XOXO
J & S
Shit.
J & S.
The MacKenzie brothers. Julian and Stuart.
I knew they’d seek retribution for bringing their name into the limelight. I just didn’t think it would be like this. Once again, someone I love is suffering because of me.
When will this end?
I realise then that they are probably who has the hit out on me. I had considered that it was them, but since it was the Crimson Angel that poked the bear, I didn’t consider that they knew I was the killer calling them out in a note written in blood.
Taking out my phone, I snap a picture of the note and send it to Barrett, and a moment later my phone vibrates as he calls me.
“Tell me where you are,” he snaps when I answer it.
“I’m at home,” I rush out, bolting from the room and going back downstairs. “But I’m going straight to the warehouse.”
“Like fuck!” he hisses. “Stay the fuck there! Wait for backup!”
I’m already slipping out past the police tape again when I respond.
“There’s no time. They will kill him, Barrett. I can’t let that happen.”
“Fuck, Lily! Would you stop and fucking listen?!”
“No!” I yell into the phone, reaching for the helmet. “I can’t bear to live without him.”
“Fucking hell, woman. He’s probably already dead. Do not fucking go alone!”
I hang up, not wanting to hear him talk of Asher potentially being already dead.
No… Just no!
I break every speed limit, racing across town to the warehouse district. Number seventy-four isn’t far from mine, so Ileave the motorcycle there, gathering some extra supplies before making the rest of the trip on foot.
The note said to trade my life for Asher’s, and I would in an instant if I trusted that they’d let him go free. But they won’t. He won’t even make it out of the warehouse before they kill him.
I spend a whole minute watching the exterior of the warehouse before I decide to simply walk through the main entrance. They probably won’t expect that, and even if they did, they won’t kill me until they get what they want. Either to torture me or sell me like the other girls they steal off the streets.
With a gun in each hand, I swing the door open, stepping in to find no one watching it.
Idiots.
I make it about ten feet before a thug rounds the corner, too busy on his phone to notice me.
I whistle, and the moment he glances up, I pull the trigger, the silencer doing its job to keep my presence unknown.
I do this another nine times as I weave the passages at the front part of the warehouse before thug number eleven takes me by surprise. He fires at me, the bullet hitting the wall next to me, the sound echoing throughout the building, alerting everyone that I’ve arrived.
“Good one, arsehole,” I snap before I squeeze my trigger and put a bullet between his eyes.
The press of a barrel against the back of my head pulls me up short.
“So you’re the Crimson Angel.” The deep voice is familiar. I’ve heard it before on TV, claiming to care about women’s rights.
