Page 72 of Heist in Paradise

“We’re clear,” he said, no hint of strain in his voice. “Hostiles approaching. East side. ETA Ten minutes.”

“Roger,” Jax said. In a quieter voice, he added: “Sparrow, be careful.”

Madoc gave him no indication that he’d heard him. But I was confused by the sentiment, the warning laced with concern. Madoc shifted once more, this time angling toward the ground, as if preparing to drop down at any moment.

“What happens now?” I asked him, half-expecting he wouldn’t respond.

Madoc lifted his night vision goggles and settled them on his forehead, his eyes black and unreadable beneath them. Following his lead, I did the same, squinting to adjust to the darkness.

“I’m going to take the beach,” Madoc said, like it was simple. Obvious. He relayed his instructions with the same cutting dryness that he applied to everything. “You’ll be my eyes.” Madoc leaned toward me, making my breath hitch. “You talk to me,” he whispered. “Only me. No one else. Don’t let the others distract you, even when it gets loud.”

I nodded gravely. “Got it.”

He stared at me for a long moment, looking for weakness, for cracks in my resolve. He wouldn’t find any. I schooled my expression carefully, ignoring the sweat dripping down my face and stinging my salt-cracked lips.

Finally, he nodded, apparently satisfied. “Follow me,” he said, shouldering his gun. “Lose me again and I won’t come back for you.”

Nodding determinedly, I followed his careful movements as we descended from the tree to find a new post closer to the beach. My legs ached when we returned to the ground, rubbery from overuse. It made me clumsier than I liked, but I refused to let it hinder me.

Behind us, the mansion waited, dark and breathless, like the open jaws of a predator. Time dragged and rushed together, so by the time I climbed the next tree, right on the lip of the shoreline, the mansion had been breached.

And the chaos began.

JAX

You could hear a pin drop.

My heart slowed, my vision sharpened. Every part of me was coiled and ready to spring where I was crouched beneath the stairs on the second landing. The waiting part was always hard. I wasn’t a fan of edging, and here I was, constantly on the fucking edge.

“They’re in,” Zola whispered, so softly that it could’ve been a caress beside me. Another stretch of unnerving silence followed. The mansion was built to contain, to keep quiet. The windows were soundproof, potentially bulletproof, though we’d had no way to test that theory. They were also an illusion, a pretend freedom, looking out but never in, holding my reflection and keeping me on display.

Exhibition, my mind supplied. The ghost of me stared back.

“Okay, we have movement.” Zola paused, watching intently from the control room. “The girls are secured.”

My chest loosened slightly. At least that part went off without a hitch.

“They’ve noticed the power off,” Zola said sharply. “They’re headed to the fuse box now. Get ready.”

In my head, I saw it unfold—the men approaching the basement, wrenching open the wine rack, triggering the wire connected to the dye packs. There would be a sharp snapping sound right before they were hit with the neon dye, marking them as glowing targets in the dark.

And then Callum and Nate would strike.

I braced myself for the sound. I shut my eyes like that would make it come quicker. I wrenched them back open at the first gunshot, the sound muted and far away. Too fucking far. It was a testament to my messed-up head that I wanted to run toward gunfire and not away from it.

I dug my nails hard into my neck, into the brand behind my ear, until it anchored me.

Over the years, we’d learned and accepted our strengths and weaknesses. I was a good shot, but not as good as Callum and Nate. Ryle was our runner, our hyperactive rabbit capable of slipping behind enemy lines. Madoc was a calculated sniper who liked to play with his prey.

My gut swooped when I heard Callum’s voice: “Two down. One escaped. Comin’ your way, Alpha.”

I wrenched up my mask, becoming the cold-blooded assassin in the shadows. Pounding footsteps came up the stairs, a flash of neon pink splattered across a broad chest. My finger curled on the trigger. My mark was panicking, startled like a racehorse, boots heavy on the wood.

When he came to the second landing, his ankle snagged on the barbed wire, causing him to topple over with a startled grunt. I sprang forward, and he sensed me in the dark, already scrambling for his gun.

Too late.

I shot him in the chest, right in the splatter of neon pink. Bullseye. He gasped wetly, fingers clenching on the trigger. His gun fired, sporadically, aimlessly, shattering something behind me. I rushed him, stepping hard on his arm until it cracked. He cried again, the sound like gurgling paint. The whites of his eyes flashed up at me as I leveled the gun at his head and fired.