Chapter 32
Ash
The half-dead dude in a smart shirt bubbled red snot onto the plastic lining the boot of the car. I grabbed his wrists.
Convict came up alongside me and pulled a face. “Jesus. Aim that away from the upholstery. I’m not explaining that when I get my car cleaned.”
I snorted a laugh and adjusted my grip on the bastard’s arm, heaving him out. “There he goes. Careful now. He’s delicate.”
Convict swung him clear with a grunt. “He’s six-three and built like a fridge.”
“A sensitive fridge.”
Our captive groaned through the gag.
I struggled under his hefty weight. “See? Emotional.”
We hauled him through the back entrance of the industrial building, past stacked pallets and rusting machinery that I imagined existed purely for show. Anyone poking their nose in here would only see a workshop closed for the night.
We knew better, even if it was my first visit to the skeleton crew’s torture dungeon.
Convict kicked an interior door open with his boot. “Welcome to the underworld, sunshine.”
We carried Sullivan’s man down concrete steps, the air cooling with each level. The hum of electricity kicked in halfway down. Security, ventilation, the quiet buzz of a very illegal hole in the ground.
At the bottom, my partner in crime for the evening punched in a code and pushed through into the bunker.
I took in the place. Concrete, reinforced walls. Stark lighting. The tang in the air of cleaning fluids and bodily ones.
At a desk of monitors, a crew member playing guard nodded a greeting. “Name?”
“Introducing our next contestant, Justin Skinner,” I replied.
The guard, Damien, I remembered, jerked his head to release us.
I twisted to take in the cells and gave a low whistle. “Nothing says hospitality quite like steel doors and the screams of your cellmates.”
Convict laughed. “Shame we don’t do room service.”
“We could. A tiny menu of water or regret.”
We dragged our guy over to the nearest cell and shoved him onto the metal bench, and Convict linked his constraints to a bolted chain. He slumped sideways.
Convict peered at him, hands on his knees. “Right. House rules. No crying, no dying, and absolutely no pissing yourself unless you ask first.”
The man moaned.
I nodded. “Good attitude. You’ll fit in fine, tossgoblin.”
I tugged the gag free just long enough for him to suck in a breath.
“Please,” he rasped. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
Convict popped the gag straight back in. “Save the tell-alls for when the right people are in the room. They’ll appreciate it far more.”
I locked the door, enjoying the solid clang, and stepped back, dusting off my hands. “That’s one delivered.”
Convict checked his phone. “Two, technically. Kane and Heretic dropped theirs off earlier. Reckon they’ll need help with the next?”
I cocked my head. “They have a second target?”
“No fair, right?”
My older brother always had to be so extra.
We climbed the steps up to the open air, and I dialled Heretic.
He answered without a greeting. “What’s wrong?”
I rolled my eyes. “Why would anything be wrong? Where in the city art thou, brother dearest?”
“Why?”
“We’re done so figured we’d help your sorry ass. So we Athertons don’t let the side down.”
He heaved a breath, and I imagined all the ways he was about to tell me where to get off.
Instead, he rattled off an address. “Twenty minutes. Approach on foot. Text me when you’re near.”
“Ooh, another raid?”
He’d already hung up on me.
The short drive back across the bridge to the English side of Deadwater took us to the shabby reaches of a commercial district, behind the tall, shiny bank of buildings to a far more modest set of square box businesses.
I sent the requested text, and my brother appeared from a side street, beckoning us in.
In an alley, Kane stood by a van, arms folded, appearing pleased with himself.
But my focus took in Heretic first, an age-old need to see he was still breathing.
I spread my arms wide. “Miss us?”
Heretic didn’t move. Just shifted his gaze to me with all the warmth of a loaded gun.
“Brother,” I said brightly. “You seem tense. Have you tried smiling? Or blinking. Either would be a nice change.”
Convict wheezed. Kane snorted then flattened it.
In the shadows, with one boot against a wall, Heretic tightened his jaw. “We’re tracking a man named Rhys Jacobs. He just re-entered Deadwater.”
That wiped the grin off Convict’s face and replaced it with something meaner. “The auctioneer? Holy shit.”
“Apparently. He appeared back on the scene earlier today. We were waiting.”
“How?” Convict demanded. “Mila should know. Fuck, she’ll want him taken alive.”
Heretic described how a lucky licence plate pickup triggered Tyler’s monitoring system, and how they’d been lying in wait, breaking only to bring in their other target.
Damn, we were slacking.
Kane jerked his chin to where the alley opened out. “Jacobs is inside the back office of that unit. Two exits. Two cameras. We’ve already looped the back one to give us a way in.”
I grinned. “Paranoid. I like him already.”
Heretic straightened. “He’s cautious. Been on the run long enough to develop habits.”
Convict stowed his phone where he’d no doubt been texting his missus, then cracked his knuckles. “This asshole sold girls and women. What’s the plan?”
Heretic answered. “Kane takes the rear exit. Ash, you go in visible. Give him something to focus on.”
I placed a hand on my chest. “Me? A distraction? I’m hurt.”
“You’re loud,” Heretic said.
“You still love me, though.”
He ignored that.
Convict leaned in. “Where do you want me?”
“Out here,” Heretic said. “We cut him off when he runs.”
I clapped my hands together. “Right then. Let’s go bring down a bad guy.”
The door to the unit creaked under my touch, the echo loud in the empty space. I swung the door back and forth to repeat the sound. No need to be sneaky. Inside, shelves lined the walls, most of them empty. A single light burned in the back office.
I didn’t bother being quiet. “Evening. Bit late for business, isn’t it?”
There was a scrape of a chair inside. A pause.
Then Rhys Jacobs stepped into view.
Dude was thin and sharp-faced. His eyes clocked every detail. In his hands, he held an honest-to-God briefcase. Who the hell still ran crime out of a briefcase?
“Wrong place, friend,” he said.
“Funny.” I strolled forward. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
His smile dropped.
Tossing the bag at me, he bolted.
I dodged it and barked, “Go!” Then chased after him.
Jacobs sprinted for the side exit, yanking the door open.
The asshole ran straight into Kane.
The impact knocked the breath out of him. He staggered back, this time into Convict, who grabbed him around the shoulders.
“Nowhere to go, sunshine.”
Jacobs twisted, desperation in an elbow jab to Convict’s ribs. Convict grunted but held on. My brother stepped in, calm as death, and drove a fist into Jacobs’ midsection.
Air left him in a broken gasp, but Jacobs didn’t quit. He dropped his weight, freeing an arm, then swung for my brother. His fist came millimetres from Heretic’s face.
Never. Not my kin.
I launched at him, snatched his shirt at the neck, and smashed my forehead into his face.
The auctioneer sagged, out cold.
Convict shook his head and laughed. “That’s what you get for coming home uninvited.”
Heretic zip-tied his wrists with efficient movements, no wasted motion. Kane checked the street, then nodded once.
“Clear.”
Convict and Kane went ahead, concealing our prisoner in a car boot.
Heretic slowed his steps, falling back with me. Out of earshot of the others, he released a quiet question. “Hurt?”
I snorted. “No.”
“Proud of you.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust my voice not to ruin it, even if my heart ached something fierce.
And we kept moving, another monster in our grip and plenty more waiting.