Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Dusk has fallen when we pull up to the bar.
Ash is already there, leaning against his bike like he’s been waiting forever.
His arms are crossed, one boot resting over the other, head bowed like he’s praying—or cursing.
When he finally looks up, a strand of dark-blond hair slips into his eyes.
The resemblance to Brooks hits hard. He brushes it away with a flick, his jaw tight.
“What’s the plan?” he asks, voice low and clipped.
“He dies tonight,” Brooks growls. No emotion. Just fact.
Ash scoffs, eyes narrowing. “Oh, glad someone finally fucking told me. And what—he’s just gonna keel over from the weight of your rage, genius?”
Before they can explode at each other, I step in. “Shift change just happened. Next one’s not till midnight. We’ve got their route—just two guards. Predictable.”
“Then take them out,” Ash says, dry as dust.
I nod. “We’re going in with seven. Magic and Hawkeye guard the door. Rest of us go upstairs. We don’t know what’s inside, but we’re not leaving without answers.”
Ash’s eyes flick to Brooks, who hasn’t said another word, just breathing like a bull about to charge.
“He’s got free rein, right?” Ash asks, eyes sharp, like he’s daring me to say no.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. All his.”
Ash presses his thumb hard into his lower lip, like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it.
“Then let’s fucking end this,” he mutters, pushing off the bike.
The formation shifts seamlessly as Colt takes the lead, guiding us to the best hidden spot to leave our bikes. He’s done the recon, so we trust his call. We fall into place behind him without a word.
“They’re making rounds together,” Colt murmurs when he returns from the corner, voice low and sharp. “Best move is for two of us to walk past them and double back. It’ll draw their attention just long enough.” He tugs on his earlobe—classic Colt, a dead giveaway that he’s on edge.
“I’ll go,” Ash says without hesitation, already scanning the rest of us.
Colt nods and steps beside him. “I’ve got your back.”
“We’ll stay put, and wait so we can move in together,” I tell them, holding their gazes to make sure they understand. They nod, no questions asked. “Let’s move.”
We round the block and split into pairs. Brooks shadows me, and for once, I don’t have to yank him into formation—he sticks to the plan. Still, I keep one eye on him. The guy’s grief is a lit fuse, and I wouldn’t put it past him to blow this whole op to pieces. But for now, he’s solid.
We approach the entrance and stop across the street. Brooks pulls out a pack of smokes with shaking fingers, masking nerves with a flick of his lighter.
“What do you got on you?” I ask him, referring to whatever weapon he plans to use.
He puts a cigarette between his lips, the pack back in his pocket, and lifts his shirt a little.
The belt with knife holsters appears, his two Bowie knives in them. I close my eyes briefly and pinch the bridge of my nose. That’s going to be a lot of blood. Thank God he’s dressed all in black.
He smokes his cigarette in silence and I stand next to him. “What the fuck’s taking so long?” I feel a prickling unease as my gaze sweeps across the building. Where are those two?
Brooks paces like a caged animal, jaw clenched. “If they don’t move faster, I’m going in alone.”
“Do it, and I swear I’ll snap your goddamn neck,” I growl, stepping beside him.
“Wait—there they are.”
Colt and Ash round the corner. Colt drags his sleeve across his knife, muttering, “Asshole.”
Ash shrugs. “You’re welcome.”
“What the hell took you so long?” I bark.
Colt lets out a dry laugh. “Turns out Ballistic isn’t the only one in this family who lets rage get in the way of logic.”
Ash scoffs. “It’s handled. That’s all that matters.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but Brooks makes a move toward the building. Instinct kicks in—I grab the back of his shirt and yank him back.
“Let me go, damn it!” he growls, shoving my arm off him.
“Wait,” I snap.
He throws me a murderous glare before shaking me off. “I said wait,” I bark again, then pivot back to Colt. “What the fuck happened?”
Colt gestures toward Ash. “This lunatic decided to choke the guy with his bare hands. Took forever. Thought he was gonna serenade the bastard while he was at it.”
