Chapter 21
Seth
Istand close behind Brooke, one arm around her waist, the other hovering near her chest as she holds our daughter. I am careful not to crowd them, careful not to break whatever fragile calm has settled over the room.
Our daughter is warm and small against Brooke’s chest. Her breath moves in faint puffs. Short dark curls rest against her scalp. One tiny hand flexes in her sleep before relaxing again.
Brooke presses her lips to the baby’s forehead and stays there. When she looks up at me, she leans back just enough to kiss me too. Her smile is tired, but content. I can't look away.
They are real.
They are alive.
They are here.
They are everything I have never been allowed to keep.
Brooke lifts her eyes to mine, and I see things we were never promised sitting there anyway. Peace, safety, a life that doesn't orbit violence. A future that doesn't end soaked in blood.
“She’s got your eyes,” Brooke whispers, drawing our daughter closer to her chest.
I reach out, brushing my fingers along the baby’s cheek.
I want to hold them both closer. I want the world to stay quiet.
And then it takes everything away.
I shoot upright in the back seat of the SUV, lungs locking as pain tears through my ribs. My chest flares so violently it feels like something has split back open. The air inside the car is cold, and my pulse slams hard enough that I taste iron at the back of my throat.
Travis twists around in the driver’s seat, eyes wide. “Jesus. You okay?”
My breath comes fast and uneven, refusing to settle. The dream clings to me, like it followed me out of sleep. Brooke’s smile stays embedded in my mind. Our baby’s face. Then the hollow silence when they disappear.
Beau doesn't turn from the front passenger seat. “You were talking in your sleep.”
“What did I say?”
“Brooke’s name,” Beau says. “And something about not taking her. Then you hit the window.”
I look down at my hand. A spiderweb crack splits the glass beside me, pale lines branching outward, quiet evidence of what I can't remember doing.
Travis exhales. “That’s… deeply unsettling, but also very on brand.”
I ignore him and lean my head back against the seat. I force my breathing to slow. My heart refuses to cooperate.
The dream replays vividly. Brooke is safe. Our daughter is there between us. A family exists in a place my mind retreats to when it allows itself to hope.
I close my eyes.
She felt real.
Now Brooke is somewhere locked inside a torture compound, alone and terrified, carrying the future I was just shown and had ripped away.
The dream is not comforting.
It is a warning of what I have to lose.
Travis turns down a narrow gravel road carved through dense, unmarked woods. There are no signs or lights. Branches scrape the sides of the SUV. Mist clings to the trees. My ribs ache with every jolt of the ride. I keep one hand pressed against my side, eyes fixed forward.
At the end of the winding path stands a structure that looks like it has been condemned. A crooked hunting shed. Gray paint flakes like sunburnt skin, tin roof rusted through in patches, and a warped metal door barely hanging from its hinges.
Beau gets out first. He doesn't say a word, just yanks the rusted door open with one sharp pull, hinges squealing, and motions for us to follow.
The moment we step into the pitch-black interior, he hits a switch embedded in the wall.
The floor clicks, then shifts.
With a low mechanical hum, the section of floor beneath us begins to descend. An industrial lift dropping into the earth, smooth and silent despite the weight. My boots stay planted, but my body tenses anyway. It feels like being lowered into a crypt.
The deeper we sink, the colder the air becomes.
A panel hisses open.
When the lift doors open, it feels like stepping into a luxury panic room.
The bunker stretches wide and deep, reinforced concrete wrapped in matte black soundproofing panels.
A pristine kitchen sits to one side, slate countertops, brushed metal appliances.
The living area has low leather furniture.
A wide digital fireplace. Mounted screens with feeds Beau can access from anywhere.
A hallway branches off to four private rooms, each sealed with fingerprint scanners.
Behind bulletproof glass, a floor-to-ceiling weapons case stands like a private armory. Rifles, handguns, knives, explosives, tactical gear, everything arranged with obsessive precision. You could wage a war from this place and never run out of options.
Travis steps off the lift and stares around the bunker, mouth parting as he slowly turns in a full circle. “How the hell does one even afford something like this?”
Beau doesn't look impressed. “Do you know how much it costs to complete a hit on an elected official?”
Travis blinks. “No. What the fuck?”
“Exactly,” Beau says. “Between that, a long list of favors people owe me, and an architect friend who owed me his freedom, this place was a gift. I just renovated it.”
Travis drags a hand down his face. “So you received the batcave as a gift. An assassin and a renovator.” He lets out a sharp laugh. “Unfucking believable.”
