A hallway branches off to four private rooms, each sealed with fingerprint scanners.
Behind bulletproof glass, a floor-to-ceiling weapons case stands like a private armory. Rifles, handguns, knives, explosives, tactical gear, everything arranged with obsessive precision. You could wage a war from this place and never run out of options.
Travis steps off the lift and stares around the bunker, mouth parting as he slowly turns in a full circle. “How the hell does one even afford something like this?”
Beau doesn't look impressed. “Do you know how much it costs to complete a hit on an elected official?”
Travis blinks. “No. What the fuck?”
“Exactly,” Beau says. “Between that, a long list of favors people owe me, and an architect friend who owed me his freedom, this place was a gift. I just renovated it.”
Travis drags a hand down his face. “So you received the batcave as a gift. An assassin and a renovator.” He lets out a sharp laugh. “Unfucking believable.”
Beau shrugs. “Welcome to my happy place.”
Krueger leaps before any of us can react, paws landing solidly on the bunker floor. He gives a low, satisfied chuff, then takes off down the hallway like he is clearing the perimeter. Tail high, back to soldier mode.
Luna, on the other hand, is still screaming.
Her carrier vibrates violently, the sound muffled but furious. I crouch and unlatch the crate. She shoots out like a missile, claws out, bolting under the nearest couch without looking back.
“Nice to see she’s thriving,” Travis mutters, rubbing his ear.
I straighten slowly, pain pulling tight through my side.
I have one job now. Get cleaned up. Get armed.
Get Brooke back.
“Animals are safe here,” Beau says, already heading down one of the side hallways. “Back room’s soundproof. Climate controlled. They’ll be fine.”
Krueger pads after him. Luna peeks out from under the couch, eyes wide and curious.
I hate leaving them. They are the last pieces of home Brooke and I have left. But Beau is right. Out there, they are liabilities. Here, they are protected.
Beau turns to me. “Shower. My doctor is on the way. He’s bringing more oxy for the pain and your risperidone.”
The private bathroom is larger than most apartments. Matte black tile. Stainless steel fixtures. Steam-proof mirror. The shower is enclosed in frameless glass. Black slate lines the walls and floor, lit by harsh overhead spots. Water pours from a ceiling-mounted rainfall head in a steady stream.
I peel off the blood-stiff hoodie, the fabric ripping away from scabbed edges. Pain flares across my ribs and shoulder, deep enough that spots dance in my vision. My skin is mottled with purple bruising, dried blood clinging like cracked paint.
The moment I step under the water, heat slams into me.
The water hits the bullet wound first, and white-hot agony shoots down my arm. I brace a hand on the tile and let it happen. It burns, but it also clears something, like the pain forces everything else out of my head.
Brooke’s scream. The black hood over her head. Her body dragged away. My daughter’s face from the dream.
All of it blurs with the steam until the world narrows to a single point.
Get to her.
I dry off, ignoring how my shoulder protests every twist, and dress fast. Black jeans that don't restrict movement, boots with quiet tread.
The doctor arrives in under twenty minutes.
Beau has one on call. Discreet, off the books. You don't survive long in Beau’s world without contingencies.
The doctor moves with quiet confidence, already assessing me as he guides me into a chair. He peels back the bandages with careful fingers, unfazed by blood or scar tissue.