Ash slams a fist into Colt’s ribs, and Colt doubles over with a grunt.
“Fucking hell,” Colt wheezes. “You’re such a jackass.”
“And yet you’re still alive,” Ash mutters.
I roll my eyes. “Jesus. Morons.”
Brooks is already crossing the street. I jog after him, muttering curses under my breath. Behind me, the bickering duo follows.
At the door, I reach for my Glock, but it’s pointless—Brooks is already ahead, crouched by the elevator. He slashes the second guard’s throat with terrifying ease and storms toward the stairwell without glancing back.
“Shit,” I mutter, chasing after him.
I whirl around to the others. “Get that body out of sight. Now.”
As I spin back, Brooks is at the foot of the stairs, knives clenched tight in both fists, muscles trembling with barely restrained fury.
“Which floor, Kyler?” His voice is low, cracking under the weight of what’s to come. “Because if anyone stands in my way, they’re done.”
I look to Colt and Pax, panic rising in my throat.
“Sixth,” Pax says, voice hard as stone. “Go. Cut him to pieces. We’ve got you.”
Before anyone else can say anything, Brooks jogs to the stairs and we follow him.
We climb steadily, our footsteps quiet and deliberate. The stairwell is quiet, each step drawing us closer to the sixth floor. A shadow moves—someone’s standing just around the bend. Brooks lifts a finger to his lips, eyes locked on the target, then tightens his grip on his knife.
He inches forward, smooth and silent. I raise my gun, but the bastard’s only showing a sliver of his leg. I aim for the knee—if this goes sideways, I’ll blow his kneecap to hell.
I glance at Brooks, now nearly flat against the landing. His head pops up, arm sliding back in preparation. I hold my breath, finger on the trigger.
The man drops with a grunt, Brooks’ blade buried deep in his thigh. Before the guy even knows what hit him, Brooks is on top of him, his other knife slashing across the throat in one swift, brutal motion.
Suddenly, pounding footsteps echo from above. Shit. I swing my weapon upward and take the stairs two at a time. Brooks tugs at the knife still lodged in the man’s leg.
As I round the next corner, a gunshot explodes from behind me. The man ahead crumples mid-step, a hole blooming in his chest.
“Motherfucker,” Pax mutters, grinning as he lowers his revolver. He nods toward the top. “Move.”
Brooks is already charging upward. “Shit,” he hisses, eyeing the panel beside the door. “Colt!”
Colton bolts past us.
“Please tell me you brought one of those things,” Brooks growls, standing at the door, face like ice. This door is keypad-secured.
“Oh, I’ve got one of those things.” Colt drops to his knees, his mouth twitching into a smug smile. He holsters his gun and shrugs off the backpack. Finally makes sense why he insisted on bringing it.
He unzips the bag in near silence and pulls out a small screwdriver and a handheld device. He presses the latter into Brooks’ hand. “Hold this.”
Colt works fast. He unscrews the keypad cover with practiced ease, placing the pieces in Pax’s waiting palm. Then he takes back the device and clips on two tiny cables—like jump leads for a toy car. With a few quick taps, numbers flicker across the display.
I keep my eyes on the stairs, heart hammering. We don’t have long. No idea what’s happening downstairs, and I really don’t want to find out the hard way.
Seconds stretch into what feels like minutes—until a soft beep breaks the tension. The lock clicks. Door open.
Only two minutes have passed, but it felt like a goddamn eternity.
Brooks opens the door a little wider so he can peek through the crack.
Then he gestures upward, and I understand that we have to aim our weapons.
All six of us do so, and then he throws the door open.
He runs inside as fast as he can, and we follow him.
I just catch a glimpse of a man with blond hair turning around and dropping his glass.
“Gentlemen,” he says, voice trembling.
Brooks walks purposefully toward him with both Bowie knives in hand. The guard’s blood trickles down the side of his hand.
“We had an agreement,” the man says, his voice a little steadier now as he straightens up. He lifts his hands in a pathetic attempt to calm us down.
Brooks lets out a cold, humorless laugh that slices through the room like a blade.
