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QuinandIspeedto the hospital to pick up Michael so we can find my man. Quin looks at me through the rearview and asks, “Plan B is out, then?” I nod, my mind only focused on how to kill every fucking Russian I find in that warehouse. I will fucking murder everyone for taking what’s mine.
Plan B was to fake my death, have Michael and Quin leave town before I’m buried, and convince Abel to meet up with me a few months after my fake funeral. Plan A will have to work. Like Quin told me when he initially laid it out to me, the timing has to be perfect. If it’s not fucking perfect now, I don’t know what is.
The events of the day flash through my mind as Quin gets us to Michael as quickly as possible.
I had been sitting in the penthouse for hours, watching movies and playing with Pogo. After making dinner for us—putting Abel’s in the oven for when he came back from visiting his brother—I hunkered down on the couch, petting the dog with soothing strokes that almost put me to sleep. My eyes drooped and Pogo had already started his puppy snores when loud ringing startled us both.
My heart thumped in my chest and I smiled as I grabbed my phone in anticipation of talking to Abel. Just hearing his voice would soothe my frazzled nerves. I frowned when I saw Michael’s number on the screen. Maybe Abel’s phone died? “Yeah?” I answered in my usual gruff tone. Only Abel can make me sound the least bit pleasant.
I heard him sigh through the phone and I sat up straighter. “Is Abel with you?”
“The fuck do you mean is he with me? He’s supposed to be with you!” My blood ran cold and my anger shot through the roof. As I stood, I startled Pogo from his nap and he whined and yipped at me. My mind raced as I tried to figure out where the fuck my Abel was. I hurriedly put Pogo in his kennel, and listened to Michael tell me what the fuck was going on.
“He was, but he asked me to wait in the car to go see his brother. When he didn’t come back or answer his phone after a few hours, I went inside. Savage, they don’t have a Cris Reynolds registered as a patient.”
“Fuck! We need to find Abel! Stay where you are. We’ll be there soon.” I tried to calm myself as I pulled up the tracking app that I had installed on Abel’s phone all those months ago.
Abel’s phone had last pinged in the downtown district where the Russians took up residence. My heart stuttered in my chest and I exited out of the app, shut it down and opened it again, hoping it was a mistake. But no. When I opened it again, his phone had still pinged in their fucking warehouses.
“We’ll get him back soon,” Quin says, snapping my thoughts back to the present. “We have about twenty men heading that way now. I’ll set everything up while you get Abel. The van is outside of the morgue. It’ll only take us ten minutes to get there, get inside to get what we need, and get out.”
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!” I curse, knowing I should have done more. I should have protected him. I told him I would protect him. Now he’s with those fucking Russians. How did they get him? How did they know he was with me? Did they spot us at his graduation? That couldn’t be. Quin and Michael had eyes on everything. They would have seen danger or known if the Russians were around.
When we pull up to the hospital, Michael hops in the car and immediately starts to apologize, looking distraught and a little afraid. His hair is standing on end like he had been running his hands through it constantly. “Savage, please. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know he would run. If I did, I would have gone in with him. He told me his brother would be scared if I came in and he didn’t want him upset while he was hurt and it being their last time seeing each other. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
As much as I want to be upset with Michael, I know how persuasive Abel can be and how easy it is to give him his way. While this is a shitty situation, it’s not his fault and I can’t be upset with him. It’s hard not to be since he was supposed to be on Abel, but I know how he could have thought it was safe.
Swallowing down my temper, I say, “I know, Michael. It wasn’t your fault.” My anger is threatening to boil over because of those fucking Russians and I don’t want to take it out on my friend.
My response doesn’t seem like it makes Michael feel any better, as he leans back in the seat and goes back to gliding his fingers through his hair, looking almost on the verge of tears, though I doubt he’d let any fall. He’ll probably blame himself for this for years to come, regardless of if we get Abel back or not. And we will fucking get him back.
Instead of driving straight to the warehouse like I want him to—like I would if I were driving myself—Quin pulls into a parking lot about a mile away. There, I see a mix of my guys and Irishmen standing around, waiting for us. When I hop out of the car, I’m dismayed and completely unsurprised to see Paddy leaning against one of the cars. He makes his way over, not betraying any pain from being shot last month. Tough old fucker. “Paddy. You don’t have to be here.” I shake the hand he offers.
