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The scent of his sugar and scotch—an aroma infused into my marrow.
“Of course I did, Ives,” he croons while ducking behind a tree, melding my bulky, battle-clad form to his.
The chilled bark scratches my scalp, and blood trickles down my icy cheek, the copper taste coating my chafed lips as he fires several shots.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
They’re still coming for me.
“To the ends of the earth, remember?” he asks.
I remember.
To the ends of the earth.
Maybe even to the depths of Hell.
WELLS
“I’ve got her,” I say into my comm, informing the guys Ivy is in my arms.
I would’ve had her sooner, but we had to take out a van barreling toward her, along with two bastards who jumped out of it while she was blowing up the crossover.
Two more vehicles full of assassins swarm the eerie schoolyard. My crew waits patiently at their posts for them to unload. With three cars set ablaze, our marks are more inclined to ditch theirs and attempt to overrun Ivy on foot. Although I’m grateful she shared her plans with Ryker so we could get to her faster, I’m livid that she threw herself into this before confirming we had arrived. When we realized she was leading her pursuers here, we entered through a back way, which means as far as they’re concerned, she’s still alone.
A sitting duck.
That misconception will render them bold enough to take foolhardy initiatives, which is precisely what we want.
It’s evident by the carpooling that several of these assholes are working together, but they aren’t the kumbaya, sharing types. No doubt they’re planning to kill Ivy and then fight to the death to be the last man standing to claim their millions.
That egocentric greed enhances our advantage. We’re battling individuals, and they’re warring against a team.
“Eyes on nine tangos,” Ty reports. He has overwatchfrom an abandoned office building across the street. Perched on the roof, he’s our sniper—in position to eliminate the majority of our marks.
“Nine tangos confirmed,” Gage says, lying prone on a two-foot snow mound at the corner of the D side of the school.
With limited time to map out the schoolyard, we’ve reverted to ABCD nomenclature for the sides of the building—the front being A and traveling clockwise around the facility for B, C, D. Ty’s overwatch position affords him a clear view of A while Liam, Gage, and I man the other three sides.
“Announce your kills,” I order while the wind whistles a haunting tune and Ivy’s frozen lips nestle into my neck.
Ty’s sitreps pipe through the comm. “Tango one down. Tango two down.”
“Tango three down,” Gage grinds out.
A cacophonous din follows. Screams and curses and gunfire.
“Tango four down,” Ty continues. “Tango five down.”
Entwined around me, Ivy’s chilled body is slack as I await theall clear. Listless. She’s suffered a concussion, probably severe bruising to her ribs and chest as well. I’m hoping that’s the extent of it. The vest she’s wearing is level-three body armor—a gift from Tom, I assume. But even that isn’t enough to prevent damage to her tiny frame. I slit the fucker’s throat after he blindly fired at her from behind a tree. The gurgles from him choking on his own blood were only a small consolation.
Ivy’s eyes are glazed, breathing shallow, hair matted and bloody from a head wound. There’s a deceptive dusting of white powder coating her limbs, as though she were making snow angels in this deserted schoolyard. But the mix of crimson and rust swirling in that snowy powder decimates the wistful first glance and lends a haunting horror-house vibe to the angel in my arms. She took a beating, but my fierce Little Storm raged like an unforgiving cyclone, slaughtering about a quarter of the fuckers on her own.
“Tango six down,” Liam chimes from the C side, where our truck is parked.
The strength with which I have Ivy pressed against this massive oak is surely uncomfortable, but it’s necessary to ensure there’s no shot on her while I fire at anyone approaching.
“Tango seven down,” Ty trills, the raucous clamoring in the background finally diminishing.