“An agreement?” he echoes, voice trembling with rage.
“You think handing over my wife’s body and a name makes us even?
” His voice breaks for a moment, then fury swallows it whole.
“You thought that was a deal, Mr. Fancy Last Name?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. With a roar, Brooks lunges forward and slams his forehead into Vanderberg’s face.
The crack is sickening, and blood bursts onto both men.
Vanderberg stumbles back, dazed and reeling, but Brooks is already crouching.
With a single, practiced move, he slices through the tendon at the back of Vanderberg’s ankle.
The scream that tears from Vanderberg’s throat is inhuman—high and shrill, like a dying animal. He collapses, twitching and gasping, his hands slipping in the growing pool of blood around him. “You bastard!” he howls, crumpling forward. “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that! We had a deal!”
He tries to stand—shaking, breath ragged—but his ruined leg gives out. He falls again, whimpering, face twisted in agony.
Brooks shoves him backward with both hands and Vanderberg’s skull cracks against the floor.
My best friend straddles his chest, every breath heavy with restrained violence. We all step in closer without a word, instinct pulling us toward the storm about to break.
“You really believed,” Brooks growls, voice low and shaking, “that you could hand her back in a box, with a bullet in her skull, give us a name, and promise to keep your fucking hands off Laylay, and that would be enough?” His hand trembles as he brings the blade to Vanderberg’s cheek.
“You should’ve left her at school. You shouldn’t have even looked at her. Never touched her.”
Brooks drags the tip of the knife down, slow and deliberate, carving a crimson line from beneath Vanderberg’s eye to his jaw. The man jerks, screaming, but Ballistic pins his arm down—and without a flicker of hesitation, chops off two of his fingers. The sound is wet and final.
Vanderberg roars in agony, clutching the bloody stump, eyes wild with fear.
Brooks wipes the splattered blood from his face, expression flat, empty. “Being in charge… not so fun now, is it?” He cocks his head, eyes burning.
“Ballistic,” Vanderberg whimpers. “I never ordered them to kill her. I swear. Please… please, man…”
But no one’s listening.
Brooks plants both hands on Vanderberg’s chest, then drags them slowly down to his thighs, deliberate and chilling. Without hesitation, he drives his knife straight into the soft flesh beneath the ribs. The sound it makes is wet—fleshy. Vanderberg’s body jerks in pain.
“You gave the fucking order,” Brooks growls.
His voice is low, dangerous. “You orchestrated their kidnapping. Planned to sell them like property, like they were born to fill your damn pockets.” His fists tighten around the Bowie knife’s handle.
“You traffic women like they’re livestock—meat to be branded, broken, and sold. ”
With a sickening jerk, he drags the blade deeper. Vanderberg groans through clenched teeth, the sound laced with agony.
Brooks keeps going, voice like fire. “You think you’re a god? Some untouchable bastard who gets to decide who lives and who dies?” Another savage twist of the blade. “Why the hell did you kill Hayes? That man wouldn’t have said a damn word. He followed the rules. But you killed him anyway.”
Another wrench of the knife, and Brooks has torn open most of his abdomen. Behind me, I hear shuffling and I turn to find Asher, frozen, biting down on his lip so hard it’s white, his eyes wide and fixed on Brooks.
Vanderberg tries to speak, but nothing comes out—just a sick, bubbling gurgle. Brooks leans in, voice shaking with fury. “You touched Connor. You laid your hands on Layne. You dared to go after my wife.” His voice cracks, then sharpens into a growl. “You talk about deals?”
Brooks drives the knife higher, then plunges his hand into the open cavity of Vanderberg’s stomach.
Blood squelches between his fingers. “My son will grow up without a mother—because of you. And I’m supposed to call it even because you had the decency to return her body?
” He yanks his hand out, intestines following, slick and grotesque in the dim light.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Brooks mutters coldly.
And then, he straightens. Turns his back without sparing another look. Calm. Hollow.
“I hope you enjoy whatever’s left of your miserable life, asshole,” he says, and walks away.