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My pistol is strapped to my shoulder, hidden beneath a large black hoodie. It burns against my flesh as my heart thuds, but I keep my countenance calm.
Please don’t take my gun. Please don’t take my gun.
“Wait here,” he says, and he walks through the first room of the warehouse and disappears behind a door.
Falcon. Falcon is behind that door.
“Thank God he?—”
Vinnie grabs me, puts his finger to his mouth, indicating me to be quiet. Then he points.
I got it. It’s probably bugged, and they can hear everything we say.
No need to let them know I’m armed.
He took Vinnie’s gun. It’s now on me to protect us. To protect Falcon.
As fear grips my heart, my brother’s presence soothes me.
But only a little.
My palms are slick with sweat, and a shiver races down my spine, yet there's a fierce fire kindling within me, burning brighter with the acute awareness that I must shield both Falcon and Vinnie from harm. Each thud of my racing heartbeat echoes a solemn vow to stand as their guardian, to face whoever’s in that next room head-on.
Is my father there?
My grandfather?
Miles?
Most likely all three, along with Miles’s father, Declan McAllister.
Despite the trembling in my limbs, a steely resolve anchors me. I am the barricade against the storm, the unwavering protector. It can only be me, because I’m the only one who’s armed.
It's a heavy responsibility, the weight of Falcon’s safety on my shoulders, but it's one I bear with grim determination. I am frightened, yes—profoundly so—but I can’t let the fear paralyze me. I can’t let the fear define me.
Instead, I’ll use it to sharpen my focus.
It’s all I can do, because there is no other choice.
29
FALCON
The pain is a constant companion, throbbing in time with my pulse, a reminder of the beating I've endured. It's etched into every bruise and in every shallow breath that stings my broken ribs.
Blood trickles down my face, warm and sticky, as I struggle to keep my eyes open. The pain throbs in time with my heartbeat in a cruel, metronomic pulse that amplifies the agony of every bruise and cut on my body. My limbs are heavy, bound tightly by the rough ropes biting into my skin. There's no way for me to escape, not that I have the strength left to try.
I tilt my head upward, wincing at the effort it takes.
“You’re a piece of shit,” one of the goons says.
I want to spit back a retort, but my mouth is dry and raw from screaming earlier. So instead, I clench my teeth and glare at him, trying to convey my hatred through my gaze alone. It's all I have left.
Will they force Savannah to look upon my beaten and battered body?
Because I don’t care what happens to me. Physical pain is far from new to me.
I endured it more than once on the inside.
