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“Fucking hell, Lyric,” Matty scoffs in disbelief.
“What? It’s hot,” Lyric retorts. “Don’t tell me you aren’t into it.”
“Ugh,” Matty grumbles.
“Fucking told you so.”
I smirk at Desmond, appreciating their sibling banter that helps lighten the heavy atmosphere.
“Wait until he puts the thigh holster on,” Lyric teases, adjusting his seat and making a chef’s kiss noise while smacking his lips.
“Wait until she’s armed,” Matty counters.
“Fuck, I love an armed woman.” Lyric glances back at us. “It’s hot as hell knowing she could kill me at any moment, and she chooses not to.”
“I hate myself for this, but I agree,” Matty grumbles.
Desmond dangles the thigh holster in front of me. It looks like a garter belt made of leather. “Up,” he says, tapping my right thigh. Lifting my leg, he teaches me how to strap it on.
He reaches for the gun case, placing it on his lap and unlocking it.
“This is a Ruger,” he says, pulling out the smaller two. Both are black and unassuming, designed not to draw any attention that might link them back to me. I didn’t expect a gun specially designed for me, because that would be foolish. “This one goes on your thigh.” He demonstrates how to open the magazine and load it. “Low recoil. Use this second. Understood?” he asks, waiting for my nod before continuing. “Grasp the slide and pull it back, then release,” he instructs while mimicking the movement without actually doing it. “Verify it’s loaded. Shoot.” He reaches over and straps it to my thigh.
Swallowing hard, I glance at the gun now strapped to my thigh. It’s heavy weight instills fear and confidence that I can work through it.
“Thirty-eight specials,” he says, holding up the second gun. Once again, he walks me through how to load and use it before strapping it to my chest, then he reaches back into the shoebox and pulls out one more holster.
“Oh, fuck yes!” Lyric groans.
“Last resort,” Desmond explains, his eyes glinting as he leans down, strapping this one to my right calf. Once it’s in place, he unlocks the knife and holds it up. “Bone handle, curved blade. If you have to use this, be prepared for the blood spatter.”
I nod once as he places it back in the holster at my calf before leaning back, his eyes scanning every inch of me before meeting my gaze.
“Shoot to kill, Charlotte,” Desmond orders, shedding his jacket and revealing an unconventional holster adorned with three guns on each side of his chest, close to his heart. My eyes widen as he inspects each weapon and an additional one at his ankle. “Update,” he demands.
“It looks like they are heading toward eighty-seven,” Matty states, an iPad in his lap. “There’s a small airport west of the international airport at the border. I’m guessing they are heading there.”
“How quickly are we gaining on them?” Desmond inquires, pulling out his phone.
“With Lyric driving?” Matty snorts. “We will arrive within minutes of them, if that’s where they are heading.”
Desmond nods. “How fast are they driving?”
“They aren’t breaking a single traffic law and going five under the speed limit,” Matty answers. “This area is too rural, not a single camera at the damn red lights.”
“I’ll change that,” Desmond replies, glancing at his phone. “All of my brothers are ten minutes behind us.”
My pulse pounds in my ears, and for a brief second, their voices drown out. I breathe in and out as slowly as humanly possible before refocusing on them.
“What’s the plan?” Matty asks, concern etched across his face. “We can’t just go in guns blazing.”
“No.” Desmond’s voice is stern. “I want to know how they knew about the field trip. They must have been watching and waiting.”
My heart tightens at his words. They must have been watching and waiting. The thought gnaws at me, a reminder of the violation the Bonanno family inflicted upon us. Someone had been surveilling us, lurking in the shadows without our knowledge or consent. The mere notion sends a shiver down my spine, but I push it aside, focusing on the winding road that weaves through the mountains.
A soft apology slips from my lips, filling the backseat with its echo. I know they will try to console me—a gesture I need but don’t want to receive. “I shouldn’t have stopped moving, not this time.” I exhale, watching the scenery outside meld together in a vibrant spectrum of colors. “All I feel is regret. I regret not chasing him into the restroom or doing anything to help.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Matty implores, turning in his seat to lock eyes with me, concern in his gaze. “I was right there. I missed him by seconds. I went into that bathroom and darted to the other side, and I couldn’t find him. Whoever took Milo knew what they were doing.” He looks to Lyric, a shared heaviness in their expressions.
