed me off. It sorta has.
But now that things are finally getting going, my mind betrays me and immediately decides this is the perfect time to remind me that I should be home.
I should be with the loves of my life—Em and Lix.
They’re probably cuddling right now. Cozy as hell. Kissing slow and soft and definitely without me.
I picture it against my will, because my brain’s a traitor. Em tucked into Lix’s side, glasses off, hair a mess, mouth doing that gentle little smile she gets when she’s so content, she can’t hide it.
Maybe he’s kissing her hair. Maybe she’s laughing all sweet. Maybe they’re both pretending they don’t miss me while absolutely missing me.
I huff and adjust my position a hair ‘cause my knee’s starting to ache and also ‘cause my thoughts are getting dangerously inappropriate for a man currently watching a hospital through a sniper scope.
“Someone’s gotta do this,” I mutter to myself. “Can’t all be cuddles and kisses and domestic bliss.”
Even though I would absolutely choose cuddles and kisses over this any day of the week.
The scope’s switched into night vision to see, since the hospital stays dark across the street.
Whatever’s about to happen is finally happening, and at least now I can stop counting ceiling cracks and fantasizing about being sandwiched between my two favorite people instead of lying here like an annoyed gargoyle doing yoga with a gun.
Through the scope, the expected idiots come into view.
Four men in black ski masks, charging ahead like drug-induced enthusiasm is a personality trait and planning to ambush and kidnap a hospital patient is optional.
Three of them fan out fast, knives out, shoulders tense, moving in that jittery way that screams hired muscle instead of anyone who thought this through.
Their masks are all identically black and cover most of their heads, the kind of mask that makes people feel braver than they deserve, like they’re hoping hiding does the work for them.
I feel my mouth tip into a smirk, because I know these guys.
Curiosity is a dangerous habit, but it’s also the reason I’m not surprised right now.
While Em’s been busy saving lives and carrying one inside her, I may or may not have hacked into her MedBay monitor and followed a messy little trail of deleted footage from the ship’s security feed.
I figured if it had access to security cameras, then why wouldn’t we see who walked into Sergio and Gerald’s rooms?
Turns out Set gets sloppy when he thinks he’s erased people or footage. But it also turns out I’m extremely excellent at doing my job.
This has nothing to do with being an errand sniper. This has everything to do with protecting my better thirds, because fuck anyone who puts any kind of danger around ‘em.
Okay, fine, maybe I was also looking through the deleted footage to see if there’s any more dirty videos like me and Lix making out, but hey, a good find’s a good find.
I slide the scope forward and start naming the dummies like I’m checking off a list.
Front and center is Jon. Threw us off his trail when he let his tongue get cut out.
Would’ve been brilliant, but the dummy’s here, askin’ for trouble.
And it’s obvious it’s him. His stance gives him away.
Shoulders hunched. Spine looking like it’s apologizing.
I’ve seen that posture on the ship when he tried to stir shit up.
Loud mouth. Weak center. Same even under a mask.
Behind him is Marco. His neck’s so thick, his head can’t rotate. He’s lookin’ real angry with that glare his mask can’t hide. All that rage he’s not pretending to hold back is probably for all the ‘roids.
Next is Tomas. Tall and slim, posture straighter than the rest, eyes wide in a wired way. He almost looks out of place standing with the others.
All three of ‘em look like they’re high on Kys if they’re acting this smug when clearly, they’re scared, walking through the dark my night vision scope can see through.
Then there’s the last one, who hangs back, letting the others move first like he’s above the rush.
Fake confidence pours outta him. Long strides that don’t really commit to the floor.
The scowl’s obvious beneath the black ski mask.
His blue eyes even more so. His permanent resting-funeral-director face could be picked out of a lineup blindfolded.
Darius. He moves forward with all the certainty of a man who thinks this ends clean and in his favor, but I know that’s the Kys talking through him.
Hey, listen, I get it. Ma brainwashed me with it too, but I’m pretty sure Darius got it worse.
My scope follows him. Straight toward his brother’s room. Like this is some easy retrieval, not a mess waiting to explode.
They don’t know they won’t make it to the door.
Even if they do, Idris won’t be there. Damon warned me that when Darius was sober enough to share Set’s plans, he wouldn’t want Idris out of his sight. Now, I know why Idris told me—all those weeks ago, when I first met him—that he knew how it felt to have a helicopter parent.
Compared to Clo, pretty sure Set’s worse.
I hold my breath before my finger traces the trigger and goes for the pull.
The shot takes Jon high in the shoulder, right where that hunched posture leaves him wide open. He hits the ground hard, yelling something I can’t hear from here.
“Oops,” I murmur, lining up the next shot.
Marco reacts exactly how I expect. Big movement.
Awkward turn. All instinct, no thought. His foot lands wrong when he pivots, and I put a round straight through it before his brain can catch up.
He howls and hops back on one leg like a pissed off flamingo, face pink where the mask can’t reach his giant head.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, trying not to shake from my giggles. “That’s hilarious.”
Tomas barely gets a second to process what’s happening before I take him in the nose.
Honestly, I didn’t have to. I just wanted to.
Clean shot, dead center, because I can aim like a motherfucker, and sometimes it’s important to remind people of that.
He drops back clutching his face, blood everywhere, shock written all over his eyes.
And then there’s Darius. I don’t know if it’s Kys, Set’s brainwashing, or just Darius’ rude attitude, but the man just keeps going, not giving a shit about his fallen pawns.
The bastard moves fast. Faster than the others. He bolts for the room where Idris should be.
Too bad I saw that move coming miles away.
I track him quickly, and fire my sniper rifle right when his hand reaches for the door. The shot takes his right thumb off. He screams and stumbles, clutching it to his chest.
At least, it seems to snap him out of his Kys hypnosis a little.
I snort to myself. “Guess who’s the asshole who can’t give two thumbs up anymore.” My brows draw together. “Wait… Is it thumbs up or thumb ups?”
I’m still muttering when Darius goes through the door and the hospital room lights up. So does the rest of the building, because a control freak who hatched this whole plan is in there. Not Idris. Nope, my control freak of a brother put him somewhere safe, artificial heart and all.
The scope switches back to normal. No more night vision needed. Through the lens, I see Darius looking startled at the man seated across the room.