42. Quinn
42
QUINN
“Quinn! This way! Follow my voice!”
I freeze at the sound, blinking through the thick white smoke that’s rapidly filling the corridor. That voice—I’d know it anywhere.
“Willow?” My own voice is raw and cracking from all the smoke and screaming I’ve done. I squint, trying to make out shapes through the swirling cloud.
A figure that’s too small and thin to be one of Malcolm’s guards starts to form in the haze, and it’s moving quickly toward us. Willow’s face appears, determined and focused as she tosses another smoke grenade down the corridor. Her eyes lock with mine, and relief washes over her features.
“There you are,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Behind her, more figures start to take shape through the smoke—I immediately recognize the Voronin brothers, armed to the teeth and moving with military precision. But they’re not alone. My mouth falls open in silent disbelief as I recognize more faces—members of the old Carnage and Enigma crews, people I was sure we’d lost when everything went to hell.
“You brought—” I start, but Willow cuts me off.
“Thank your panic button. When it went off, we grabbed everyone we could find.” She presses a gun into my hand. “Now stop gawking and start shooting.”
Another wave of guards pours in from a side corridor, opening fire blindly through the smoke. Our men return fire, creating a wall of cover as we move toward what I hope is the exit.
“We need to move faster!” Willow shouts over the gunfire. “They have more coming!”
Killian appears at my side, still fighting even though his shoulder is a mangled mess. “Are you good?” he asks, quickly looking me up and down—no doubt scanning for injuries.
I shoot a sympathetic glance toward his shoulder. “Better than you, I think.”
He flashes me a grin that’s almost feral. “It’ll all be worth it once we’re out of here.”
Nico and Atlas stumble out of the smoke, both looking like they’ve gone ten rounds with a meat grinder, but they’re on their feet and moving. Cassandra and Owen are right behind them.
The smoke is helping to hide our movements and confuse the guards as we move through corridor after corridor, but it’s also making it hard to breathe and almost impossible to see where the fuck we’re going.
“Victor found the blueprints for this place,” Willow explains between bursts of gunfire. “The exit is two more corridors down, but they’ve got it heavily guarded.”
“Then we’ll make our own fucking exit,” Killian growls, holding up a semi-automatic gun he must have taken from one of the fallen guards.
The fighting as we move forward is brutal and chaotic. For every guard we take down, it seems like two more appear. But we’re making progress, inch by bloody inch.
A flash of movement catches my eye through a gap in the smoke. Just a glimpse of dark hair and an expensive suit, ducking down a side corridor.
Malcolm.
“Wait,” I grab Killian’s arm and squint through the smoky haze. “I just saw Malcolm.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“I’ve been avoiding him in his own house for weeks. It was him.”
I catch another glimpse of him, and it’s clear he’s trying to slip away like the fucking coward he is, leaving his men to die while he saves his own worthless ass—just like he did with Elliot in the basement.
“That son of a bitch.” I point my gun in his direction and fire off a round, but I know I didn’t hit him.
This is just like Ambrose all over again. Another monster who ran when shit hit the fan, leaving his men to die while he tried to save himself.
The pattern is so fucking clear now. These men—these assholes who think they’re fucking gods—are nothing but cowards when someone comes along to call them on their bullshit.
A guard rushes toward us through the smoke, and I react on instinct, putting two bullets in his chest before he can raise his weapon. The sound of his body hitting the floor barely registers as my eyes lock on to another hazy shadow that might be my last glimpse of Malcolm.
He’s heading toward what must be some kind of emergency exit or hidden passage. Of course he’d have an escape route planned. Men like him always do.
“He’s getting away,” I hiss, my finger tightening on the trigger of my gun.
I look at my men, torn between going after Malcolm and staying with them. They’re bruised and bloody and battered, but they’re fighting like hell, working together with the kind of wordless communication that comes from years of absolute trust.
With Willow and the others backing them up, the tide is finally turning in our favor. The guards are being forced back as more and more of them get picked off by our side.
We’re going to make it out. My men and I are going to survive this hell.
But Malcolm is slipping through my fingers with every second that passes. The man who killed my mother. Who forced me to marry him. Who tortured the men I love. Who would have raped me in front of them just to break us all.
I glance at Nico, catching his eye through the chaos, and an understanding passes between us.
“Go,” he calls out to me, nodding toward where Malcolm disappeared. “End it.”
