She is here and she is looking at me like she’s ready to tear Silas’s throat out with her own teeth if I don't do it first.
"You missed the heart by an inch five years ago, Silas," I say, my voice a low, gravelly vibration that shakes the dust off the corrugated roof. "I won't miss it again."
"You won't get the chance," Silas spits, his fingers tightening on the grip of the revolver, pressing the barrel deeper into her neck. Atara doesn't flinch, though her breath catches. "You see this? I’ve spent five years rotting in a basement while you built your little castle in the desert. An eye for an eye, Lorcan. That was the deal."
"You're a ghost, Silas. And ghosts don't make deals."
"I'm the ghost who has your leverage," he chuckles. "You don't do casual, Lorcan. We both know that. If she's at your table, she's in your heart. So, let's see how much that heart is worth."
Atara glares at him, her voice sounding like gravel being ground under a heel. "He’s better at math than you think, Silas. And currently, your survival probability is sitting at zero percent."
"Shut up, you bitch," Silas snarls, shaking her slightly. He looks back at me, his eyes wild, bloodshot with a desperate, manic pride. "Here’s the transaction, Lorcan. You pull out your phone. You log into the Syndicate's master ledger. You transfer every offshore account, every shell company, every holding in Vegas to the routing number I’m going to give you. Every single cent. Or I paint this wall with her brains."
"Don't do it, Lorcan!" Atara shouts, her voice cracking over the silence. "Don't you dare give him a single dollar!"
"I said shut up!" Silas clicks the safety of the revolver off. The sound is loud enough to make my heart stop for one brutal beat. "I'll count to three, Lorcan. One—"
"I’m doing it," I say.
I reach into my pocket, my fingers steady, and pull out my phone.
"Lorcan, no!" Atara begs, her head trying to turn toward me, her eyes wide with a sudden, terrifying panic that has nothing to do with her own safety. She’s looking at me like she’s trying to hold me up. "Please. Don't do this. You'll have nothing."
"I don't care," I say.
I slide the screen open. My thumb moves over the glass, hitting the master bypass code, opening the encrypted files that hold the keys to every house, every dock, and every account I’ve spent twenty years building out of blood and dirt.
I look at her.
"I love you, Atara," I say.
"I’d rather be a pauper with you in a walkable studio in Brooklyn than a king in a golden cage without you," I continue, my thumb tapping the screen, executing the transfer. "It's just basic risk management. You're the only asset I can't afford to lose."
Atara stares at me, her chest freezing mid-rise, her swollen eye shimmering with a sudden rush of tears that she refuses to let fall. Her lower lip wobbles, but she sets her jaw, her fingers curling into fists against her knees.
"The transfer is complete, Silas," I say, throwing the phone onto the concrete between us. "It's all yours."
Silas looks down at the phone, a greedy, triumphant grin spreading across his ugly face. He lets out a loud, wet laugh that bounces off the metal walls.
"Look at that," Silas chuckles, his voice dripping with malice. "The King of the West Coast. Ruined. A beggar in his own city."
He looks back at me, his eyes darkening with a sudden, vicious intent.
"But did you really think I'd let her live?" he asks.
NO! NO!
My face changes. The cold precision vanishes, replaced by a blinding, white-hot fury that has no ceiling.
"NO!" I roar.
I lunge the same instant Silas fires.
Atara ducks, her head snapping down toward her knees on instinct as the heavy round from the revolver punches through the air where her neck was a millisecond ago, shattering the lightbulb above her head.
The warehouse goes pitch black, save for the pale morning light cutting through the high windows.
I hit Silas, our bodies crash onto the dirty concrete floor, the revolver flying from his grip and clattering into the dark.
