Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Okay, here is the gas mask, and then the actual gas bomb. Look right here,” he says, pointing to the handle with a tiny metal pin and ring. “This is the pin. You will want to squeeze the handle closed, and then pull this out. But for the love of all creatures—”
I raise a brow. Love of all creatures? Natasha gives him the same look and he sighs, starts again.
“For the love of EVERYTHING,” he corrects, stabbing a finger at the pin. “Do not pull the pin until you are ready to throw it. Got it?”
I nod, fully planning on ignoring him, and slide the cylinder into my back pocket. Cargo pants: a literal lifesaver right now. I shove the gas mask beside it and pretend not to feel the tremor at the base of my throat.
“Thanks, Corver. What will you do?” I try to make my voice light. It comes out thin.
“I’m going to take Natasha out the way I came in. See if our friends are here.” He gives a grin that’s half hope, half something darker. I don’t know who our friends are, but I’m praying that they’re here.
He squeezes my shoulder–quick, businesslike–then lets go. Natasha steps forward, takes my hands, looks at me with those steady blue eyes, and says something in her rough, beautiful Russian.
“Pust? muzhestvo vedet tebya, a strakh ostanetsya pozadi.”
“Sounds nice, but I have no idea what it means. Good luck?,” I ask, laughing a cracked little laugh.
“May courage lead you, and fear stay behind. But, close enough.” She lets go, a half smile on her face, and the two of them melt back toward the cell block.
I stand alone for a beat, listening to my own breath, the way it wheels and thuds in my ears.
I pat my pocket, pistol is there; weight is a comfort, an anchor.
I tug my pants down a notch, letting the fabric and a sliver of skin do the work I can’t: distract, disarm, entice.
If I’m going to be bait, I’ll play the part.
When I’m ready I pinch the handle, yank the pin. The little ring squeals as metal slides free. I keep my fingers clamped around it, the cylinder hidden between my chest and arms so no one can see.
Then I leave the shadows and walk toward them.
The warehouse smells of old oil and something rotten. Every footstep is loud in the silence around Gavin. He stands too calm, the wrong kind of calm, a man who’s already accepted violence as a daily ritual.
“Gavin, that’s enough,” I tell him. My voice sounds braver than I feel. Seeing Brenden, Papa, Josh, Sam, and Gunnar on the floor, forced to kneel before the man who used to own me makes bile rise in my throat. I fight it down.
“You got what you wanted. Me and Natasha. What more do you get by killing them?” I keep my eyes on my people, cataloging every face for any sign I can do something to help.
He is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, Surry. Sweet, stupid Surry. You don’t get it. They will always come for you. I can’t be king of both my armies until Stefan is dead. So–therefore–they must die.”
He says this last part with a casual flick of his wrist, like he's discussing the weather instead of murder.
His eyes have a glassy sheen to them, pupils blown wide and dark as bullet holes.
A thin line of spittle clings to the corner of his mouth when he speaks, trembling with each syllable.
There is no logic in the twitching muscles of his face, only the wild, erratic pulse of a man who not only believes in monsters, but has become one himself.
“Can I–just–say goodbye?” I press for time. I need time. Panic claws at my ribs. My fingers sweat on the cylinder. His gaze slips over my body; the room narrows to his pupils, the white of his teeth, and the slow inhale he takes like a predator smelling blood.
I nod toward my father. This is the second before the breath leaves you; this is the long, three-second silence before a gunshot. I yell the code word sharp as a whip.
“Iontas!”
I fling the bomb high–aiming just above Gavin–and the little cylinder hits the concrete just behind him.
Gas wheezes out of it, almost invisible at first, then curls like smoke.
He turns to see what I’ve done; that’s my opening.
I yank the mask out, jam it over my face, and take a deep breath in through the filter.
The world snaps into narrow clarity: sound muffled, edges bright, the chemical tang a second layer beneath everything.
Gavin is choking. He thrashes as the fumes bite; his men cough and scramble for their own masks or stagger away. I run.
I’m under him in two steps. My left hand closes on his shirt; my knee hammers up into his groin knowing exactly where to go. He doubles, a sound somewhere between a sob and a shriek. He coughs—eyes streaming, face flushing scarlet and then strange pale.
I draw the pistol from my hip with my right hand and press the barrel to his temple.
Even through the fumes and the protective mask, up this close he smells like sweat, cheap cologne, and rot.
Maybe I’m just remembering what he smelled like earlier.
Regardless, I cannot get away from him fast enough.
With great pleasure, I tell him, “You will pay for what you’ve done.” My voice sounds small to me, but steady.
I raise the gun and flip it. The butt smashes against the side of his head; Gavin goes limp like a marionette whose strings were cut.
My legs are shaking. The gas fog crawls at the edges of my vision, but I can still see Brenden slumped on the concrete, several large men looping arms under his and hauling him toward the door.
My father moves in fast, large and terrible in his own quiet way, standing over Gavin with a gun leveled at the fallen man.
“Don’t kill him, Papa. I have plans. But I need to go with Brenden.”
He gives me a look–soft, buried under steel–and nods. “We’ll take him to Tacoma. Quiet place. No one’ll hear.”
I step out of the doors, and pull off my mask, allowing fresh air to fill my lungs. As thankful as I am that I had the mask, I am far more grateful to remove it now.
Corver appears at my shoulder with Natasha bundled in a thermal blanket, cheeks raw but blinking, alive.
He looks like he’s just finished a terrible job and is trying to be casual about it.
One of the men rises from near Brenden and steps forward, bowing his head when I glance at him.
He takes my hand in both of his, firm and warm and not afraid.
“Who are you guys?” I question. I am positive I have never seen these men before.
“Ms. Surry. We are the Bratva. We serve Natasha.” His voice is flat, respectful. The syllables roll in the heavy, unfamiliar way that suddenly feels like rescue.
“You called them?” I say, glancing at Corver, more question than accusation.
Corver shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yup. I said I found Natasha, and they came. They wanted to settle the score.” He looks down at Natasha with something like devotion that makes my chest ache for reasons I don’t have words for.
Brenden groans and flails–awake, angry, and messy. I drop to my knees next to him and shake him by the shoulders gently until his slitted eyes focus on me.
“Brenden, look at me. It’s Surry. You’re okay.” My voice cracks. He reaches for me with hands that are warm and bloody, and I let him clutch me like I am a lifeline.
He breathes out–deep, ragged–and the panic inside me melts into a tired, furious relief. If he is alive, we can do so much more than survive–we can get our revenge.
I lay with him on the ground for a few minutes before looking up at his face.
“If you go, I want to go with you,” I whisper to him, my voice barely audible over the chatter.
His eyelashes flutter against pale cheeks, but his eyes remain closed.
Blood has dried in a thin crust along his hairline.
I lean closer, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his shallow breath against my ear.
His cracked lips part with effort, and though no sound emerges, I can read the shape they form: "always.
" My heart lurches painfully in my chest. Even now, broken and bleeding, he is with me.
Behind me, Alec and the other men move with quiet efficiency, dragging bodies, binding hands, applying oxygen. Outside, the warehouse hums with activity–boots, Russian voices, and the wet slap of someone tending a wound.
Sam finds me and scoops me up into his arms like I’m a child, and for a beat, I let myself cry into the curve of his shoulder. It’s not the kind of victory anyone wanted, but it’s the kind that matters: people breathing, people still here.
I pull away from Sam and wipe my face on my sleeve, swallow, and let my fingers tighten around Brenden’s hand beneath mine.
The gas stings my eyes, my lungs, but the ache in my chest is a different thing. Solid, sharp, the promise of the fight to come.