Chapter Six
The first window shattered at midnight.
Crash was already moving before the glass hit the floor, shoving Grace behind the couch and pulling his piece in one smooth motion.
Moonlight cut through the broken pane, and then shadows poured through—men in dark clothes, moving with the coordinated precision of professionals who'd done this before.
Six of them. Maybe more outside.
"Stay down," he growled at Grace, and then he opened fire.
The first man through the window caught two rounds center mass and dropped like his strings had been cut. The second dove for cover behind the kitchen island, returning fire that punched holes in the drywall inches from Crash's head.
He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. Just kept moving, using the narrow hallway as a chokepoint that negated their numbers.
Another window exploded somewhere behind him—the bedroom. Crash heard boots on broken glass, heard Grace's sharp intake of breath, and something savage and protective roared to life in his chest.
Nobody touches her. Nobody.
He put down the man behind the kitchen island with a shot that caught him climbing over the counter, then pivoted to face the new threat from the bedroom door. Two more hostiles, moving fast, assault rifles up and ready.
Crash went low and came up shooting. The first man's rifle stitched a line across the ceiling as he fell. The second got a shot off that burned across Crash's arm before a bullet through the throat ended his contribution to the assault.
Three down. Three more in the house, at least one outside.
"Crash!"
Grace's voice cut through the chaos. He spun to find her pressed against the back of the couch, Marlowe clutched to her chest, her eyes wide but focused. She pointed toward the kitchen.
Buckner.
The enforcer came through the back door like a battering ram, his heavy frame filling the doorway, a shotgun in his hands and murder in his eyes. The gash on his forehead from the bookstore had scabbed over, an ugly reminder of unfinished business.
"Thought you'd get away clean?" Buckner's smile was all teeth, no humor. "Walsh has eyes everywhere. Your pretty bike gave you up."
Crash didn't waste breath on a response. He fired twice, but Buckner was already moving—faster than a man his size should be, diving behind the refrigerator as buckshot tore through the space where Crash had been standing a heartbeat before.
The blast caught him anyway—not directly, but close enough that he felt pellets rip through his shoulder like hot needles. Blood bloomed through his shirt. The pain registered distantly, filed away for later consideration.
Right now, nothing mattered but ending Buckner.
Crash advanced through the kitchen, clearing corners with ruthless efficiency. Two more of Walsh's men appeared in the back doorway, but before Crash could redirect, headlights blazed through the window and engines roared to a stop outside.
Brothers.
Blaster came through the front door like divine intervention, his weapon up and firing before his feet fully crossed the threshold. One of the men at the back door went down screaming, clutching his shattered knee. The other tried to run and caught Blaster's second shot between the shoulder blades.
Anvil materialized through the broken bedroom window—a goddamn mountain of a man moving with surprising silence, his presence turning the assault team's tactical advantage into a death trap.
He grabbed the last hostile by the throat and put him through the drywall hard enough to leave a man-shaped crater.
That left Buckner.
The enforcer burst from behind the refrigerator, shotgun tracking toward Grace's position. Everything in Crash went cold and bright and certain.
Not her. Never her.
He moved faster than thought—crossing the kitchen in three strides, inside the shotgun's reach before Buckner could adjust his aim. The enforcer's eyes went wide with shock as Crash slammed the barrel aside and drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus.
Buckner doubled over, gasping. Crash stripped the shotgun from his hands and tossed it aside.
He didn't need a weapon for this.
"You touched her," Crash said, his voice flat and terrible. "In the bookstore. You grabbed her wrist and told her what happens to women with backbone."
"She's just—" Buckner wheezed, trying to straighten up.
Crash didn't let him finish. His fist connected with Buckner's jaw hard enough to spray blood across the kitchen counter. The enforcer staggered, and Crash hit him again—ribs this time, feeling something crack beneath his knuckles.
"You don't get to talk about her." Another blow, another crack. "You don't get to think about her." Buckner was on his knees now, trying to crawl away, but Crash grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. "You don't get to exist in the same world as her."
He pulled his piece and pressed the barrel against Buckner's forehead.
