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33
Archer
Rage pulsed through my system as I pushed down harder on the gas, accelerating until the car reached its limits. Ian and Jensen were silent, preparing themselves for the extraction. Guns were locked and loaded, but it wasn’t enough. In the passenger seat, Ian slid a wicked looking hunting knife into his left boot. The weight of the vest around my torso grounded me. The pedal reaching the floorboards kept me focused.
“Plan recap,” Ian commanded, his head lifting as he glanced back at Jensen and then to me as we neared her place.
“Two at the front, one in the rear,” Jensen relayed. “Archer and I clear the main level from both entry points before moving to the second floor.”
“You’re heading directly upstairs,” I murmured, still focused on the road as I yanked the handbrake, and the car drifted onto her street.
“Move.” Ian’s command came as soon as we were in range. I shoved the car into park, and we were out, boots on the ground a split second later. The air was cold as I pushed the car door open, but the chill was muffled against the adrenaline that pumped through me. The hyperawareness and pure energy fueling me felt like home, taking over and putting my other feelings on hold. The only thing that mattered in times like this was the end goal. Once the job was done, I could feel the rest of what my mind was trying to tell me, but until then, it was just my team and me. Jensen continued on, sprinting around the back of the house and vaulted over the privacy fence with ease.
Yanking the weapon from the holster at my waist, I ascended the steps of the Victorian and took position next to the hinges holding the worn wood to the frame at the front door. Counting to three, to allow Jensen time to reach the backdoor, I gripped the icy knob, the metal biting even through my gloves. I looked to Ian when I hit three, waiting for his signal. As soon as his head dipped, I turned the handle and shoved open the door for him to move in first.
I kept position behind him as he took point. Shifting slightly off to the side, I followed, my gun drawn. Scanning the corners and possible hiding spots, we cleared the room quickly. Ian broke away from me and headed toward the staircase while Jensen worked quickly through the back of the house. When we heard echoes of Mare's muffled voice coming from the second floor, Jensen and I followed Ian up the steps. The feminine cadence of her voice gave me hope, my resolve hardening as we moved as a unit. She was alive, and that was all that mattered.
A moment later, a crash sounded, the shatter of glass quickening our pace. My only focus in that moment was getting Mare back. Once she was safe, I would happily put a bullet in Boyko’s skull.
Ian signaled to the left, and Jensen and I seamlessly maneuvered in that direction as we scanned the area. Hitmen were notorious for working solo, and it seemed that was true here. There was no sign of anyone else.
“Just give in, America, and this won’t have to hurt,” the man said, his voice coming from a few doors down. “I don’t want to hurt you, but the result will be the same. I take no pleasure in killing, only in the money. Had you been more understanding, had you been the good girl I knew you could be—” I saw fucking red. My vision tunneled at his words until the only thing I could see was the pinpoint of the doorway through which I knew Mare would be waiting.
“Fuck you!” Mare screamed.
There was a grunt and a scuffle. Ian nodded, and we converged, a thud echoing up the walls right as we reached the room. We spilled into the room, Ian in front and Jensen and I to the side, our eyes scanning the area and stopping on Mare as she stood above a prone body.
Mare stood, her feet apart and knees bent. She was panting, her chest rising and falling as she clutched a piece of splintered wood up in her bound hands like a baseball player ready to swing it once more. Boyko was laid out on the floor, groaning and clutching his left collarbone. Blood seeped out of a wound we couldn’t see from under his hand, pooling onto the hardwood. His eyes didn’t so much as widen when he saw us. Instead, he rolled to his feet, still clutching his shoulder, and bounded for the window.
Not happening. I launched myself at the man, shoving him into the wall and listening to his grunt of pain. He fought back, slamming an elbow into my ribs, but stilled when the cold metal of my gun pressed to the back of his neck. Oh, how I wanted to pull the trigger. But I couldn’t. Not until Ian got whatever he might need out of the man. “That’s right,” I snapped. “Stay right there, you fucker, or I swear to God I’ll blow your head off.”
“Baby,” Ian murmured, his gun lowering until it was aimed at the ground. Mare jumped, her gaze whipping to him. Wide, panicked eyes met his, and then she shifted and looked around the room as if noticing the rest of us for the first time. As soon as she realized it was us, she let out a sigh of relief, the makeshift bat in her hands lowering until her bound wrists rested against her body.
