Chapter 2
TWO
RAFE
The civility sloughs off of me with every beat of my heart, leaving the jagged pieces of what’s left of my black soul.
The world sharpens into a geometry of violence.
Every color, every sound, every molecule of air is weaponized and aimed at me, demanding I solve it or perish.
I calculate options—angles, cover, the time it takes a thief in a mask to raise a rifle and squeeze the trigger—while my body moves before my mind can catch up.
It’s always like this. I hate that it’s always like this, the way my blood sings at the edge of carnage, the way it feels less like survival and more like a sick kind of homecoming.
I duck low and round the nose of the armored truck, keeping my profile tight to the battered fender, heat still radiating from the engine block.
My eyes flick from the Mack’s open door to the bodies spilling out behind it, hands on triggers, legs pumping hard and fast. I can’t tell if they’re trained or idiots, but the way they move says maybe both.
The dust shivers with each impact of their boots.
My heart hammers a new beat behind my ribs, faster than the bullets chewing through the car metal behind me.
I risk a glance up past the wheel well and snap off three shots—one high, two low, all warning.
I’m not here to murder strangers unless they make me.
But the goddamn urge is in me, right at the surface, just waiting for the excuse.
The thieves scatter, using the Mack’s bulk for cover.
The one closest to the back of the truck drops behind a wheel, but not before I clip his shoulder.
Blood arcs in the sun, a spray of red against the scrub and dust.
“Fuck!” the thief bellows, voice high and bright with shock.
I don’t savor the hit. I’m already moving, sprinting to the driver’s side of the armored truck.
The cab window is a shattered mosaic of glass, remnants of the windshield littering the pavement like fallen stars after the armored truck’s violent roll.
Gage’s face emerges through the jagged opening, his head slumped at an angle that’s wrong, so wrong it makes my own neck twinge in sympathy.
Behind me, tires shriek against asphalt as Bishop’s engine roars, the smell of burnt rubber hitting my nostrils before his voice echoes in my earpiece, reverberating in the chaos around me.
I can hear it behind me as if Bishop didn’t even bother to put the car in park before he leapt out, urgency fueling his every word. “You should’ve waited for me, asshole.”
“Cover me,” I call over my shoulder, not bothering to look back. Bishop and I could be at each other’s throats one minute, but the moment bullets start flying, I know exactly where he’ll be. Behind me, beside me, wherever I need him.
My brothers and I were forged in the same white-hot crucible: Coco Calloway’s special brand of parenting.
Gunfire answers immediately, sharp cracks ricocheting off metal, rounds pinging against the armored frame as I pivot mid-stride and raise my weapon, tracking the nearest threat without breaking momentum.
One of them pushes too far forward, closing distance with the kind of confidence that only comes from thinking they have control of the situation.
I fire once. The shot lands clean in his shoulder, the impact snapping him backward and breaking his advance, his body colliding into the person next to him, just enough to fracture their line and force them to adjust.
It’s not enough to stop them.
It’s enough to buy me seconds. I turn back to the truck and close the distance. Metal bites into my palm as I haul myself onto the hood. Gage’s blood smears what’s left of the shattered windshield, and I make a mental note to hit it with a bleach bomb after he’s out.
Three seconds exposed. Four. Five.
Heat from the engine block sears through my jeans, and a bullet pings off metal six inches from my knee.
Bishop’s gun cracks from below, the sound reassuring.
My palm sizzles against the sun-baked metal door handle. I yank, and nothing happens. I yank again, harder this time. The hinges shriek and give an inch.
“Goddamnit.”
I slam my boot against the doorframe and pull with everything I’ve got. The door tears open with a metallic groan. Jagged glass fragments catch sunlight along the window frame, each one demanding a blood tithe.
Something hot slides down my temple, hits my eyelashes. The world smears into watercolor violence until I drag my forearm across my face, reality snapping back into focus.
I reach the opening and drag myself into the cab.
The smell hits me first—copper and sweat.
Gage’s neck is bent against the seat, chin nearly touching his collarbone.
His chest rises, falls. My fingers find the hollow beneath his jaw, where a steady thump pushes back against my touch.
His eyelids twitch, then open. A muscle in his jaw tightens as he blinks several times.
His fingers curl against the seat, scraping for purchase.
“Welcome back, brother,” I say, voice steady despite the bullets pinging metal outside. We’re one shitty shot away from those motherfuckers hitting a fuel line, and then we’re both fucked. “C’mon, the party’s just getting started.”
His throat works. What comes out is half-grunt, half-wheeze, but his hand reaches for the seatbelt. He fumbles with the latch, fingers slipping against the metal.
“What the fuck, Rafe?” he grunts.
“Your choices are come with me or get to the car with the kid.” I jerk my head behind me, toward our cars while counting seconds between shots.
“Bellamy,” he rasps.
