9. Joker
CHAPTER 9
JOKER
H oly motherfucking shit storm on a stick. Yeah, I might be fist pumping the air as I watch her out maneuver her pursuers at every turn. That's our girl making a break for it. My eyes track Charlotte's desperate dash through the bunker's security feed, her movements erratic but determined as she navigates the labyrinthine corridors toward the cellblocks. Gotta hand it to her, she's got more balls than most of the mercs I've worked with.
"Deacon, change of plans," I bark into the comms, fingers flying across three keyboards simultaneously. "Our package is down the west, nope scratch that, she’s heading east through section C-7. Intercept at junction 12."
Deacon's calm voice replies, "Copy," but I can hear the tension underneath. The man never raises his voice, but when shit goes sideways, there's this particular flatness that creeps in. Like right now.
Meanwhile, my other screen explodes with movement as Motley goes absolutely nuclear two corridors over. The man's a goddamn horror movie villain when he gets like this. One guard tries to raise his weapon, Beaux slices through his throat before the poor bastard can even register what's happening. With a practiced flick of his wrist he finishes the job, prying one eye from the socket, but stops with a curse. Another guard comes at him from behind, and Motley just—Christ. Let's just say there's a reason we call him Motley and not Sunshine.
"Motley, throttle down," I order, knowing it's useless. "Charlotte's heading your way, but you're leaving a blood trail a mile wide."
His only response is a feral growl that makes my skin prickle even through the digital connection. I swear I can smell the iron tang of blood through my headset.
"He's off script," I inform Trigger, who's methodically clearing rooms two sections over, Beckett at his six. "And our girl's running scared right into a potential crossfire. "
"Coordinates, again," Teagan demands, voice sharp as a blade.
I rattle them off, simultaneously disabling the remaining security protocols in their path. "You've got two minutes before this whole place goes even more berserk, fire alarm is now engaged and ready. Extraction team has synced up with Malcolm, Quincy is intercepting. Fire alarm is a go. I can only keep the override active so long."
My screens flicker as I hop between cameras, watching my three brothers converge on Charlotte's position. It's like some twisted ballet, Trigger from the north, Deacon from the east, Motley carving a crimson path from the west.
"Wait," I mutter, spotting something on camera 12. "Charlotte's got company."
The same guard I saw her originally escape from, big fucker with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow is tracking her, almost staying just out of sight. He's smart, trying to use the blind spots between cameras. Thank goodness I am hyper-focused, or I would have missed him.
"Deacon, on your six," I warn. "Hostile closing in on Charlotte."
Everything happens at once. All three of my packmates converge at the junction point, weapons raised, Charlotte wide-eyed and frozen between them like a deer in headlights. But before anyone can make a move, Scarface lunges from the shadows, snatching Charlotte by the throat and dragging her back against his chest.
"Stand down or I snap her neck," he threatens, a nervous quiver in his voice betraying him.
Motley doesn't hesitate. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even seem to breathe. Just raises his pistol and puts a clean hole right between the guard's eyes. It all happens so fast, the poor bastard doesn’t have a chance to blink. Clean, cold, and efficient.
The sound of the shot echoes through my headset, making me flinch. Charlotte's scream follows immediately after, high and thin with shock as the guard's body crumples behind her, spraying her with blood and brain matter.
"We're here to get you out," Trigger says calmly, holstering his sidearm and raising his hands non-threateningly. "You're safe now, Charlotte."
But she's not processing. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her breathing rapid and shallow. Classic shock response. Her knees buckle, and she starts to fold like origami .
Deacon moves fastest, catching her before she hits the ground. He cradles her against his chest with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands that were dealing death mere moments ago.
"Package secured," Moses reports, even though I can see it with my own eyes, his voice softer than usual. "She's unconscious."
I exhale, unaware I'd been holding my breath. "Extraction route clear. Head for point Bravo. You've got four minutes before reinforcements breach the east entrance and when I say reinforcements, I mean the locals."
On my screen, Motley hovers over Deacon and Charlotte, his face a mask of rage and something else, something raw and vulnerable that makes me look away. I've never seen that expression on him before.
"Move out," Trigger orders. "Joker, we're coming home."
"Copy that," I reply, already wiping the system and planting our little digital goodbye present. "I'll keep the door open."
