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He thrashes wildly with Santos at his side, a smug grin across his face as he uses a military-grade taser against him. “NOOOO,” Cross roars, everything happening in slow motion.
I break through the crowd, Dalton and Sawyer desperately slaughtering the men around us as my mother continues her ridiculous speech. “We had a few good years together, but it’s time for a new adventure,” she says, just as Cross breaks through the agony, reaching up and gripping the hilt of a knife in one of his captors' tactical belts before spinning on Santos and moving like lightning. His hand strikes out in a perfect arc, whipping toward Santos with incredible speed, the blade slicing straight through Santos’s wrist, his whole fucking hand dropping to the ground while still clutching onto the taser.
Santos roars in agony and then without skipping a beat, Cross is on his feet, racing toward Oakley as I rear back with my blade. My heart pounds erratically in my chest as fear like I’ve never known holds me captive.
“You and your father, you were both destined for bigger things,” my mother continues, unaware of Cross barreling toward them, roaring in agony with every step he takes, “and unfortunately for you, only one of you is ever going to achieve it.”
The blade leaves my fingers, soaring through the room and just as she pulls the trigger, Cross slams into Oakley, his big arms wrapping around her as his momentum sends them hurtling to the ground, the wooden chair splintering beneath the weight.
BANG!
Oakley’s scream tears through the room just as the blade of my knife sinks deeply into my mother’s chest. She stumbles back and drops the revolver as her wide stare snaps up in horror, meeting mine across the room. She knows damn well that this is it for her.
As if not being able to comprehend what the fuck just happened, her gaze drops to the hilt sticking out of her chest, betrayal flashing in her eyes, and in a flash of fury, her head snaps back up, a battle cry tearing from the back of her throat. “KILL THEM ALL!”
A war erupts, the room so fucking crowded that only a handful of people can get to us at a time, but it’s nothing my boys can’t handle. Our reputation precedes us, and I’m not surprised to find many of these assholes fleeing in fear, knowing the likelihood of any of them making it out of this alive.
Cross scrambles to his feet, keeping Oakley at his back, but in the center of the room, she’s still not protected. We forge ahead, working our way through the thick crowd of murderous rage until we’re surrounding her, protecting her at all angles.
“You good?” Dalton calls over the noise as Oakley tries to get to her feet, gunshots sounding every few seconds through the room.
“I . . . I don’t know,” she says as she struggles, her wrists still bound behind her back as her hand clutches onto a piece of splintered wood, a makeshift dagger ready to be used at her disposal like the fucking warrior she is. Then needing to give her every chance to save herself, I whip around, step inside our circle, and grab the knife at Sawyer’s back before slicing it straight through the rope and freeing her hands.
Her gaze briefly meets mine before going wide and searching over Cross’ shoulder. “Your mom,” she rushes out. “She’s getting away.”
Oh, fuck no. Not today.
Glancing across the room, I find my mother shoving her way through the crowded bodies, trying to scramble over the fallen ones while looking around frantically, clearly out of her depth when the control isn’t in her hands. She’s a fucking leech clinging to power, but in reality, she’s got nothing.
Shoving people out of my way, I go for her, catching up to her with ease before gripping her hair and yanking her back, dragging her over the fallen bodies, and shoving her to her knees. “Zade,” she cries, holding her hands together and pleading for her life. “Zade, my precious son. Please. I was only doing what I had to do. Spare me.”
Oakley appears at my side, her hand clutching my arm as if trying to save me from something I might regret, but her foot connects with the dropped revolver, she scrambles to pick it up, needing every advantage she can get in this room.
“Zade,” she breathes. “You can’t.”
“Zade, listen to her,” my mother says, short of breath, the blade in her chest surely having nicked a lung. “I know you may hate me, and you may never forgive me for the years I abandoned you, but I was only trying to do what was right for you. I know you, son, better than anybody. If you kill me, you’ll never be able to look yourself in the mirror again. Please, my precious boy, spare me. I know I can make this right.”
