Beau steps behind the counter, grabs the man by the arm, and hauls him up just enough to snap one cuff around his wrist. He secures the other end to the freezer handle, locking him in place.
“When the police arrive, you will tell them nothing. If you mention us even once, I will come back.”
The cashier swallows hard. “I won’t say anything.”
“You won’t get a second warning,” Beau says. “I’m a professional assassin. My victims die before they know I'm in the room.”
He tears the receipt from the printer and walks out.
Outside, Travis stands at the pump, forcing himself to stay steady as the tank fills. He keeps his head down and his hands on the nozzle, like nothing has happened.
Beau returns to the car without looking at the bodies.
Travis replaces the nozzle, closes the tank, and gets into the driver’s seat.
Beau slides back into the passenger seat.
I push myself upright, breath shallow, pain flaring as the engine turns over.
Then we're moving again.
The gas station disappears behind us.
Only twenty minutes to the hangar. Twenty minutes until we meet the plane. Twenty minutes until we are in the air and headed for Oregon.
Beau stares straight ahead.
“That was our one mistake, Seth. We don’t get another.”
He is right.
But I can’t think about the consequences. Not about bodies or headlines or surveillance footage. All I can think about is her.
Brooke doesn’t have time for caution.
And I will tear through every cop, every state line until she is safe again.
Beau and I used to have a code. Only kill the ones who deserved it.
But right now? If someone stands between me getting to Brooke, they are already fucking dead.
Chapter 20
Brooke
When dawn splits the basement with harsh fluorescent light, the guards storm in. Sarah screams when they grab her ankle, dragging her across the floor. No one helps because no one can.
They haul us like cargo toward the pool room.
The pool room is a white tile nightmare, bright, clean, too mocking for what it is built to contain. The water steams faintly, but the air has that wrong cold, the sterilized kind that seeps into bone.
On the table, a neat fan of laminated cards.
Elliot stands beside them grinning, a host welcoming contestants to their final episode. Sophie stands nearby, smile stretched thin, eyes hungry. She looks like she is ready for someone to bleed immediately.
“Good morning,” Elliot says cheerfully. “I hope you slept well. That luxury is about to expire.”
He takes a slow step forward, hands clasped behind his back. “Today is our card game. A long-standing tradition. One of my personal favorites.”
