Chapter 23 #2
Enzo’s lips twitched. “I’m hardly Jesse James, but I do okay in a pinch.”
Seven watched as Enzo performed his own check, competent, careful, his movements economical in that way that came from living a life where mistakes got you killed. It was weirdly hot.
Seven wasn’t a gun person. He preferred his work up close and personal.
Guns left evidence, casings, residue, noise.
Knives were cleaner. He could feel the breath leave their lungs with a blade, and knew that, as long as the weapon stayed with him, he likely hadn’t left any piece of himself behind.
Or maybe that was just a lie he told himself to justify the way he preferred to take someone else’s life.
The building Thomas had instructed them to use rose up from the fog like a dead leviathan, massive, silent, its windows glazed with grime and sea brine.
The weak interior light bled through in patches, making it look less like a warehouse and more like a mirage, something half-born from one of his night terrors.
Something about the building gave him the creeps.
When they reached the rusty spiral staircase climbing the back of the building, Seven tested the first step with his boot. It shifted with a slow, ominous squeal.
“Be careful,” he murmured. “Felix said they’re a bit wobbly.”
Enzo nodded. “Let me go up first.”
Seven opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. They didn’t have time, and Enzo wouldn’t back down anyway. It was one of those protective, maddening things that made Seven’s chest ache and his teeth clench at the same time.
It was quarter to midnight. They still had to get comms active before Brioni’s would-be assassins arrived.
Asa was waiting at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette against the faint warehouse light. It had taken Seven years to tell him and Avi apart. He used to rely on physical cues—the small notch in Asa’s right ear mirrored on Avi’s left—but now, he could feel who was whom just by vibes.
Asa radiated a particular brand of menace, the kind that felt like standing too close to a live wire. Avi could carve a man open with a smile, but Asa carried himself with an eerily quiet violence.
He waved them in and mouthed for quiet, guiding them along the widow’s walk that overlooked the cavernous concrete floor below.
From that vantage, they had a bird’s-eye view: Brioni pacing alone in sneakers and yoga pants, oversized hoodie zipped up to her neck to hide the Kevlar beneath.
Her silhouette looked smaller from above, like a dark figure on a stage waiting for the curtain to drop.
Asa led them into a shallow alcove that smelled faintly of old oil and dust. A bucket filled with rancid water and a decayed mop sat nearby, letting him know it had likely once been used for storage.
The others were already there. Seven’s eyes snagged on Enzo’s face and found him watching Zane and Felix, each perched on one of Avi’s knees like spoiled royalty.
The sight almost made Seven laugh; it was absurd and somehow perfectly Mulvaney.
Asa spoke in a low murmur. “We have eyes on Brioni. Her necklace is a camera.”
Zane flipped his phone so they could all see the world from Brioni’s point-of-view as she walked a small, jittery circle around the space, sneakers scuffing with each step.
Seven swallowed. Seeing the world through another’s lens always made things feel closer, smaller, more intimate, and therefore, more dangerous.
Asa handed them each a small earpiece. They slid into place with tiny clicks that sounded unnaturally loud in the hush.
“Comms check,” Asa said.
“Check,” everyone answered, voices soft.
They watched Brioni’s head jerk up toward the loft. Movement below made every breath feel conspicuous.
Asa’s eyes were cold when he hissed, “Don’t look up here.
” He didn’t raise his voice, but the warning carried.
When Zane met his gaze, giving him a stern look, Asa barked a sound that was half irritation and half endearment before saying, “I know your first instinct is to glance up when you hear us talk, but you absolutely cannot do that. You’ll get us all killed. ”
“Sorry, sorry,” Brioni breathed into the cam. “I’m freaking out.” Her fingers fumbled at the hem of her hoodie. Her knuckles showed white in the camera’s grainy feed.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” Seven said, his tone softer than he felt. “But you have to pretend we’re not here. They’ll expect nerves. But if your eyes start darting, they’ll suspect a set-up and start tying up loose ends. You'll be first.”
Brioni nodded, and the image on Zane’s phone trembled with the motion.
“What’s the plan?” Enzo asked, the question practical and steady.
“Wait for them to arrive,” Avi said, brandishing a strange, compact weapon that looked like a hybrid between a shotgun and a toy. “Use this to incapacitate them, then have a little fun before they die.” He grinned like a mad man. It made the hairs on Seven’s arms stand up.
Enzo cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?”