“H-hey,” she murmured, the word shaky as she looked, her eyes bouncing around the three of us. I’d had enough. I needed to touch her.
“Jensen,” I barked, “come take this.” Jensen didn’t hesitate; he moved in my direction, taking his stance behind the hitman who had his hands on the wall, leaving a bloody smear.Good, I thought. He could bleed out for all I cared.
As soon as Jensen had secured Boyko, I strode toward where Mare stood as Ian approached. Relief flooded me. Our girl was alright, but as I lifted my hand to her face, tilting her head to the side, my eyes lit on the red handprints around her neck, the indents of Boyko’s fingers had pressed into her fair skin for the second time in recent days.
My head swung back to the man in question.
“What’s injured?” Jensen asked.
Ian stepped closer, his gaze examining the markings as I shifted the bat from her fingertips and dropped it to the floor. “Jensen,” Ian said quietly, “put your weapon a little lower on his anatomy, would you?”
Jensen’s face darkened as he swung Boyko around and shoved his back against the wall, pressing the barrel of his gun against the man’s crotch. “Say the word, Boss, and I’ll make sure he sings soprano for the rest of his life—that is, if we let him live.” Which we wouldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that quite yet.
“He tried to kill you?” Ian clarified, stepping closer. Mare nodded, swallowing as she let us search her for other injuries.
Boyko laughed, bloody spittle flying from his lips. His head rolled back and forth on the wall as his maniacal amusement filled the room. “The great Boss,” he said through chuckles. “And his Knights at hand—the Jet and the Archer. I should’ve known the three of you would come.”
“Oh?” Ian answered, caution in his voice. “And why is that?”
“Because for men like you, a woman is always your weakness,” Boyko answered. Then the room went to hell.
With a shout, Boyko shoved Jensen’s arm down and clocked him in the face. Jensen stumbled back as I threw myself over Mare. Together, we went to the ground in a tumble of limbs. Ian popped off a shot, but Boyko was faster than I would have thought with his fucked up shoulder. As he moved, Ian fired again, the bullet barely grazing the man’s hip.
I cursed and rolled Mare, but she struggled up from beneath me, her hand reaching for the blunt wooden weapon I’d let drop onto the floor before. Jensen had regained his balance and kicked out, sending Boyko to the ground. The asshole didn’t hesitate to move again, his boot swinging out and connecting with my side, knocking me off Mare’s body.
With an ear-splitting scream, Mare rose up like a freaking Valkyrie princess and brought the wood down with deadly precision. The crack of Boyko’s skull against the weapon she wielded was mixed with the sound of both Ian and Jensen’s guns as they fired down into Boyko’s chest. Mare didn’t stop or hesitate as she pulled back and swung again. Over and over, and it wasn’t until droplets of blood hit her cheek that I moved to finally stop her.
“Sweetheart,” I called out. Jensen’s hands lifted and grasped the wooden chair leg to stop her from a third hit. He pulled it away and tossed it to Ian who caught it with agile reflexes. “He’s dead,” I assured her.
She snapped out of it, a shuddering breath filling the room as she sucked in air. The wood clamored to the ground, and she launched herself into Jensen’s open arms.
“Shh,” Jensen cooed, holding her close and stroking her hair. He backed up with her still in his arms and turned with a nod in our direction before he guided her to the door as Ian lowered to the ground and I got up on my knees next to Boyko’s body. I half listened as Jensen soothed Mare out in the hall and helped to unbind her wrists. “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay now. You did so good. We’re so proud of you.”
Kneeling, I slipped off one of my gloves and pressed my fingers to Boyko’s neck. After a moment, I shook my head. The man was dead. Re-donning my glove, Ian and I stood and headed for the hallway. We followed Jensen and Mare down the stairs to the main floor of the landlord’s house and out the door. Even as Jensen quietly ushered Mare into the backseat of the SUV, Ian was on the phone, quietly calling in another favor for clean up. I slipped into the driver’s seat, and as we pulled away from the curb only one feeling filled my mind. Relief.
Our girl was safe, and the bastard was dead.
