23. 23 Thorne
23: Thorne
Why Blaze decided to stick me with only Diablo’s men is beyond me. But I can’t say I mind. I’ve spent my life holding back for them—keeping myself in check, staying level-headed so I don’t scare anyone off. Being alone means being myself, and right now, that’s exactly what I need. Embracing that darker side of myself I fight off too often.
So here I am, planting bombs in Nico’s drug labs like some twisted Santa Claus, delivering revenge in neat little packages. One press of a button, and his operation goes up in flames.
“Anything yet?” I ask Kique, Juan’s right-hand man, wondering if he's heard anything from the others yet. He’s about as conversational as a brick wall, answering with a grunt and a shake of his head. He doesn’t even look at me, his eyes scanning the empty streets.
I gesture with my chin for us to move. He follows so silently I have to glance back to make sure he’s still there. For someone so tall and wiry, he moves like a ghost, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me a little uneasy. When we get back to the group, I can feel their frustrations in waves. They wanted a fight—guns blazing, blood spilled. Instead, they get to sit around with their thumbs up their asses.
Kique and I climb back into the SUV, waiting for the signal. Everything hinges on timing tonight—one misstep, one delay, and the whole operation falls apart. The minutes drag, stretching into what feels like hours, until Kique finally taps my shoulder and shoves his phone in my face.
The text is from someone named Loco. Go time, attacking Casino now.
My stomach twists at the thought of Ryder and Blaze walking into that chaos. I’ve been in enough fights with them to know they can handle themselves, especially with Keagan’s brand of lunacy thrown into the mix. But still… I can’t shake the knot coiled in my gut.
I grab the detonator, gripping it tighter than necessary as I press the button. A muffled boom echoes in the distance, followed by another, then another, the chain reaction spreading like wildfire through the city. The bombs are small, precise—just enough to ignite the labs and let their own supplies do the rest of the work.
Cooking drugs isn’t exactly the safest occupation.
The explosions ripple through the night, each one a nail in Nico’s coffin. I don’t stick around to see the aftermath. I don’t care who survives or who doesn’t. This isn’t about body count. It’s about dismantling Nico’s empire, one piece at a time, until there’s nothing left but ashes.
When I’m sure all the labs have gone up in flames, I don’t hesitate. “We’re done here,” I bark, throwing the car into gear. “We head to Tori.”
I can’t stand being away from her any longer, knowing she’s walking into this without us. She’s strong—I’ve seen it firsthand—but that doesn’t mean she should be alone. Protecting her is our job. It’s my job. And if Nico’s where I think he is, she’s heading right for him.
Another text from Loco flashes across Kique’s phone, and my pulse spikes as he shows it to me. Casino clear. No Nico.
“Fuck,” I mutter, slamming my foot down on the gas. The SUV roars forward, tires squealing as I weave through the streets like a man possessed. I can’t think about the possibility of being too late.
I won’t.
She's fine. She's strong.
The warehouse looms ahead, a hulking shadow against the night sky, the skeletal structure barely holding together under years of neglect. But right now, none of that matters. Right now, it’s a war zone.
Gunfire erupts before the SUV even skids to a stop, the air alive with the deafening percussion of automatic weapons. Muzzle flashes burst through the darkness, illuminating the battlefield for split seconds—just long enough to catch glimpses of bodies hitting the ground, blood spraying in violent arcs, men scrambling for cover behind rusted-out crates and toppled shelving units. The entire warehouse district reeks of death and gunpowder, the scent burning my lungs as I throw the door open and hit the ground running.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. I raise my gun and fire into the chaos.
Diablo’s men are already engaged, using whatever cover they can find to trade bullets with the Niners and the remnants of Valen’s old gang. The traitorous bastards are dug in like cockroaches, using the loading docks and catwalks above to rain down fire on our position. A bullet zips past my ear so close I feel the heat of it. Another slams into the SUV door behind me with a metallic clang. I barely register it. My focus is locked on the battlefield ahead, scanning for familiar faces amid the carnage.
Then I see them—Ryder, Blaze, and Keagan pinned down behind a cluster of crates, barely keeping their heads down as gunfire shreds through the wood like paper.
