Chapter Thirty-Nine
Alex
What the fuck am I doing?
“Fuck me, this is even stupid by my standards,” I muttered to myself as I slowly pulled into the parking lot for a storage facility I remembered seeing in Michael’s ledger. Looking around, I just sat there shaking my head, trying to make heads or tails of what the hell I was planning to do next.
It was nuts. Truly crazy to think I was about to do what got me into this mess in the first place.
But then again, no one ever said I was smart.
I swung my leg over Oscar’s bike—the very bike I’d stolen while my brother, Nano, and the others were in church.
The very bike I knew Oscar would whip my ass if I got one minor scratch on it—and stood staring at the storage facility, knowing damn well freedom was waiting for me, only a few feet away.
Problem was, I wasn’t sure it was worth it anymore.
I was tired of running. Tired of hiding from everything in my life.
Just plain tired. I thought I had found what I was looking for with Nano, but I had been wrong.
So very fucking wrong. Besides, I refused to stay with a man who didn’t want me.
He made that very clear when he turned his back on me in that basement, when he chose the Brotherhood over me.
So I left. I ran. I did what I always did when shit got too real.
But this time feels different, I thought, staring at the building. This time I’m not running away from something. I’m running toward... what? What the fuck am I even doing here?
The ledger had listed this place. Unit 47. Cash payments. Michael’s handwriting in the margins, notes about “storage” and “contingency.” I memorized those pages, knowing that they were important. I just hoped I was right.
Maybe there was money here. Maybe there was evidence. Maybe there was a way out that didn’t involve disappearing into nothing.
Or maybe you’re just doing what you always do—stealing, breaking in, making stupid fucking choices that get people hurt.
Mustering up my courage, I headed inside.
One more time, I told myself. Then I’ll be free.
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
The facility was eerily quiet. No attendant at the front desk. No security cameras that I could see, at least none that were obvious. Just rows of orange metal doors stretching into the distance, fluorescent lights humming overhead, and the faint smell of dust and motor oil.
Too quiet.
My boots echoed on the concrete floor as I approached the counter. The computer was old. The monitor covered in a thin layer of grime. I glanced around one more time, listening for footsteps, voices, anything.
Nothing.
This is wrong. This feels wrong.
But I was already moving, already sliding behind the counter and booting up the computer.
My hands moved on autopilot, pulling the thumb drive from my pocket.
The one I paid a small fortune for, loaded with programs that could crack passwords, bypass security, and transfer files without leaving traces, as the screen flickered to life.
I plugged in the drive and started the program, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I navigated through the facility’s database.
Unit 47. Registered to “A. Stone.” Paid in cash. No contact information.
Arizona Stone. Michael. Same fucking person.
I initiated the transfer protocol, copying everything—rental agreements, payment records, access logs. Anything that might tell me what he was storing here, what he was planning, why this place mattered, and of course, I transferred the money into an offshore account that only I could access.
The progress bar crawled across the screen. 10%. 15%. 20%.
Come on, come on.
And then I heard it. A muted noise from the back room. A thump. A groan.
I froze, my hand hovering over the keyboard.
Someone’s here.
Every instinct screamed at me to grab the thumb drive and run. To get the fuck out before whoever was back there discovered me. To choose survival over curiosity.
But I didn’t.
You’re so fucking stupid, Alex.
Once the transfer was complete, I pulled the thumb drive free and shoved it into my pocket. Then I moved toward the back room, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breath coming too fast. The door was slightly ajar. I pressed my back against the wall and peered through the gap.
And my blood turned to ice.
Eros.
I recognized him immediately. He looked different from the last time I saw him, but I would know him anywhere.
A brother from the Gods of Mayhem, Oscar’s brother, a friend I once considered my brother.
He was also the brother whom Morpheus told me had been injured in Diamond Creek when the Death Dogs attacked.
Who had been recently shot to hell. He was lying on the concrete floor, his face swollen and bloody, his hands zip-tied behind his back.
And standing over him, pointing a gun at his head, was Michael.
Arizona. Victor. Whatever the fuck his real name is.
He looked different from what I remembered.
Thinner. Harder. His hair was shorter, his jaw covered in stubble.
But it was him. The man who beat and tried unsuccessfully to get me to submit.
Who enjoyed lording his power over me. Who made my life a living hell for months before I had enough.
But more importantly, he was the man who paid someone to kill Eros and the other members of FIRE. And now he was about to execute Eros.
“You should’ve stayed down,” Michael said, his voice cold and flat. “Should’ve died at Diamond Creek like you were supposed to.”
Eros spat blood onto the floor. “Fuck you.”
Michael laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “Brave words for a dead man.”
He cocked the gun.
Move. Do something. Don’t just stand there.
I looked around frantically. There, leaning against the wall near the door. A broom.
A fucking broom. That’s your weapon?
But it was all I had. I grabbed it, my hands shaking, my mind screaming at me to run, to leave, to save myself.
He’s going to kill Eros. He’s going to pull that trigger, and Eros is going to die, and it’ll be your fault because you could’ve done something and you didn’t.
I moved. Silent. Fast. Adrenaline drowning out the fear as I raised the broom and swung it as hard as I could, aiming for the back of Michael’s head. The impact reverberated up my arms. Michael stumbled forward, the gun flying from his hand and skittering across the concrete floor.
For a second, everything stopped. Then Michael turned slowly, his hand going to the back of his head, his eyes locking onto mine, and I saw it.
The recognition.
His volatile rage.
“You,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “You fucking bitch.”
I didn’t have time to react. There was no warning, no moment to brace myself or prepare for what was coming.
His hand shot out like a striking snake, backhanding me across the face so hard that I saw stars exploding behind my eyelids.
Pain exploded through my cheek, my jaw, and my skull in white-hot waves that made my entire head feel like it was splitting apart.
I stumbled backward, my legs weak and unsteady beneath me, my vision blurring into a haze of colors and shadows, my ears ringing with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else.
The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
Before I could even recover, before I could catch my breath or regain my balance, he grabbed me by the throat with brutal force and slammed me against the wall with a sickening thud.
The air left my lungs in a violent rush, forced out by the impact.
I clawed desperately at his hand, my fingernails digging into his skin, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, choking on nothing, my feet barely touching the ground as he lifted me higher.
Black spots began dancing at the edges of my vision.
“You stole from me,” he snarled, his face inches from mine.
His breath was hot and rank, reeking of stale coffee and cigarettes.
Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, landing on my cheek.
“You ruined everything. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?
” His fingers dug deeper into my shoulders, nails biting through the thin fabric of my shirt.
He pulled me forward and then slammed me back again with brutal force.
My head cracked against the concrete with a sickening thud that echoed through the alley.
Pain exploded behind my eyes. Black spots danced across my vision, multiplying and spreading like ink in water.
The world tilted sideways. “I had a plan. I had everything under control. Every detail mapped out, every contingency accounted for. And then you—” His voice rose to a roar, veins bulging in his neck.
He released my throat suddenly, and for a split second I thought it was over.
Then he punched me in the stomach with all his weight behind it, driving the air from my lungs in a painful whoosh.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming, like a white-hot explosion that originated in my stomach and radiated outward in sickening waves.
I doubled over, retching violently, unable to breathe, my lungs seizing up as if someone had wrapped iron bands around my chest and was tightening them with every passing second.
My knees buckled beneath me, no longer able to support my weight, and I collapsed onto the cold, hard floor, gasping desperately for air that wouldn’t come.
Each attempt to inhale felt like swallowing broken glass.