29. Marie
29
MARIE
The air in Sam’s truck feels ice-cold against my skin, but I’m burning up from the inside out. Adrenaline or dread—or maybe both—pulses beneath my ribs, making my lungs work double-time. My breath fogs the glass as I lean forward, trying to get a better view of what’s happening on the lawn of my childhood home.
How did this go so wrong so fast?
If I’d just let Crow have?—
No. I can’t think like that. Even if this was only about me and my father, I still can’t think like that. But it’s not. It’s about Auclair too. Hell’s Hammers want this town. They’ve been taking over the parish, and we’re just the next town on their list.
If no one fights back, they’ll own us all.
I can’t see my father. He’s inside, and the thought alone tightens my throat. A dull ache settles in my chest from the memory of that picture Sam showed me. I’m glad he didn’t try to keep me from seeing it, but I understand why he didn’t want me to come along.
From the outside, I can see enough to confirm that armed men roam the yard, waiting like predators.
The porch light used to glow warm and inviting when I came home after a long day. Now, I’m huddled in the back seat of a truck, gripping the edge of the seat tight enough to hurt, my heart pounding an uneven rhythm in my ears, using that light to spy on the assholes who beat my father.
Hugo and Trick slip across the front yard like shadows. If I wasn’t watching so intently, I’d have missed them entirely. Their movements are coordinated in that uncanny way they have—shoulders hunched low, guns at the ready. Sam disappears around the other side of the house, presumably circling around to get to a back entrance.
I try to track him through the dark, but he’s too good at vanishing when he wants to, leaving me with no choice but to trust he knows what he’s doing. That’s the plan we agreed on. Sam goes in quiet, Hugo and Trick distract. I’m supposed to stay out of sight, inside the truck.
It’s a plan that makes sense on paper, except for one glaring problem. I am the reason we’re here. They want me. They took my father inside my own home as leverage. The men I love are risking their lives to get him back, all because the traffickers believe I’m valuable.
I’m not special. I don’t understand why they want me so bad.
Maybe I should be grateful that they insisted I remain in the truck, but it feels like a prison sentence right now. A gnawing panic churns in my gut. I keep swallowing, trying to quell the nausea rising up my throat.
Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention to the tall oak tree near the driveway. My father once told me he’d planted that tree shortly after I was born, envisioning we’d grow up together. A twisted pang seizes my stomach as I notice a sparkle of metal up in the branches. A shape perched too high to be one of the men on the ground.
They’ve got a sniper.
My mind pictures Trick and Hugo in the sniper’s line of fire, Sam sneaking around the back with no idea someone is poised to pick them off. Fear roars inside me, a desperate, clawing need to warn them.
But how? If I exit the truck, I’ll blow the plan. I’m supposed to stay out of sight.
My phone is stuffed in my jacket pocket, but texting them while they’re in the middle of a stealth approach is pointless. They’re not looking at their phones, which are set to silent.
They need an immediate signal. My pulse pounds in my temples. No time. If I wait, the sniper might fire the second one of the guys steps into range.
I stare at the steering wheel. The horn. It’s a terrible idea—slamming on the horn will draw every eye in the yard. The moment they know the truck isn’t empty, that’s it. This goes full-scale nuts. But at least it’ll warn them of the sniper, right? And Sam said if there’s trouble, honk.
A second of raw indecision chains me in place, but the image of Trick or Hugo getting shot snaps my mind into action. If they have no clue a rifle is trained on them, they’re as good as dead.
I lunge forward, sliding between the front seats, and slam my palm on the horn. The noise blares through the quiet night, an earsplitting honk that feels like it rips a hole in reality.
I press it again, shorter this time, the truck rocking with the force of my hand. My heart beats frantically— please let them hear it, please let them realize what it means.
Instantly, Trick whirls around, half in shadow, half in the porch light, confusion etched on his face. Hugo looks back at me as well, eyes narrowing. They know I’m signaling something.
A muzzle flash erupts from the oak, the crack of a rifle echoing across the yard. My heart slams to a stop. The bullet kicks up dirt near Trick’s feet, missing him by a hair’s breadth. He dives behind the remains of what looks like our shattered porch swing, dust billowing.
And then chaos.
More men pour out of the house—five, maybe six. It’s hard to keep track in the dark. Shouts tear through the air, and muzzle flashes blink like fireflies on steroids.
Hugo ducks behind a toppled piece of furniture in the yard as bullets chew up the grass. Trick leaps up from behind the broken swing, tackling one of the gang members in a blur of fists and fury. He slams the man’s back into the porch railing. The wood splinters, and he sinks to the ground, the front of his shirt shining wet in the faint light.
I think he’s dead.
Another shot from the sniper hits the trunk of a different oak closer to the front of the house, sending shards of bark raining down. One of the men emerging from the house swings around, aiming his gun at Hugo, who ducks just before a blinding flash of light from the gun.
The yard that used to host summer barbecues and father-daughter games of catch is now a lethal mess of gunfire and flying debris.
Guilt and horror knot in my throat. This is all because of me.
My father’s inside. The traffickers want me. The guys have said from the start, “Stay hidden. Let us handle it.” But how can I do nothing?
My gaze darts to the house’s front window, but I can’t see anything through the shattered glass. The lights inside cast odd shadows.
Dad could be in there, tied up, possibly bleeding out…
My vision blurs with tears at the thought. If I lose him, I’ll never forgive myself. If I lose my men, I’ll never forgive myself either.
A bullet zips past the truck, puncturing a front tire with a sharp pop. The vehicle sinks toward the front passenger’s corner, and I let out a yelp, more startled than anything else. The horn’s echo still rings in my ears.
I huddle low, peering through the cracked windshield as Trick grapples with a second thug, fists swinging. Another figure rushes in from the side, brandishing a weapon. Is that Hugo or Sam?
