Page 132 of Pucked Around and Found Out

“Yeah. Stand back.”

I work his lock faster now that I know the technique. When his door opens, Cas hobbles out on his crutches, the cast on his leg making him awkward and slow.

“Can you move?” I ask.

“Good enough,” he grunts. “What’s the plan?”

“Get the fuck out of here. Then go after my fairy.”

We make our way down the corridor, Cas struggling but managing. We're almost to the ground floor when the building shakes.

An explosion.

Then another.

Then rapid gunfire follows.

“Finally,” I mutter, and Cas grins despite the pain.

“Thought they'd never get here.”

Through a window, I see muzzle flashes in the darkness.

A lot of them.

We reach the stairwell and descend toward the chaos.

The sounds of fighting grow louder—gunfire, shouting, screaming, dying.

Beautiful.

We burst onto the ground floor and it's a war zone.

Bodies everywhere. Federal agents down, bleeding out, some still twitching. I didn’t realize how many of the fuckers were stationed here until now. It looks like Fiona was more prepared than I thought.

And cutting through them like avenging angels are three distinct groups.

My men, fighting with the brutal efficiency I trained into them.

The Denver Kings, heavily armed, showing no mercy.

And a third group wearing masks, the Filthy Few.

Leading the Denver Kings contingent is Carnage De Santis. And beside him, moving like death incarnate, is the infamous Butcher.

Alex Denver.

Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of lethal grace that comes from decades of violence. He's got a blade in each hand, and as I watch, he drives one into an agent's throat while simultaneously opening another's femoral artery with the second blade.

Efficient. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Devlin!” Carnage spots us and cuts down two agents moving to flank him. “Move your fucking ass!”

An agent appears from a side corridor, weapon raised.

I don't think.

Instinct takes over.