“Fuck,” I mutter, gripping my gun tighter before signaling to the men behind me. “Flank the bastards on the catwalk! Keep their attention off the ground!”
The second Diablo’s men move, I break into a sprint. Another round of bullets slices through the air, splintering the crates Ryder, Blaze, and Keagan are using as cover. Ryder curses, popping up just long enough to fire off a few wild shots before ducking back down.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” I growl as I skid into cover beside them, breathing hard. “You boys planning on camping here all night?”
“Wouldn’t mind, actually,” Ryder grits out, reloading with practiced efficiency. “Scenic view, nice bullet holes—real homey.”
Blaze doesn’t look at me. His eyes are locked on the battlefield, scanning, calculating. “We need to move. Now.”
Keagan huffs, shaking his head as he slams a fresh magazine into his pistol. “Yeah? You got a plan that doesn’t involve us getting turned into fucking Swiss cheese?”
I nod, taking a second to gauge our position, my pulse hammering as I press my back against the crate. Gunfire continues to rip through the air, each shot ringing out like a war drum, punctuated by the desperate screams of the wounded. Smoke thickens the air, the acrid stench of gunpowder mixing with the coppery tang of blood, burning the back of my throat. Spent shells litter the concrete, rolling underfoot, kicked aside by boots scrambling for better cover.
The catwalk above is still crawling with Niners, their rifles spitting death down at us, but Diablo’s men are relentless. I catch glimpses of them advancing, darting between metal beams, firing up at the shooters above. A Niner takes a hit to the shoulder, his body jerking before he topples over the railing, screaming the whole way down until his skull cracks against the floor with a sickening crunch. Another gunman flinches as a bullet grazes his temple, blood spraying across the rusted metal. He stumbles back, his rifle slipping from his hands, clattering uselessly to the floor below.
Keagan snorts, ducking down as another volley of bullets rains over our heads. “I’m just saying, if I die in this shithole, I better at least get a statue or something.”
Ryder barks out a dry laugh, popping out of cover just long enough to fire. “We’ll get you a nice plaque—‘Here lies Keagan. Talked too much, died anyway.’”
“Touching.” Keagan grins before unloading a shot that sends a Niner spinning onto his back. “Now, can we move before I add ‘buried alive in gunfire’ to my résumé?”
It’s not much, but it’s enough. The enemy’s fire starts to slow, hesitation creeping into their movements. We’ve rattled them. Now we just have to push forward before they regroup.
“Cover me,” I order before breaking into another sprint, firing as I go. My bullets catch a Niner in the chest, sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor. Another rounds a corner, raising his gun—too slow. I drop him with a shot to the head before diving behind another stack of crates. Ryder, Blaze, and Keagan are right behind me, their weapons barking out shots as they push forward.
We cut through the warehouse, stepping over bodies, kicking discarded weapons out of reach. Blood pools in the cracks of the concrete, smeared under boot prints. The scent of death clings to everything, seeping into my skin.
Then we spot him—Juan, slumped against a rusted shipping container, his leg drenched in blood. He grips his thigh, jaw clenched, his face pale beneath the layer of grime and sweat. A deep crimson puddle spreads beneath him, soaking into the dirt and oil-stained floor. He looks up as we approach, his breath ragged, but his eyes sharp despite the pain.
Blaze is the first to reach him, dropping to one knee and tearing fabric from his sleeve to fashion a tourniquet. He moves quickly, hands steady as he ties it off above the wound, tightening it to slow the bleeding. Juan grunts, his fingers digging into the rusted metal behind him.
"Where’s Tori?" Blaze demands, his voice edged with urgency, his gaze locked onto Juan’s face.
Juan exhales sharply, eyes flicking toward the dim corridor behind him. "She ran after Nico. I tried to stop her, but you know how she is." He grits his teeth, shifting his weight. "Didn’t even hesitate. Took off the second she saw an opening."
Ryder curses under his breath, pacing a few steps before running a hand through his hair. "Of course she did."
I kneel beside Blaze, scanning Juan’s wound. The bleeding is slowing, but he’s not walking out of here on his own. "How bad is it?"
