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He slaps a hand over the wound, blood seeping out between his fingers, and meets my eyes.
“Don’t fucking die,” I growl at him, getting a tight-lipped nod in return. Then he jerks his chin back in the direction he was coming from.
“Saw a door through the kitchen,” he pants. “Could be the basement.”
I nod my thanks and sprint past him. We all know it’s the most likely place for any wet work, but before I can find the door he mentioned, I run into another one of McKenna’s men.
Not a mercenary, thank fuck. This one is just a fucking kid.
He’s facing the wrong way and holding his weapon like he’s got no fucking clue how to use it. I slam him into the wall before he even realizes I’m there, disarming him quickly, then delivering two quick strikes with the brass knuckles before I force his head back with the blade of my knife.
“Where’s Dante Channing?”
The kid’s eyes roll with terror, the whites visible all around his irises, and he fucking pisses himself.
I ignore the stench and rock the blade over his throat, digging the tip in just under his ear. “Last chance. One push and this goes into your brain. Is he here?”
“Yeah,” he finally croaks, his eyes flicking to my left, toward that door. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “B-B-Boss had him taken downstairs.”
Relief slams through me. There’s no time for even that, though. The mercs are coming, and I need to get Dante the fuck out.
I hesitate for a split second, then slam my augmented fist into the kid’s temple, dropping him like a stone. I probably should have just gutted him, but Jesus. He still has fucking acne and peach fuzz over his lip.
I shove his body aside and get to the door, then slip down to the basement, my rage threatening to boil over when I smell the distinct tang of copper and steel overriding the earthy odor of wet cement.
West Point will pay for every drop of Dante’s blood they spilled here.
I make my way through the total fucking maze of rooms the area is cut up into, heading for the only one that has light spilling out from its door.
Lights, but no sounds.
No thuds or grunts or screams.
I ruthlessly shut down the knowledge that silence is what’s left behind if they’ve killed him, and quickly duck my head around the door frame to assess the situation.
Two guards. No sign of McKenna. And my brother, tied up, bruised and bloody, but fucking breathing.
Neither of the West Point shitheads saw me, and I keep the trench knife on my left hand through the brass knuckles, but pull two weapons, taking the safety off both. Then I barrel through the door and catch them completely unawares, gutting the one closest to the door with the knife and then ripping upward before finishing him with a bullet to the chest, the gunshot muffled against his body.
His partner knows what he’s fucking doing, rushing me while I’m taking the first guard down and fighting dirty enough that my plan to keep this shit quiet to avoid drawing attention goes out the window.
He manages to knock one of my guns out of my hand, then makes the mistake of lunging for it.
I’m on him fast, rabbit punching his kidneys with the trench knife to slow him down before finally managing to get the other weapon up under his chin.
He rears back with a wet gasp, trying to buck me off. “Motherf—”
I pull the trigger, then kick his body out of the way and roll back to my feet and rush over to Dante.
He’s unconscious. A fucking mess of blood, sweat, and other shit I don’t want to contemplate.
“Jesus, brother,” I mutter, quickly checking his pulse.
It’s there.
I pull his head up and lift one of his eyelids. No response.
I know what it is to work someone over. I know a dozen fucking ways to do it, and I know what the aftermath looks like when it’s been done to extract information, and what it looks like when the purpose is to send a fucking message.
