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Two of my men stayed behind to guard El Griego. After strapping on as many weapons as possible, Cook and I took the Bronco. The rest of my men followed us into Park Ridge. I cut the engine in front of Celt’s house just as a terrorized scream rang out from inside.
Bou.
I’d know that voice anywhere, and her scream would haunt me forever. My heart thundered in my ribcage. Who the fuck was making her scream like that?
“Cook.” I stared at the house, calculating the best way to get inside and kill the asshole who’d wrenched that scream from her lips. There was only one bike in the driveway. It didn’t mean anything. It could be a trap.
“Yeah, man?” he said as he arrived at my side. pulled out his gun, checked the clip, and slid it back into place.
Cook looked over at my men, then back to me. “Here’s the deal. We split. I’ll take the back; you take the front to get to Celt and Bou.”
Nodding, I palmed two guns. “Angel?”
Elbows up, my right-hand man tied his hair back and beat a path directly for me. Another of my best men, Jackyl, joined his side. Angel raised his scarred brow in anticipation of my orders.
“Jackyl, you’re with me. Angel, you go take the others in the front with Cook.
The men nodded.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I said.
Jackyl walked next to me as we rounded the side of the house. Our feet crackling on the gravel beneath us was the only sound. The sun had just come up, which didn’t help our cause for stealth, but no one seemed to be stirring in the house.
Jackyl and I crouched on either side of the back door.
He looked me square in the eyes.
“You tight?” he said in a low voice.
I nodded, my lips pressed tightly together. We were wasting time, and that was pissing me off. I needed to be sure I had the upper hand when we busted inside.
Reading me, Jackyl’s gun leveled on the door. I stood back and kicked it in before aiming my gun inside. At the other side of the house, I heard Angel and company busting through in a mirror image of what we’d just done.
Nothing. Not one thing inside moved for endless seconds.
Angel and I locked eyes again and then my crew flooded into the living room.
“Clear,” I heard someone shout.
41
Bou
I was cold—so cold.
Clammy sweat and blood drenched my skin.
Pain seared my chest where Lynch had carved something—what, I couldn’t tell.
My vision blurred. When I thought I’d pass out and be free of the pain, he stopped and fanned me to consciousness. Then he’d start again.
I whimpered. Blood drops rolled down the side of my breast onto once-white sheets. The knife warmed and burned the longer it scored on my skin. I tried to breathe while keeping my chest from rising and falling. My head spun.
Finally, biology took over. I had to expand my lungs.
Lynch’s knife bit deeper into my chest. Another scream ripped from my throat. Did he hit muscle that time?
The room went dark.