The private jet's engine hums with a steady vibration beneath my feet, the white noise almost soothing after the clusterfuck we just escaped. We could have lost her if I hadn’t been watching as closely as I had. Fuck. I can’t afford to spiral, so I do what I do best, I keep monitoring the situation we left behind, assisting Malcolm, Beckett, and Quincy who remained behind to aid the rest of the captive Omegas.
My fingers tap an erratic rhythm on my laptop, the code on my screen blurring as my attention drifts for the hundredth time to the sleeping figure across the aisle. Her intoxicating scent of honey and cinnamon with a hint of firewood permeates the cabin, soothing and familiar, like home.
Charlotte's curled into herself, looking impossibly small against the cream leather seat. Someone, Deacon, I think, draped a blanket over her, but she still has flecks of dried blood on her face and neck. Not hers, I remind myself, but the guard’s. The one Motley executed with surgical precision right in front of her.
No wonder she's out cold. Between the escape attempt, the rescue, and watching a man's brains paint the wall behind her, yeah, I'd check out too.
"She’s been out for a while. How long?" I ask, not looking away from her face. The worry lines between her brows haven’t smoothed out, even in unconsciousness .
"Three hours, seventeen minutes," Beaux answers immediately from where he's standing sentry beside her seat. Man hasn't moved more than three feet from her since we boarded. His fingers twitch occasionally toward her, like he's fighting the urge to touch her.
Moses circles back from the galley with a glass of water, setting it on the table beside her in case she wakes. "Her pulse is steady. Breathing normal." He hesitates, then adds quietly, "Definitely a trauma response on top of everything else she experienced."
Of course it is. Girl's probably reliving that headshot on repeat in her dreams.
"We could've handled that better," I mutter, running calculations in my head. "Probability of psychological trauma is?—"
"Don't," Moses cuts me off, stopping me from obsessing, voice gentle but firm. "We got her out. That's what matters."
I snort. "Yeah, but at what cost? She's terrified of us now."
Beaux tsks, lips pursing, eyes never leaving Charlotte's face. "Better scared of us than dead with them."
Hard to argue with that particular brand of Motley logic, so I don't try. Instead, I tune into the conversation happening at the front of the cabin where Teagan is speaking to Dez on speakerphone .
". . .can't take her back to Houston," Trigger says. "They'll be watching for her there. Dez, this compound, the money to build such a place. What she saw, what all of them witnessed. . .they will want to silence them before any one of them talks. All the captives will need protection."
Dez's response is measured. "I’m arranging this as we speak, but Charlotte, The Savoy compound is an option. Freeya and Faith are here waiting so?—"
"No." Teagan's refusal is immediate, brooking no argument. "She stays with us."
"With your pack?" Dez clarifies, a note of surprise in his voice that makes me look up sharply.
Oh shit. Our old boss has figured it out. I hear amusement in Dez's knowing voice, yeah, he's caught on to the implication alright.
"Is that going to be a problem?" Teagan asks, a challenge in his voice that would make lesser men piss themselves.
But Dez just chuckles, the sound warm and knowing. "For me? No. For her? Four apex predators circling one unclaimed Omega. I'd say you boys have your work cut out for you."
"Her safety is our priority," Teagan insists, but there's a roughness to his voice that betrays him.
Dez hums his approval. "It's the right call. Keep her at the compound until she recovers. After what she's been through, she needs stability. Protection." He pauses significantly. "Pack."
The word hangs in the air between them, loaded with meaning. I watch Teagan's shoulders relax incrementally—permission granted, approval given from the man who's been like a father to all of us.
Charlotte stirs in her sleep, a small sound escaping her lips. Instantly, three heads swivel in her direction, Moses and Beaux tensing like hunting dogs on point. I catch myself leaning forward too, something primal and protective tightening in my chest. Mine.
Fuck. We're in deep.
She settles again without waking, her breathing evening out. I exhale slowly, exchanging a look with Moses who gives me a slight nod of understanding.
"What now?" I ask quietly, voice pitched so only my packmates can hear.
"Now we take care of her," Moses answers simply.
Beaux bares his teeth in what might generously be called a smile. "And kill anyone who tries to take her from us."
I snort. "Real Prince Charming routine you've got going there, Motley. "
But secretly, I agree with every word. Something fundamental shifted when we found her, when we saved her. She's ours now, whether she knows it or not. Whether she'll want us or not when she wakes.
And God help anyone who tries to change that.