Chapter 35
AbrAM
Vegas streaks past me in a neon blur, but the only color I care about is the red blood Nico will spill when I find him.
Denis rides shotgun, barking coordinates into a secure headset. “Alpha unit posts on Gibson in eight minutes. Bring full rigs, suppressors only. Copy?” After a brief pause, he says, “Two trucks inbound.”
Mikail sits behind me, the screen from his laptop glowing ghost-green across his face. “Party house confirmed. Utility records show a spike in power a few hours ago. AC is blasting. Lights are on. They’re in there.”
A few minutes later I’m punching a code at an anonymous roll-up gate.
Steel yawns open, and I nose the car inside the concrete bunker.
No signage, nothing but the smell of old brake fluid and CLP gun oil.
A freight elevator the size of a studio apartment waits at the far wall.
Thirty seconds later we emerge into a subterranean armory lit by a single row of fluorescents.
I walk the steel racks, fingers brushing against cold barrels. The ritual centers me. SR9 pistols—check. MPX-K sub-guns—check. Four Kevlar soft vests in matte black—check. I sling a shotgun over my shoulder and claim a KA-BAR longer than my hand. Rage should have a blade.
Denis loads magazines methodically, brass clicking like a metronome. “Rules?” he asks without looking up.
“Jenna unharmed is objective one,” I say. “Anyone so much as bruises her, you shoot him in the throat. No hesitation.”
Mikail zips up his plate carrier vest and raises an eyebrow. “City limits. Metro will crawl up our ass if we light up the place.”
“Then we finish before they arrive,” I answer. “If she bleeds, Vegas can burn.”
They don’t argue.
While the men gear up, I step into a side office the size of a closet.
I pull Jenna’s phone from my pocket, recovered from the restaurant floor after the chaos.
The screen comes alive with a picture of Jenna and Claire, shoulders pressed together, sunlight turning her hair to copper fire.
She’s laughing, open-mouthed, eyes squinting in pure joy.
My chest tightens. It’s an unwelcome sensation because it feels like fear, and I don’t do fear.
If Nico touches her again, I’ll mail his father the pieces in unmarked boxes.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, sealing the softness away, and return to the men.
A minute later, three black Yukons glide out of the garage. We run south on Main, cutting east into the warehouse district. Night vision goggles drop into place, turning the world phosphor green. I breathe deep and slow.
Ten minutes, baby. Hold on.
The convoy ghosts through back streets at a crawl—no headlights, engines idling low. I ride point; my right hand on the wheel, the left brushing the spare mag on my thigh, a nervous tell I forgot I even had.
I picture Jenna’s face when I storm that room, her eyes flashing relief and fury in equal measure. When I cut the cuff from her wrist, I’m going to tell her what I should have said over dinner.
I love you, kisa. Let me keep you safe.
Not exactly a polished speech. Just the truth, raw and ugly, the way Bratva men reveal their hearts.
Denis’s voice crackles over the comm. “Alpha, thirty seconds to the mark. Heat index unchanged. No patrol outside.”
“Copy,” I respond. “Bravo, stay tight. No hero shit.”
Georg answers with a double click.
We roll past a busted streetlamp. The house is situated at the end of the cul-de-sac, moonlight painting its stucco the color of bone. The Jeep we tagged on FLIR still sits out front, windows fogged from bodies breathing inside.
In the back seat, Mikail closes the laptop and racks his pistol. “You sure you want point?”
I flash a grin he can’t see. “The first person Jenna lays eyes on will be me.”
He huffs. “Figured.”
As we coast the last half-block, I kill the engine, letting momentum carry us to the curb. Silence fills the space, only the sound of my pulse in my ears, steady and certain.
Denis scans the perimeter through his scope. “One guard on the porch smoking. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Eyes on his phone. Amateur hour.”
“Take him quietly. We breach in two.”
I lean back against the headrest, thumb the slide of the SR9, and allow one more thought of Jenna. She’s humming under her breath while typing at my desk, a tune I never recognized. Funny how you can miss something so small until it’s threatened.
Almost there, my love.
The Yukon doors pop open in silent choreography. The night breathes around us, hot and dusty. My boots hit the gravel and I ghost forward, every move a laser sight on the bedroom where she waits.
Showtime.