Her name hits like a round to the chest. Behind my eyes flashes a blonde braid splayed across asphalt, her body too still against the ground. My jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth. “I know.”
“There are no seatbelts in the back, Rafe.”
I nod, once, twice. “You with me?” The knife’s already in my hand, blade glinting under sunlight streaked with dust.
“Ye—yeah.” His head shakes, eyes fighting to focus.
“Brace yourself.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His boot slams against the interior panel, muscles coiling even through the haze of pain. The blade slices through nylon with a whispered hiss.
The strap gives, and his weight drops.
He catches himself on instinct, boots striking metal with a hollow clang before he lurches toward the narrow passage between cab and cargo hold. “This way is faster.”
I guess he made his choice. I follow, dropping beside him as the world outside erupts in fresh gunfire.
Gage slams his boot against the metal divider, the impact reverberating through the cab. His body sways, knees buckling. My hand shoots out, fingers digging into his shoulder, steadying him against the wall.
“Maybe you should sit this out.”
Blood trickles from his hairline, painting a crooked path down his temple.
His pupils dilate unevenly as he locks eyes with me.
“I’m fine.” His voice scrapes like gravel.
He shifts his weight, winces, then draws his leg back again.
Tendons strain in his neck as his jaw locks.
“That’s my fucking girl out there. And I’m not a fucking coward. So stop wasting your fucking breath.”
The door explodes inward with a metallic screech. We flatten against opposite walls in one fluid motion, weapons raised, breath held.
I hold his gaze. Something electric crackles between us—that old familiar feeling before we do something reckless. My mouth twitches first, then splits wide open. Gage mirrors it instantly, blood-flecked teeth catching the light.
“Ready, brother?”
“Let’s go get my girl,” he says, voice steadier than his legs.
The words hit like a fist to the sternum. I swallow the correction burning in my throat.
“And our brother,” I add instead, checking the magazine on my weapon.
Gage swipes his forearm across his face, painting stripes of his own blood from temple to hairline. His eyes gleam brighter beneath the crimson smear. “Yeah, him too.”
I jerk my chin toward the door. “Bishop’s almost out of ammo. It’s now or never.”
As one, we spin toward the opening, guns raised. Metal fragments glint like teeth in the half-light. A security panel dangles by frayed wires, sparking intermittently. Three dented bins remain, their locks twisted but intact. Blood splatters the floor by the busted-out back doors.
Gage’s voice rips through the air. “Bellamy!” He vaults over a twisted metal panel, boots skidding on blood-slicked floors as he launches himself from the cargo area.
I pivot, planting myself between the retreating figures and my brother’s exposed back.
My finger tenses on the trigger, but the thieves are already loading up.
One of them heaves a dented security bin through the back doors of their idling Mack, the engine growling like something feral.
Two others stumble backward, arms cradled around stacks of casino chips in plastic sleeves that catch sunlight in hypnotic flashes.
A scrape of metal against concrete pulls my attention left.
Cruz’s fingers leave crimson streaks along the truck’s frame as he drags himself forward.
Blood paints a crooked path from hairline to jaw, his shirt darkening at the ribs with each labored breath.
His eyes never leave the motionless blonde figure on the asphalt as he staggers forward, one foot dragging slightly behind the other.
My finger twitches on the trigger. Three steps would get me to Cruz before he collapses.
Five would reach Bellamy’s still form. But the retreating figures are still armed, still moving, and someone has to watch the perimeter.
My boots remain planted, body angled to cover all three directions at once, muscles burning with the strain of stillness.
Cruz’s lips form her name without sound. Then his hand hangs between his shoulders and he slumps to the ground. My heart slams against my ribs, but my feet might as well be bolted to the concrete.
Bishop rounds the back of the truck and beelines toward Gage, who’s staggering as he tries to lift Bellamy. Her braid swings like a pendulum over his arm, golden against the blood-soaked asphalt, and something primal claws up my throat.
I wasn’t going to shoot at retreating thieves, but my trigger finger spasms with raw fucking need.
Blood roars in my ears. These cocksuckers hurt her, made her bleed, and something ancient and feral claws up from my gut.
My vision narrows to pinpricks of red. I squeeze off two rounds before I even realize I’ve moved.
The Mack’s engine thunders to life, gears grinding as the thieves jump into the cab. I line up a shot through a gap in the cab, but the bastard driving is either smart or lucky—he guns it before I can pull the trigger, the rig shuddering as it lurches into gear and swerves out onto the highway.
I track their retreat through my sights, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants out. Could be a trap. Could be more of them circling behind us right now, boots silent on concrete, weapons raised at the backs of our skulls.
One blink—one fucking heartbeat—and we’re all dead where we stand. My trigger finger cramps, jaw locked so tight my molars might crack.
Not today. Not like this. Death can get fucked because I’m not done here. Not even close.