Chapter 70
Seth
The room goes still.
Travis drags a hand over his mouth, then nods toward the screen. “The Collective database is acting like a coordination board. Grant posted a job, and it wasn't subtle. Contracted killers picked it up.”
He taps the screen, pulling up another window. “Dmitri is one of them, along with a few others I'm still working to identify. They're meeting first, then they're moving to this location.”
Brooke exhales slowly. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Travis says. “He is close. Tacoma. That is where the login cluster keeps landing.”
Brooke looks at me. “The kids have to go.”
I nod. “Now.”
Travis nods once. “Naomi and I can take them to the bunker in Oregon.”
Brooke meets his eyes. “Okay, be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”
Everything after that shifts into motion.
Brooke wakes Elise and Ryan and tells them we are leaving. Elise starts to argue, then takes one look at our faces and stops. Ryan says nothing, but the way he moves makes it clear he understands enough to be afraid. Bags are packed, the van is loaded, and Travis sends something to my phone.
“I scrubbed the rest of the signal,” he says. “But this one stayed.”
A blinking dot appears on the map.
Grant is already moving.
I watch the dot track across the screen. This is how he moves through the world, convinced that nothing can touch him.
My father was the same. Inside that house, he believed he owned everything under that roof. He broke Luke and me down and called it discipline. He thought he was building soulless killers.
I killed him because men like that don't stop.
Grant is no different. He hides behind authority and money while he destroys people who can't fight back. He killed my mother. He dragged Brooke into that manor and thought he would walk away from it. Now he thinks sending hired killers here will fix it.
Grant is still breathing.
I'm about to end that
I tighten my grip around the phone as the tracker keeps moving.
Naomi stops pacing while Travis keeps working and Beau is already moving through the room. I check my weapon and grab the rest of my gear, running through everything in sequence.
Brooke moves past me to grab her jacket, and I stop her before she can get too far. My hand comes up to her jaw and forces her to look at me, and I kiss her once before letting her go.
We go back to getting ready.
Bags are thrown together, shoes are pulled on, and the van is ready in minutes.
Brooke pulls Travis into a quick hug, then Naomi. She wraps her arms around Elise and Ryan, holding them tighter than she probably means to before letting them go.
They climb into the van, the doors shut, and the engine turns over.
We step back.
I watch the van roll down the hill until the red glow of the taillights disappears behind the trees. Brooke stands in the doorway.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods once.
I step closer and tilt her chin upward so I can see her face.
“I’m scared,” her voice hardens. “But I’m ready to end this shit.”
“We will.”
I hand her a pistol and point toward the staircase.
“You take the landing. You stay there.”
“And if something happens to you?”
“You get out and find Beau. You stay alive.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You promise me you won’t freeze.”
She swallows. “I promise.”
I kiss her once and step back.
“Go.”
She starts up the stairs, then pauses halfway and looks back.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m grabbing another mag,” I say, already turning toward the stairs. “I want more ammo on me just in case.”
She nods once, then continues up. By the time she reaches the landing, she is already lowering herself flat, positioning over the railing with the kind of focus that tells me she is locked in.
I move into the bedroom and go straight to the nightstand. The drawer slides open. I grab another magazine and check it before slipping it into my pocket. My hand goes back in for another, fingers brushing against something small and solid.
I stop.
The ring box.
For a second I just stare at it sitting there. I pick it up, turning it once in my hand. If we make it through this, I am not waiting again.
I’m asking her.
I shove it into the pocket of my cargo pants and push the drawer shut.
Then I move.
I head back into the living room and crouch behind the couch with a knife in my hand instead of a gun. A blade makes less noise when it opens someone up.
The house creaks around me while I wait. A loose branch drags across the roof when the wind shifts. I slow my breathing and listen for anything out of place.
Then gravel crunches under tires.
Headlights sweep across the front wall and cut through the broken slats of the blinds. Doors open outside. Boots hit the driveway, heavier than before. The men speak in low, clipped voices as they move toward the porch.
Two gunshots break the quiet.
The sound carries through the trees, followed by the thud of bodies hitting gravel. Beau doesn’t miss. When he fires, people drop.
But this time, it doesn’t stop them.
Gunfire erupts all at once.
Automatic rifles tear into the house from outside, not aimed, not careful, just ripping through everything.
Wood explodes. Glass shatters inward. Bullets punch through the walls, chew through the couch, and tear into the floor.
The sound fills the entire space and is loud enough to drown out thought.
I drop flat behind the couch, pressing myself as low as I can. Splinters rain down over my back. A round tears through the cushion inches from my head, and another punches through the wall behind me.
