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But here we fucking are.
My packmates sit around the conference table while I replay the insane footage that shows every wrong thing that went down tonight.
Hunter scowls, Jett watches with a cold expression that matches the dried blood spray across his face, and Finn—fucking Finn—sits low in his chair, swiveling back and forth and grinning like an addict who just scored a fix.
I can’t blame him.
I blame myself.
I should’ve known he’d go off-book. I should’ve checked in with him before we went out. Made sure he was level.
Now I all I can do is agonize over the tapes and plan so this never happens again. I pause on the drone footage from the moment the first domino tipped.
We were hired to ambush a Redfang Cartel drug pickup in an isolated forest clearing. The plan starts textbook, the four of us camouflaged in perfect position for a quick kill when the Redfangs pull up. Erik Redfang steps out of a black car with his bodyguards, and the suppliers hop out of their van.
It should’ve been easy.
But instead of taking the shot, our sniper jumps out of his tree.
In one fluid motion, he throws his rifle over his shoulder, drives a machete through a cartel soldier’s jugular, and war whoops like a goddamned Highland warrior.
My pack brother, Finn—the copper-headed shit—watches the screen with a twinkle in his eye. “Play the part where I—”
“Shut up.” Hunter claps a hand over Finn’s mouth.
“You fucked this one up,” I tell him flat out. “But so did we all.”
I hit play.
After Finn drops the guy and pulls another knife, going for a second man, Hunter breaks cover. But Hunter doesn’t have knives or even a weapon. No. Hunter dives into the fight unarmed, bare-knuckle-blasting our target’s bodyguard in the face.
“He was reaching for his gun.” Hunter runs fingers through dark, messy hair. “Bonehead move, okay? But Finn was fucked and I didn’t have a shot.”
The scene breaks into more chaos. Jett and I start firing from our positions, our target takes cover in his bulletproof car, and before we can finish dropping bodies, the surviving Redfangs tear away.
We’re still picking off the last drug guys in alternating blasts of gunfire when Finn dives behind the wheel of their van. Jett, who’s supposed to be the level-headed one, grabs shotgun, taking along the tablet that controls our tech.
Finn has too deep a death wish to ever be wheel-man. He plows through a bush, off-roading to follow the Redfangs’ escape.
All the while, my commands crackle over the audio.
Ignored. Unacknowledged.
“Negative. Do not pursue. Hunter needs support. Finn! I repeat, do not pursue. Need backup on the ground.”
“I have him,” Finn insists. “I can run him into a tree before he makes the road.”
Meanwhile, Hunter’s pinned down by three guys, one’s going for his knife, and gunfire has me stuck behind a tree.
My gut roils.
I told myself our bond was fine. The pack is strong. But Exhibit A right here is all the evidence I need.
Our pack is fracturing. “You left us behind.”
The switch flips inside Finn, and in half a second, all his cowboy bravado bleeds to nothing, leaving behind a dead-eyed assassin who drops the room temperature to glacial.
This is the Finn who has more kill counts than any other Wyvern House agent. This is the Finn the stunts and fucking antics keep at bay. This is the Finn who doesn’t give a fuck that I’m his leader and we’ve been pack brothers since diapers.