Juan scoffs, his lips curling into something between a grimace and a smirk. "Hurts like a bitch, but I’ve had worse. Bullet went clean through. Just need a ride, maybe a drink."
Keagan, who had been keeping watch, lets out a dry laugh. "Yeah? You planning on walking out of here?"
"Not if you princesses carry me first." Juan leans his head back, exhaling sharply. "But unless you wanna babysit me all night, you need to go after her."
Blaze tightens the knot on the tourniquet, his eyes dark. "Keagan, stay with him. Make sure no more Niners get any bright ideas."
Keagan nods, settling beside Juan with his gun raised, scanning the area for movement. "Go. I’ve got him."
Blaze, Ryder, and I don’t waste another second. We push forward, guns raised, cutting through the carnage toward the only thing that matters—Tori.
We tear through the warehouse, the gunfire never stopping, the violence relentless. Every step forward is a battle, bodies dropping left and right as bullets tear through the air. My finger tightens on the trigger, each shot finding its mark, cutting down anyone foolish enough to stand in our way.
We round a corner and find ourselves in the middle of another firefight—Diablo’s men locked in battle with the Niners outside a metal room. These assholes are using overturned tables and crates as cover, their muzzles flashing with every round they fire. Diablo’s men are pinned, one clutching a wound on his arm while another fires blindly around a crate, gritting his teeth against the onslaught.
Blaze doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his gun and drops two Niners in quick succession, their bodies jerking before slumping against the wall. Ryder moves next, vaulting over a crate and driving his knife into the throat of a Niner who doesn’t see him coming. The man gurgles, clawing at the blade before Ryder twists it free and shoves him aside.
A shotgun blast rips through the space where I was standing a second ago. I drop low, pivot, and fire, my bullets tearing into the shooter’s chest. He staggers, wheezing, before he collapses in a heap. One of Diablo’s men uses the opening to advance, unloading a burst of rounds that forces the remaining Niners back toward the metal door.
It’s cracked open. Just enough for me to see inside—
Women. Dozens of them. Eyes wide, hollow, bodies trembling.
Rage flares through me, white-hot, but there’s no time to stop. One of the women, a brunette with hollow cheeks, meets my gaze through the crack in the door, her lips parting like she wants to scream but can’t find the breath. The bruises on her arms, the raw skin around her wrists—it’s enough to make my blood boil.
I raise my gun and fire at the last two Niners blocking the door, their bodies dropping in quick succession. The silence that follows is suffocating, broken only by the ragged breathing of Diablo’s men and the soft, choked sobs coming from the room beyond.
Blaze pushes the door open wider, just enough to make sure no other threats are inside. "We’ll come back for them," he mutters. "We have to keep moving."
I nod, clenching my jaw. We’re not leaving these women behind, but right now, there’s only one priority.
Then we hear it.
Tori’s voice.
It’s distant, muffled, but furious. And then another voice—Nico.
We don’t hesitate. We move, fast and ruthless. The final corridor stretches before us, and as we reach the last doorway, we see them.
Tori and Nico. A deadly stalemate.
Tori’s gun is raised, steady, her stance firm despite the fear flickering in her eyes. Nico mirrors her, his own weapon trained on her.
Everything in me stills, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Nico doesn’t see us yet. His attention is fixed entirely on Tori, a cruel smile curving his lips. “You won’t do it,” he taunts her, his voice dripping with malice. “You don’t have it in you.”
Tori doesn’t flinch, always quick with her words. “Try me,” she spits, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
My body coils at the sight of Nico, so calm, so smug, as if he thinks he can still get out of this unscathed. My finger itches on the trigger, but I force myself to wait, to assess the situation.
I don't want him dead just yet. I want him in pain.
Blaze steps forward first, his gun raised, his voice cold and steady. “Drop the gun, Nico.”
Nico’s head snaps toward us, his expression hardening as he takes us in. For a moment, the room is silent. Then, slowly, Nico’s smile returns, colder and more menacing than before.
“Well,” he drawls, his gun never wavering from its aim on Tori. “Look who finally decided to join the party.”