My adrenaline spikes, making identifying who’s who in the dark impossible. The muzzle flashes are disorienting.
In a span of seconds, Trick manages to throw one of the gang members to the ground. He lifts his head, eyes searching for me, for the sniper, for anything. Another shot from the oak’s branches cracks across the yard. Trick dives, scrambling behind an overturned table.
I see another muzzle flash from inside the house, random or directed, I can’t tell. My father is still inside. That knowledge churns like acid in my stomach. At any moment, the men inside could kill him out of spite or panic. We have no leverage. Just me. My father’s only value to them is as bait for me, but the second they realize the guys are here, how do we keep him safe?
They want me.
That’s the only reason they took him. If I step out, maybe they’ll hold their fire. Maybe we can trade. Give them what they want. Maybe that’ll distract them enough for Sam, Trick, and Hugo to slip away with Dad.
It’s a reckless gamble, but I see no other way. My father is inside, possibly tortured or near death, and these men are risking everything on my behalf. I can’t let them all bleed while I cower in a truck seat.
What fucking choice do I have? No choice at all, really.
I promised them I’d stay put.
But everything has changed. The plan is in tatters. They didn’t know about the sniper, or the number of men. If they keep fighting blindly, someone will die—maybe all of them, maybe Dad. I can’t stand that thought.
And if they all die, Crow gets me anyway. What the hell is the point?
A bullet smashes into the truck’s fender, jolting me. I let out a strangled cry, flattening myself against the seat. The muzzle flashes in the yard intensify as Trick or Hugo returns fire.
Resolve hardens in my gut. I can’t keep burying my head while everyone else bleeds for me.
My heart pounds so wildly I feel lightheaded, like I’m sinking into my body. I blink away tears, swallowing the terror that threatens to drown me. This is the last thing Sam, Trick, and Hugo wanted me to do, but I don’t see another way .
If it means saving Dad, I’ll do it. If it means saving them, I’ll do it.
I press my forehead to the seat in front of me, inhaling a ragged breath, bracing myself for what might be the biggest mistake of my life.
When I glance up, I see Trick pinned by two men near the porch, grunting in pain as they trade gut shots on him. Hugo is partially obscured by the swirl of debris, locked in a brutal struggle. Sam is out of sight behind the house or in it, but the random bursts of gunfire from that direction suggest he’s pinned as well.
So much pain. All because of me.
No. Because of Crow.
The thought makes the queasy fear harden in my veins. I’m scared as hell, but I’m angrier than that. I’m furious. If I step out, I might get shot immediately. Or worse, I might be taken forcibly. But I have to try to end this.
“Dad,” I whisper, tears slipping free. “Hold on.”
Clenching my jaw, I push open the truck door. It groans in protest, the night air rushing in, cold against my sweaty skin. The echo of gunfire pulses through the darkness. My heart is a caged animal, thrashing in my chest. I don’t step out yet, just hover there, half in the truck, half out, swallowing the panic that screams at me to stay safe.
My father’s face drifts through my mind—every memory of him, every argument, every moment I took for granted. If this is how I repay him, so be it.
A bullet rips into the pavement a few yards away, sparks skittering. I jolt, breath catching. The fight is only intensifying. Trick’s voice bellows something furious, cut short by the snap of gunfire. Another muzzle flash arcs from the corner of the house. A chunk of porch railing shatters.
The night air slams into me, carrying the smell of fireworks—gunpowder—and churned earth. The yard is a chaos of shadows and half-seen figures. Another bullet ricochets off a stone near the front porch, sending sparks into the night.
They want me alive, right? That’s the only card I have.
I let go of the door, letting it swing shut behind me with a metallic thud. I want their attention. I want them to hear me, see me. Let them come for me.
The yard looks like a nightclub, thanks to the muzzle flashes imitating strobe lights. They have to run out of bullets soon, right? I swallow past the dryness in my mouth. Through the half-light, I glimpse Trick flinging a thug away from him, only to be attacked by another.
I swallow a scream that tries to crawl up my throat. That is not going to help things. I raise my hands, a universal sign of surrender, and take a single step away from the truck. My throat tightens as I open my mouth, preparing to shout out who I am, to demand they release Dad or stop shooting. The words catch.
Dad is somewhere behind those walls, alone in the darkness. That bloody picture…
My hands clench, nails digging into my palms. I step forward, heart thundering, ready to call out my surrender, my plea, my offer.
The second my foot leaves the concrete, I know there’s no going back. The shots ring louder than ever in my ears, a violent backdrop to this choice I’m making. My breath catches.
I hear Sam’s voice in my head. Stay in the truck.
I hear my promise to him. And now, I’m making myself a liar.
Sam’s order burns away under the brutal reality that I can’t watch them die, and I can’t hear Dad’s final scream. Before I can speak, another bullet cracks the air, close enough that my hair whips in the concussive force. I flinch, tears blurring my vision. No more hesitation. With my arms half-raised, I take another step, heart hammering like a wild drumbeat.
I am a woman who has chosen safety her whole life. I hide behind a pen name. My mother was the safe choice in the divorce—Boston offered more opportunity than Auclair. I chose to be a librarian, because it was a safer, quieter life than any other option. When Dad came for her funeral, he begged me to move back here, saying Boston wasn’t safe for me anymore without Mom around. It wasn’t safe to be alone.
And when Crow attacked me in the dark, I froze. There was no safety in sight, so I didn’t know what to do. I panicked and froze up until Sam, Trick, and Hugo rescued me.
No more hiding. No more freezing. No more letting other people protect me.
With all the love in my heart for the men out there risking their lives for me, my voice rings out loud and clear. “I want to talk to Crow!”