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I don’t have time to respond, moving to the next. I tell her the same thing, and she listens, helping one of her fellow prisoners before they run hand-in-hand for cover, ducking into safety.
I shove the gun I stole into the waistband of my pants to free up both hands as I work, focusing on the task in front of me to keep myself from falling into panic. My men came for me, and as relieved as I am that they’re here, I’ll never fucking forgive myself if they get hurt because of me. And if they die…
No. Don’t think about it. That won’t fucking happen.
As I’m untying one of the last girls I can find, movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention. I glance up in time to see Camilla and one of the burly guys who seems to serve as her personal guard darting between two crates. A shot rings out and the man goes down, but Camilla doesn’t even glance behind her. Running in a low crouch, she rounds a corner, heading toward the back of the warehouse.
The man isn’t dead.
He groans, clutching his chest as blood spills between his fingers. He’s still alive, and he probably took that shot to protect her, and she couldn’t even be bothered to help him.
Cold fury fills me, and I pull the gun out of my waistband, wrapping my hand around the grip. It’s both terrifying and comforting how easily it rests against my palm as I dart after Camilla, keeping to the shadows and trying to ignore the terrifying sound of shouts and gunshots ricocheting around the space.
The man lets out a gurgling breath as I pass him, but he’s in too rough of shape to stop me from following Camilla.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I make my way deeper into the warehouse. It’s slightly quieter here, with hallways that seem to lead to smaller storage areas. I slow my footsteps as I near a dimly lit room, and when I catch the sound of my mother’s quiet voice, I rest my finger on the gun’s trigger, drawing a steadying breath before I continue forward.
A strange, pungent scent makes my breath catch, and I round the corner into the room, my gun braced in both hands.
My eyes widen.
This storage area has been converted into a sort of office, and my mother is pouring a canister of gasoline on the floor, the desk, and the file drawers that line the space.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I blurt.
Camilla’s head whips up. She drops the gasoline canister and reaches behind her as she turns, drawing her gun in a smooth, practiced motion.
The world seems to slow down, a single second seeming to stretch out as if time has expanded. I see my mother pulling her gun, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’ll kill me if she gets the chance. Maybe she’ll mourn my death afterward, but I would be a sacrifice she would gladly make.
That thought ripples through my mind before spreading out to every part of my body, filling me from head to toe with a cold certainty.
My finger squeezes the trigger of my stolen gun.
A shot rings out.
And my mother falls.
Time snaps back into motion again, everything speeding up so fast I feel like I get whiplash. Camilla hits the floor with a heavy thud, crying out in pain, and I dart forward and kick the gun out of her hand.
I shot her in the shoulder. It was a messy, wild shot. A lucky shot, but I’m not going to question it right now. Standing next to her, I aim my gun at her face, just to make sure she knows that next time I pull the trigger, I won’t fucking miss.
“What is all this?” I demand, glancing around the room. It still stinks like gasoline, but she didn’t have a chance to light it up yet.
“Nothing,” she bites out, her voice strained as color drains from her face. I don’t think the bullet hit anything vital, but I can tell she’s in pain. And losing some blood.
“Not nothing.” I glare down at her. “This is your base of operations, isn’t it? So everything in here must have to do with your trafficking operation. And you were trying to destroy it. To cover your fucking tracks.”
Her lip curls, and even though she’s the one bleeding on the floor, she looks at me like I’m nothing.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Grace. And I won’t. Because I know you’re not going to kill me.”
The certainty in her voice makes me grit my teeth, my hand tightening on the grip of the gun. “You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure.” She grimaces, glancing around subtly, probably looking for her weapon. Then her gaze flicks back to mine. “You won’t kill me for the same reason you wouldn’t join me. Because you’re fucking weak. Just like your father.”
My stomach twists. I take a step closer, until I’m standing right above her. “Dad wasn’t weak. He just had a kind of strength you could never see. He knew how to feel love.”
With that, I drop my aim and pull the trigger. My mother screams in pain as the bullet tears through her leg, and I put another one in her other leg just to be sure. I only have a basic idea of where the femoral artery is, but I tried to avoid it. I don’t want her to bleed out before Agent Brady can find her and take her in.