“Rubber rounds,” Avi said. “Just enough to ruin their night before we finish them off properly.”
Seven’s lips twitched. Nobody loved a slow, theatrical end more than the twins.
He noted Enzo’s composure, the way his jaw stayed loose, how his breath matched the others’ casual cadence.
For a moment, Seven wondered if the man next to him felt any of the dark anticipation that pooled in Seven like oil.
If so, he didn’t show it. Did the others know how jumpy Seven felt on the inside, or did he somehow radiate that same outward calm while his insides buzzed like frayed wires?
Enzo must have noted something because his arm came around Seven’s shoulders, pulling him against him. His calm was a heat lamp; it warmed Seven and made him dangerously complacent.
A harsh metallic scrape crawled through the building like a warning: corrugated metal doors dragging across concrete like nails on a chalkboard. Zane tensed.
“Stay cool, Brioni,” Asa whispered softly. There were no theatrics in it. Just a quiet command, reminding her that their lives were in each other’s hands.
She didn’t respond aloud; she couldn’t. Her phone-camera trembled as a shadow moved into frame.
“Grant?” she asked softly, voice trembling.
The man stepped from the shadows. Seven had to fight the snort building inside. The man looked like he’d come straight from the eighteenth hole, not a hair out of place. He wore form-fitting khakis, a pink polo shirt, and brown Sperry topsiders.
He rushed to Brioni, but she stumbled back, holding up a hand. “Stop.”
“Bethy? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice oily and far too casual.
“Don’t ‘Bethy’ me, you prick. Where are the other two?” Brioni snapped, voice brittle.
“Other two?” He feigned confusion, and that single syllable made every muscle in the alcove coil tighter. His ignorance was practiced, the kind of performance that hid a predator’s patience.
Grant wasn’t just arranging a meeting. He’d had no problem with the other two greenlighting Brioni's demise. Seven could see the serpentine coldness in his gaze even though the image appeared black and white.
Brioni wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t piss me off, Grant. I’m this close to going to the cops and telling them every—”
“No!” Grant shouted, lurching toward her.
The sound echoed up through the rafters.
She stumbled back once again, sneakers scraping across the gritty concrete.
He froze mid-step, catching himself. “Bethy, be reasonable. I know you liked Neith. She was a good woman.” Seven’s lip curled in disgust listening to the man talk about his mother as if she was dead.
“But if you tell anyone, we can’t keep helping these women. ”
“Oh, fuck off, Grant,” Brioni said, giving voice to Seven’s own thought. “I know what you’re really up to.”
“What?” he asked, too fast, too high-pitched.
Seven could hear the sneer in her tone as she said, “You trafficked those women and children.”
Grant tilted his head, his expression morphing into a condescension that made Seven irritated on Brioni’s behalf. “Bethy—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence with some dumbass excuse. I’m tired of dealing with lackeys. I want someone who can pay for my silence. Where are your bosses?”
Grant’s shoulders sagged like she’d finally played her hand. “They’re coming. They’re a few minutes out. This isn’t the easiest place to find. You couldn’t have picked somewhere with better lighting?”
“Should I have asked you guys to meet at fucking Starbucks?” she hissed.
Seven had to admit, he was impressed. Her voice cracked just enough to sell the fear, but her rage was real. It bled through every word like heat through glass.
“No. No, of course not. You did good, Bethy,” Grant said, smiling that nervous politician’s smile that never reached his eyes.
Then came a scuffling sound, heavy boots against concrete, followed by grunts and the screech of the front door dragging shut again.
“Who are they?” Brioni’s voice trembled, sharper now.
They all stared at the feed, that dread from earlier returning full force as Brioni turned her body and they got a glimpse of their unexpected guests.
Seven sucked in a knife-sharp breath at the same time Enzo did, his heart plummeting into his shoes. There in the doorway were not only Caesar and Fritz, but Ansel and Elio, the muzzle of a gun pressed to each of their temples. The two teens looked shockingly steady.
For one nauseating second, the world shrank to the flickering glow of Zane’s screen and the tinny sound of Brioni’s breathing. Every instinct in Seven screamed move.
“Those fucking idiots,” Enzo whispered, his horror obvious. His face went pale beneath the warehouse’s sickly yellow light.
“You tell us,” Fritz rasped. His voice was rough, winded, like each breath scraped down his throat. The man was huge, thick-necked and sweating through his shirt. The kind of predator who mistook size for power.