The enforcer's eyes cleared for one moment of perfect terror. "Walsh will—"
"Walsh can join you."
Crash pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through the safehouse, and then there was silence.
Buckner crumpled to the kitchen floor, the man who'd threatened Grace Ellison finally learning what that threat had cost him. Crash stood over the body for a long moment, breathing hard, the gun still warm in his hand.
It wasn't enough. Wouldn't be enough until Walsh joined his enforcer in the ground.
But it was a start.
"Crash."
He turned to find Grace standing in the kitchen doorway, her face pale in the aftermath light.
Marlowe was nowhere to be seen—smart cat had probably found the deepest hiding spot in the house.
But Grace was right there, staring at Buckner's body, then at the blood on Crash's hands, then at his face.
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just held his gaze with those gold-flecked eyes that saw too much and refused to lie about what they saw.
"You're hurt," she said.
Crash looked down at his shoulder like he'd forgotten it existed. The shotgun pellets had torn a ragged pattern through the meat of his deltoid—painful but not critical. He'd had worse.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding all over the floor." She crossed to him, stepping around Buckner's body without hesitation, and grabbed his arm to examine the wound. Her fingers were steady. Her voice was calm. And she was standing in a kitchen full of death like she'd been born for chaos.
Something fierce and proud swelled in Crash's chest.
"You didn't stay down," he said.
"Staying down wouldn't have helped you." She looked up at him, and Christ, she was close—close enough that he could see the adrenaline still dancing in her pulse, close enough to feel the heat of her even through the blood and cordite haze.
"He was going to shoot me. I saw him turning. I had to warn you."
"You saved my shot." The realization settled into him like a bullet finding its mark. "I would have missed the angle if you hadn't called out."
"Then we're even." Her jaw lifted, stubborn and defiant even with bodies cooling around them. "Partners, not protector and protected."
Crash stared at her—this woman who'd just watched him execute a man and responded by checking his wounds and demanding equal status in whatever war they were fighting.
She should have been terrified. Should have been running for the door, away from the violence and the death and the man who'd caused it all.
Instead, she was holding his arm and looking at him like she'd found something she didn't know she was searching for.
"Partners," he agreed, and meant it more than she knew.
Blaster appeared in the doorway, took in the scene with one sweep of his tactical gaze. "Safehouse is compromised. We need to move."
"The compound?" Crash asked.
"Only option. Walsh knows we're involved now. No more soft plays." Blaster's eyes landed on Grace, assessed her bloody hands and steady composure. "She holding up?"
"She saved my ass," Crash said simply. "She's one of us."
Something shifted in Blaster's expression—respect, maybe. Or recognition of the same quality Crash had seen in her from the beginning. The Vice President nodded once.
"Then let's get her somewhere Walsh can't touch."
Anvil finished securing the remaining hostile—the one who'd gone through the wall, still breathing but unlikely to enjoy the experience.
The rest of Walsh's assault team was dead or scattered into the night, their coordinated strike turned into a bloodbath by three men who'd spent years perfecting the art of violence.
Crash retrieved Grace's bag and found Marlowe cowering under the bathroom sink. The cat hissed at him but allowed himself to be transferred to the carrier with only minimal violence.
"Ready?" he asked Grace.
She looked around the safehouse one last time—the shattered windows, the bullet holes, the body in the kitchen that had been her tormentor less than a week ago. Then she squared her shoulders and met his eyes.
"Ready."
They moved out into the night, brothers flanking them as they headed for the bikes. Walsh's first real offensive had ended in disaster for the developer, his best enforcer dead on a safehouse floor and his operation now a target for men who didn't negotiate, didn't hesitate, and didn't forgive.
Crash helped Grace onto his bike, feeling her arms wrap around his waist with a familiarity that hadn't existed three days ago. She leaned into him without being told, her body trusting his instincts.
His woman. His to protect. And now, after tonight, his partner in whatever came next.
Behind them, Blaster and Anvil mounted up. Ahead, the road to the compound stretched dark and waiting.
Walsh had just lost his enforcer, his assault team, and any illusion that the Sentinels could be intimidated.
The war was just beginning.