They aren't trying to get in clean. They are trying to wipe the entire place off the map.
I can’t see Beau. I can't hear him over the gunfire.
I can’t see Brooke either.
The rounds keep coming, ripping through the second floor, tearing across the ceiling, and spraying through the landing where she just moved.
For a second, my head goes somewhere I don't want it to go.
If one of those rounds hit her—
I shut it down.
I stay flat. I wait it out. I listen.
The gunfire slows, then stops.
Silence doesn't follow. Boots hit the porch again, and they move fast and aggressive while closing in.
The handle jerks. The lock holds for one second before something heavy slams into the door. The frame groans. Another hit follows, harder. The wood cracks. A third impact blows it open. The door bursts inward.
The first man enters low, rifle sweeping, clearing angles as he moves. His partner follows tight behind him, covering the opposite side.
The first one tracks toward the couch, and his barrel dips slightly.
I move.
The blade cuts across the back of his ankle.
He reacts fast, twisting, trying to pull away, but the tendon gives. His leg folds and he drops hard, and a sharp grunt breaks out of him as the rifle slips from his grip.
He reaches for it immediately.
I grab his vest and drag him back before he can get control. The knife drives into his ribs, angled up. He slams his elbow toward my head, and it clips my shoulder enough to sting but not enough to stop me.
I stab again.
He chokes, still fighting, still reaching. Blood runs down his chin as his fingers scrape toward the rifle.
I wrench his head back and drive the blade under his jaw.
His body jerks once, then drops.
The second man pivots, and his weapon is already coming up toward me.
A gunshot cracks from above.
The bullet tears through his upper chest and knocks him sideways into the wall. He stumbles and tries to bring the rifle back up.
Another shot follows.
This one takes him through the head. Bone and blood hit the wall behind him as his body collapses across the doorway.
I glance up.
Brooke is on the landing, flat against the floor, with her arm extended through the railing and her gun steady as she tracks the entryway.
She is alive.
The tightness in my chest loosens just enough for me to breathe again.
Outside, more gunfire answers, and Beau fires again.
Then one of them moves through the doorway.
He is different and faster.
Dmitri.
He takes in the bodies in one glance. His rifle comes up, but I am already moving. I knock the barrel aside as he fires, and the shot punches into the wall behind me.
We crash into each other.
The rifle drops between us.
He goes for his boot.
I see it a fraction too late.
The blade comes out and drives straight for my side. I twist, but it still catches me. The edge slices across my ribs, shallow but enough to burn. Pain hits, but I stay on him.
I drive forward, and my blade meets his. Steel slams together.
We lock there for a second, and we are both pushing and trying to take control. He doesn't rush, and his eyes stay on mine, calm, like he already knows how this plays out.
He moves first.
The knife comes low and fast. I block it, but he shifts and slams his shoulder into me, driving me back into the wall. My grip slips.
His blade comes up again.
I catch his wrist this time, stopping it inches from my throat. His arm strains against mine, pushing down and trying to force it through.
Blood runs warm along my side.
I don't give him space. I drive my forehead into his face.
Bone cracks, and his grip loosens.
I wrench his arm aside and bury my knife into his stomach.
He grunts, and his breath leaves him, but he doesn't drop. His hand snaps back up, and the blade cuts across my shoulder.
We are still moving and still fighting. I twist the knife and drag it upward through his abdomen. His body folds slightly as his breath catches.
I pull the blade free and drive it straight into his throat.
His eyes go wide. His body jerks once, then goes loose.
I shove him off me and he hits the floor hard.
For a second, all I hear is breathing, including mine, Brooke’s above me, and Beau somewhere outside.
Blood spreads across the entryway in a thick and dark pool.
Beau’s voice carries in. “Two down out here.”
I step over Dmitri’s body and move toward the doorway. Two men lie near the truck with rifle wounds punched through them. One of them twitches, and Beau finishes him.
Beau scans the truck again. He steps inside through the side door, and his rifle is still up.
“He’s not here.”
Fuck.
Grant never planned to be here.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. The tracker dot moves across the map, and it is not coming toward the house. It is heading for the highway. Right toward the van.
Beau looks at the tracker. “Fuck!”
Brooke is already moving down the stairs and dialing Travis.
The line rings. No answer.
“Travis!” Brooke's eyes fill with panic when it goes to voicemail.
The dot keeps moving, steady, and it follows the same road the van took.
“He’s behind them.”
It locks into place. Grant never wanted us dead here. He wanted us far enough away that we couldn't protect them.
I grab the keys and move for the truck, and Brooke and Beau are right behind me.
The engine roars to life. Gravel sprays as we tear out of the driveway.