“Agreed,” Wesley says.
I hate leaving Justice with the cops. He runs hotter when I’m not beside him, and I swear he steadies when Ispeak. Maybe my voice can help him deal with his usual pain. The thought flickers through me, warm, then the elevator jolts to a stop.
The doors slide open into the hidden garage, cold concrete stretching under harsh fluorescent lights. The air reeks of motor oil and burned rubber. The floor is solid with no hint of the burned and collapsed tunnel beneath it. Man, they’d repaired at least this part of the garage quickly. A town car idles ahead, exhaust curling thick and acrid in the stale space, next to a quiet SUV.
I step out first with Wynd and Wesley close in at my sides.
Then the world explodes.
A body barrels from the shadows and slams into us with bone-cracking force. My lungs empty in one shocked gasp as I’m thrown sideways. Fists and elbows cut the air—thuds, cracks, wet grunts filling the garage. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, the scuff of boots on concrete. Someone’s elbow smashes my temple, white pain bursting through my skull, and I crash against the metal side of the SUV.
Gunfire pops, sharp and deafening in the enclosed space. Shouts ricochet, tangled with groans of pain.
Dizzy, I drop, the floor trembling beneath me as my vision swims. “Justice,” I whisper, the word torn and weak.
Another gunshot. Another grunt. Then hands—rough, unrelenting—clamp around me, dragging me up. My head lolls, body too heavy, too slow. I can’t see who has me. The grip tightens, hauling me like I weigh nothing. The thought of Bronco slams into me. He’s massive, a truck in human form. If it’s him, maybe it’s rescue. Or maybe not.
I fight for clarity, for breath. My limbs flail weakly against unyielding arms. A trunk door screeches open, metal on metal, and I’m heaved inside.
I slam against hard carpet, bouncing twice before collapsing flat. The air tastes of grease and rubber. A lid slams shut above me. Darkness swallows me whole. My fingers brush my temple to find swollen skin, no blood, but an already rising lump.
A sick twist tightens my chest as the truth settles in.
I’m in a trunk.
And I don’t know who put me here.
THIRTY-FIVE
Justice
This place is a complete shitshow. My men edge toward the wide glass doors, weapons ready, muscles tight. I raise a hand, sharp enough to stop them as I move into the lobby, pleased Ella has gone the opposite direction. “Let ’em in.” They step back, eyes still locked on the flashing lights outside.
I glance at the dark cameras in the corners. “Also, somebody fucking find Kaz.” My voice carries through the marble, echoing off polished walls.
Uniformed cops barrel in, guns drawn, boots squeaking on wet tile. Their radios crackle, the smell of damp wool and rain-soaked leather cutting through the sterile polish of the lobby.
“The body’s at the end of the lobby down the hallway,” I tell them, motioning toward Sylveria. “Nobody’s gonna shoot you.”
They don’t look convinced. Can’t blame them. My reputation precedes me, and it’s not soft.
An older officer steps forward, easily pushing eighty, though his frame is still lean and wired with muscle. His mustache and gravelly voice give him a Sam Elliott edge, the kind of man who’s fought his share of battles. “Mr. Beathach, I’m to wait with you until the detectives arrive.”
I point to one of the plush seating areas. “Have a seat.”
“Sure thing.” He lowers into the leather with an impressive grace.
My shoulders loosen for the first time in minutes. At least Ella’s out. The thought steadies me. She’s mine to guard, mine to keep. Nobody takes what’s mine and walks away breathing.
I sit.
“Who found the body?” he asks.
I point to the crying woman in the corner already speaking with officers.
Fifteen minutes later, the detectives finally show. I’m not surprised to see Ashner and Caldwell again.
She’s buttoned into a navy suit with a pink shell beneath, boots polished to a deep brown sheen. He’s still in that trench coat, dark circles carved deeper into his face than last time.