I hesitate for just a second longer, meeting Killian’s eyes, then Atlas’s. They all see what’s happening, and they know what I need to do.
“Don’t die,” Atlas calls to me, a hint of a smile spreading across his bloody lips.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I call back over my shoulder, already turning toward the corridor where Malcolm vanished.
I hold my gun ready as I slip away from the main fight into the smoke-filled passage. My heart is beating faster, but my hands are steady.
This ends now. One way or another.
I stay low, tracking him from a safe distance through the maze of corridors. He moves with the familiarity of someone who has memorized an escape route. He doesn’t hesitate at intersections or check doors—he knows exactly where he’s going. Every few seconds, he glances over his shoulder with a look of panic that almost makes me smile.
He doesn’t see me though. My time in the Dark Lotus Syndicate has taught me a thing or two about staying in the shadows, about becoming the predator instead of the prey.
So thanks for that, husband.
The corridor slopes upward, and I can feel fresh air seeping in from somewhere ahead. We’re nearing an exit. Malcolm picks up his pace, nearly running now, and I hurry my steps to match. My body is aching all over, and my face is still throbbing where he hit me, but the pain is just background noise. I’m motivated by the need for vengeance now—justice for my mom, for Imogen and Rafael, for my three men and everyone else who’s ever been hurt by Malcolm.
He pushes through a metal door, and I feel a rush of cold, damp air against my sweat-slicked skin. I pause at the doorway, blinking as my eyes adjust to the darkness. We’re on the edge of what looks like an industrial complex, with the Detroit River stretching out in front of us.
I don’t fully recognize this area, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing I’m focused on is the man racing down a gravel path toward the water.
Staying in the shadows, I follow, keeping enough distance that he won’t spot me if he turns again. My finger itches on the trigger of my gun. I could end it right now—one shot to the back of his head, and it would all be over. But I can’t afford to miss and let him know I’m onto him.
Besides, after everything he’s done, I want to see his face when he realizes I’m the one pulling the trigger.
The path opens up to a private dock where a sleek, gleaming white yacht is anchored. It’s fucking huge—at least sixty feet long, with multiple levels. Because of course he’d have a goddamn floating palace ready and waiting for him to make his big escape.
Malcolm sprints down the dock and makes the small jump onto the deck with surprising agility for a man his age, then immediately disappears below deck.
Seconds later, lights flicker on inside the lower part of the cabin, and the engines rumble to life.
Fuck that. He’s not getting away this fucking easily.
I tuck my gun into the back of my pants and break from my cover, sacrificing caution for speed as I race down the dock. The yacht is already drifting away, the gap widening with each passing second.
It’s now or never.
Without hesitating, I sprint the last few yards and launch myself through the air. For one heart-stopping moment, I’m suspended over the black water before crashing onto the deck of the yacht and dropping into a roll to absorb the impact.
Pain jolts through my shoulder as I collide with a metal railing, but I choke back the cry that threatens to escape my lips. The yacht is still pulling away from the dock, the distance growing as the engines roar louder.
I stay crouched on the deck, catching my breath as I take stock of my surroundings. I don’t hear any footsteps, so it’s a safe bet that Malcolm still doesn’t know I’m here. The element of surprise is the only advantage I have, and I intend to use it.
As I creep toward the cabin, I can see that the yacht is even more luxurious than it appeared from shore—all gleaming chrome and polished wood, with plush seating areas and a glass-enclosed upper deck. It’s fucking sickening to think that blood money bought all of this.
Movement catches my eye, and I duck lower, flattening myself against the deck. Through the windows of the main cabin, I can see Malcolm moving around inside, frantically pulling open drawers and stuffing items into a bag.
Suddenly, the lights inside the cabin go dark. I curse under my breath and reach for my gun, but it’s not tucked in the back of my pants anymore. Fuck . I must have lost it during my frantic leap onto the boat.
I scan the deck, searching for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes land on a metal boat hook hanging on the railing—a long metal pole with a sharp hook at the end. I grab it, testing its weight in my hand. It’s solid and heavy, and the business end is sharp enough to do some serious damage.
Yeah, this’ll do.
I move silently back across the deck, keeping low as I listen for any sound that might give away Malcolm’s location. The yacht’s engines purr steadily beneath my feet as we cut through the dark water. We’re not going very fast—this thing was clearly made for luxury over speed—but I want to get this hook embedded in Malcolm’s fucking chest before we get too far away from my men.
