“Stevens,” Antonio says, almost warmly. “Right on time.”
Stevens. The name hits me like a slap. He’s Mason’s boss. He looks over at me, his eyes cold and appraising, like I’m a piece of merchandise. I hate him. Then he turns back to Antonio.
“Now we’re even,” Stevens says, his voice smooth and businesslike. “I helped you. Now you’ll help me secure the governorship of Washington.”
Antonio nods, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Thank you, my friend. A pleasure doing business with you.”
Stevens walks over to me, leaning in close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne and the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. His eyes rake over me, cold and satisfied.
“You were definitely worth it,” he says quietly, almost smiling. “Nobody can pass up a deal like this.”
He laughs softly, a low, satisfied sound that makes my skin crawl, then straightens up and walks out of the room without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with Antonio and his men.
I feel sick. Betrayed. Mason and Kane don’t even know. They think Stevens is one of the good guys. They’ve got no idea he sold me out. The realization crashes over me,fresh tears spilling down my cheeks as I stand there trembling in the middle of the room, surrounded by monsters who are deciding my fate like it’s nothing more than a business transaction.
I wish Mason was here. I wish he would burst through that door and take me away. But he isn’t. And I’m all alone with the wolves.
30
Mason
The small private airfield outside Seattle feels too quiet under the early morning sky. The runway lights still glow faintly against the fading darkness, casting long shadows across the wet tarmac. The air’s damp and cold, carrying the sharp scent of jet fuel. My boots crunch on the gravel as I pace near the truck, every step heavy with the weight of what just happened. Riley’s fucking gone. Taken by men I don’t trust. And every second that passes feels like another nail in the coffin of my control.
Kane stands a few feet away, arms crossed, his face grim in the dim light. He hasn’t said much since we left the motel, but I can feel his tension matching mine. The satellite phone in my pocket feels like a lead weight. I keep checking it, waiting for any update, any sign that she’s okay. My mind keeps replaying the last moment Isaw her, the way she reached for me as they dragged her away, her eyes wide and terrified. The memory burns like acid. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve kept her with me no matter what the orders said.
Headlights cut through the darkness as another plane touches down on the short runway. The engines whine as it slows and taxis toward us. Finally. The US Marshals. Jax, Colt, Ryker, and Brock. My brothers. The rest of the team. The only men I would trust with my life. And right now, with Riley’s life.
The plane door opens and they step out one by one, duffel bags slung over their shoulders, tactical gear already half on. Jax leads the way, his face set in that focused expression I know too well. Colt follows, eyes scanning the airfield like he expects trouble. Ryker and Brock bring up the rear, both of them moving with the quiet efficiency that comes from years of working together in the worst situations imaginable.
They reach us quickly, boots thudding on the tarmac. Jax claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “We came as fast as we could.”
I don’t waste time. “Thank you. We need to find her. They couldn’t have gotten far. Any word on Stevens?”
Colt drops his bag with a heavy thud, his jaw tight. “Stevens’s been acting shady for weeks. Little inconsistenciesin his stories. Timing that didn’t add up. I put a tracker on him. It may not lead anywhere because he may have found it, but it’s worth checking.”
Ryker nods, already pulling out a tablet from his bag. The screen glows blue in the dim light, casting sharp shadows across his face. “Let me pull it up.”
We gather around the tablet as Ryker taps the screen. The map loads, a small red dot blinking steadily in downtown Seattle. The location is unmistakable. A bar. One known to be owned by the Moretti family. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the plane engines winding down.
I feel the rage rise up hot and fast, burning through my veins like wildfire. “Motherfucker sold us out,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. “That son of a bitch handed her over to them. To the same people who’ve been hunting her.”
Brock curses under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. “I knew something was off with him. The way he pushed for the quick move. The way he kept us in the dark. He played us.”
Kane steps closer, his face hard. “We need to mobilize. Now. Gear up. We’re not waiting for backup. Riley’s in there with them. We go in and we get her out.”
Jax looks at each of us, his eyes steady. “We’ve done this before. Together. No one gets left behind. Especially not her. Mason, you lead point. You know her best. We trust you.”
The words hit me hard. These men are my brothers. We’ve bled together, fought together, buried friends together. There’s no hesitation in their eyes. No doubt. Just complete trust. The kind of brotherhood that comes from years of putting your life in each other’s hands.
I nod once, the decision made. “We gear up. Tactical. Full kit. We hit the bar hard and fast. Riley’s priority one. We get her out alive. Anyone who stands in our way goes down.”
We move to the back of the truck, pulling out the tactical bags we always keep ready. The sound of zippers and velcro fills the air as we suit up. I strap on my vest, the weight familiar and comforting. The cold metal of my rifle feels solid in my hands as I check the magazine. Brock hands me extra ammo, his movements quick and precise. Ryker checks comms, testing the earpieces with a low murmur. Colt loads his sidearm, the slide racking with a sharp click. Jax stands watch, eyes scanning the perimeter.
“Remember that op in Bogotá?” Jax says as he adjusts his vest, a faint grin breaking through the tension. “When Mason carried Ryker out on his back after that ambush? I thought we were all dead. Then this bastard just grunted and said, ‘Not today.’ Still the craziest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
Ryker chuckles, slapping a magazine into his rifle. “Yeah, and then Brock here started singing that stupid song to keep us moving. Worst voice I’ve ever heard. But it worked. We made it out.”
Brock grins, checking his own gear. “What can I say? Music soothes the savage beast. Even when the beast is a bunch of bleeding marshals running from cartel gunmen.”