Beau shrugs. “Welcome to my happy place.”
Krueger leaps before any of us can react, paws landing solidly on the bunker floor. He gives a low, satisfied chuff, then takes off down the hallway like he is clearing the perimeter. Tail high, back to soldier mode.
Luna, on the other hand, is still screaming.
Her carrier vibrates violently, the sound muffled but furious. I crouch and unlatch the crate. She shoots out like a missile, claws out, bolting under the nearest couch without looking back.
“Nice to see she’s thriving,” Travis mutters, rubbing his ear.
I straighten slowly, pain pulling tight through my side.
I have one job now. Get cleaned up. Get armed.
Get Brooke back.
“Animals are safe here,” Beau says, already heading down one of the side hallways. “Back room’s soundproof. Climate controlled. They’ll be fine.”
Krueger pads after him. Luna peeks out from under the couch, eyes wide and curious.
I hate leaving them. They are the last pieces of home Brooke and I have left. But Beau is right. Out there, they are liabilities. Here, they are protected.
Beau turns to me. “Shower. My doctor is on the way. He’s bringing more oxy for the pain and your risperidone.”
The private bathroom is larger than most apartments. Matte black tile. Stainless steel fixtures. Steam-proof mirror. The shower is enclosed in frameless glass. Black slate lines the walls and floor, lit by harsh overhead spots. Water pours from a ceiling-mounted rainfall head in a steady stream.
I peel off the blood-stiff hoodie, the fabric ripping away from scabbed edges. Pain flares across my ribs and shoulder, deep enough that spots dance in my vision. My skin is mottled with purple bruising, dried blood clinging like cracked paint.
The moment I step under the water, heat slams into me.
The water hits the bullet wound first, and white-hot agony shoots down my arm. I brace a hand on the tile and let it happen. It burns, but it also clears something, like the pain forces everything else out of my head.
Brooke’s scream. The black hood over her head. Her body dragged away. My daughter’s face from the dream.
All of it blurs with the steam until the world narrows to a single point.
Get to her.
I dry off, ignoring how my shoulder protests every twist, and dress fast. Black jeans that don't restrict movement, boots with quiet tread.
The doctor arrives in under twenty minutes.
Beau has one on call. Discreet, off the books. You don't survive long in Beau’s world without contingencies.
The doctor moves with quiet confidence, already assessing me as he guides me into a chair. He peels back the bandages with careful fingers, unfazed by blood or scar tissue.
“Stitches are holding,” he says. “You tore some scar tissue, but nothing that needs to be redone.”
He cleans the wound thoroughly. The antiseptic burns, sharp enough to pull a breath from my chest. He works fast, rewrapping everything with practiced ease.
He hands me two pill bottles.
“Oxy for pain, Risperidone for mood stabilization. Take them separately.”
I swallow the oxy.
He checks my vitals, gives Beau a nod, and packs up. “Avoid unnecessary strain.”
“Define unnecessary,” Travis says.
The doctor ignores him.
The second he leaves, I am already on my feet. I pull on a shirt, ready to go.
Beau is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, evaluating me like he is deciding whether I pass inspection.
“You need to look presentable. We’re going to a strip club, not a morgue.”
“Same thing the way we do it,” I mutter.
Beau’s mouth twitches. “Still. Dress well. They notice sloppy men.”
I roll my shoulder. Bone shifts under the strain, gauze pulling tight. Pain spikes, then eases back into a steady burn.
“How’s the pain?” Beau asks.
“Manageable.”
Beau tosses me a black button-down, a suit jacket, and a loaded pistol. Two extra clips follow, lining up on the table like silver teeth.
Beau notices me eyeing the setup and raises a brow. “You wanna get in, you gotta look the part. Black Ridge ain’t the kind of place you walk into dressed like that.”
I grunt and pull on the button-down. The fabric is crisp, expensive, and stretches tight across the bandages.
“You think they’re gonna recognize us?” I ask, fastening the buttons.
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says. “But we’ll give them a good five minutes of doubt. Long enough to put a hole in someone.”
Travis paces near the bunker’s steel exit, glancing nervously at a matte-black rifle propped against the wall like it is whispering his name. He looks entirely out of place in this world, too twitchy, too normal.
“So…” he begins, hesitating as he steps closer to us. “What exactly is my role in this? Because I’m feeling real bullet-magnet adjacent right now.”
He points vaguely toward the guns. “Do I get a weapon? Or am I just moral support? Maybe hold the coats?”