There’s a faint light shining down from the upper deck where I guess the wheelhouse is located. Of course. He’s steering the boat, probably heading for some prearranged pickup point upriver.
Hell, we might be heading to Canada for all I know.
I creep toward the stairway that leads to the upper deck with the boat hook gripped tightly in my hands. Each step is slow and deliberate, and I’m careful to avoid making the metal stairs creak beneath my weight.
At the top, I can see him through the glass windows of the wheelhouse. He’s standing at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the other holding what looks like a satellite phone. His back is to me, shoulders tense as he speaks urgently into the phone.
“I don’t care what it costs,” I hear him say as I ease the door open. “Just be there in thirty minutes with the car ready. I’m leaving everything behind.”
I raise the boat hook and hold my breath as I take one silent step forward, then another. I’m close enough now to smell his cologne, that sickening scent that’s been haunting my nightmares.
Something must give me away—a shadow, a reflection in the glass, the slightest sound of my footsteps—because Malcolm suddenly spins around, his eyes widening as he sees me.
I swing the hook with all my strength, aiming for his head. He jerks backward, the hook missing his face by inches and crashing into the control panel instead. Sparks fly as it tears through the electronics, and Malcolm uses the distraction to lunge at me, tackling me to the floor.
My head cracks against the deck, and stars explode behind my eyes. The boat hook clatters away, sliding across the floor out of reach.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarls, pinning me down with his weight. His fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head to the side. “You just couldn’t let it go, could you? When will you learn to just fucking die?”
I buck beneath him, twisting my body and driving my knee up between his legs. He howls in pain and rolls off me just enough for me to scramble away.
I stagger to my feet, tasting blood in my mouth as he pushes himself up across from me. We circle each other in the confined space of the wheelhouse with the control panel sparking and smoking between us.
“You’re just like your mother,” he spits, blood trickling from a cut on his lip where my fist must have caught him as I fought free. “She couldn’t see a good thing when it was right in front of her either.”
“Don’t you dare talk about her,” I grind out through clenched teeth, feinting left before driving my fist into his ribs on the right.
He grunts but doesn’t go down, countering with a blow to my shoulder that makes my entire arm go numb. He fights like someone who is used to having others do his dirty work—no technique but enough strength to still be dangerous.
I duck under his next swing and ram my shoulder into his stomach, shoving him backward. He collides with the wheel, spinning it wildly and sending the yacht lurching to the side. Both of us stagger as the floor tilts beneath us.
The damaged control panel sputters, and suddenly the engines cut out. The yacht begins to drift, carried by the river’s current and its own momentum.
Malcolm recovers first, charging at me like a bull. I sidestep, but he anticipates the move, grabbing a fistful of my hair and using it to slam my face into the wall. Pain explodes through my skull, and my whole world flickers like lights being shut off and back on again.
“I could have given you everything,” he hisses in my ear, spinning me around and grabbing me by the throat. “Power. Protection. All the money you would ever need. The only thing you had to do was submit.”
My lungs are already burning, but he only squeezes tighter as I claw at his hands. I try to knee him again, but I only manage to throw us both off balance, sending us crashing through the wheelhouse door and out onto the open deck. I’m losing strength, and my attempts to break free are getting weaker by the second as my vision starts to go dark around the edges.
He drags me down to the main deck, his sharp features distorted with rage as he forces me to my knees, then down onto my back. I know I only have a few precious seconds left as he straddles me and clamps down all over again with both hands on my throat.
“You could have been my queen,” he snarls, leaning over me. “Just like your mother could have been. But you both chose to deny me. And look where it got you.”
I try one last desperate move, raking my nails down his face, but he barely flinches. This can’t be how it ends. Not with him winning. Not after everything.
The crack of a gunshot is so unexpected that for a moment, I think I’ve imagined it. But then Malcolm’s grip on my throat suddenly loosens, and his body jerks backward.
He falls sideways, grabbing his shoulder as I roll the other direction, gasping and coughing as precious air floods back into my lungs.
My vision is still spotty as I look back to where the gunshot came from. Three figures rise from the edge of the boat and haul themselves over the railing with water streaming from their bodies.
Killian, Atlas, and Nico. My men.