“Of course I do, Savage. We need to get your guy and I would like my chance to get the fuckers that killed some of my men.”
Looking around, I see everyone is armed to the teeth, the Irishmen with the guns from Paddy’s last order. “My team needs ten minutes before everyone rushes inside,” I tell those assembled. It’s an exercise in patience to even take the time we need before I kick the fucking door in to get my beauty. “After that, you can have free rein. But whatever you do, don’t retrieve Abel. He’s mine, so I want to find him. Got it?” Everyone nods. Quin lays out a basic plan of who goes in where and tosses everyone a two-way radio. After everyone has their directions and what they need, we split up.
Quin, Michael, and I head to the morgue a few miles down the road. The van we need is waiting outside and the bodies Quin’s guy secured for us are stacked in the refrigerator nearest the door. When Quin laid out the plan to me all those months ago, I didn’t think it would work. What are the chances there would be four bodies that match the size and shape of four different men—a built Black man with locs, a tiny biracial man, a muscled Italian guy, and a jacked white guy? Sounded impossible. Especially finding bodies either unclaimed by family or to be cremated in such a short time frame. But somehow, the doctor got the bodies that closely match each of us and stored them with no questions asked.
Along with that, we’ll attach explosives to the warehouse and blow that bitch the fuck up. We’ll leave the bodies inside, and hopefully they’ll be too badly burned for them to be identified by sight. The doctor Quin paid off will do dental comparisons and DNA tests, then alter the tests that would identify the four of us, effectively killing us.
This is Plan A, so we can take out as many Russians on our way out as we can. We have enough dynamite to level a city block, so blowing the warehouse up should go off without a hitch. I just have to find Abel to get him out in one piece.
Loading the bodies takes no time, then we drive the van back to the warehouse. Quin gives the men the signal and they start their attack. All we hear are shouts and gunfire while Quin and I unload the bodies, placing them just inside of the warehouse. When we have Abel, we can set the bodies up elsewhere.
When I drop the body that’s supposed to be mine, I pull out my gun and jog down the hallway. Dead bodies line the hall where I pass, including the body of Ivan, the head of this Russian outfit. I can celebrate later, right now I need to find Abel.
Before I make it too far, two guys rush towards me, firing off shots without aiming. Ducking behind a pillar, I let them shoot until they run out of ammo, then I move out and drop them easily. The next man that comes rushing towards me doesn’t even have his gun raised before I put three in his chest. From behind me, two rounds ricochet off the wall, inches above my head. Before I can return fire, the top of the man’s head explodes and I see Paddy standing behind him, a Ruger in each hand. He gives me a nod, then rushes away, firing more.
After getting my heart rate under control, I race down the hall, staying as low as possible. I turn a corner and see a door off to the side with a man standing near it, gun out, looking around frantically. He refuses to leave it, like he was ordered not to move under any circumstances, letting me know this is where I need to be.
It’s hard, but I hold back from rushing the man and barging in that room, knowing Quin will only punch me again if I do. I have on the new vest he got for me, but I won’t take any chances when he told me not to. Pulling out my radio, I shout his name into it, hoping he can hear me. When he answers, I send up a silent prayer and give him my location. A minute later, he’s behind me, firing rounds with his back to me. I point to the room and say, “He has to be in there. Take that fucker out for me, will you?”
“My pleasure,” Quin says and steps out into the hall, firing as he approaches the door. I hear a dull thud, then Quin steps back beside me.
Nodding my thanks, I jog over and throw the door open, being careful to stand to the side of the opening. Good thing I did, because no sooner than my back hits the wall, bullets fly in my direction. Most hit the concrete wall at the end of the hallway and some hit the wall across from where I stand. The click of an empty chamber gives me the cue I need to get Abel.
Looking around, I see Cris, a gun in his shaky hand and Abel on the floor. God, he looks fucking awful—bruised and bloody, face swollen and his wrist hanging at an awkward angle. He tries to amble over to me, but his piece of shit brother tosses his gun, grabs him, hauling Abel to his body, a switchblade indenting the skin at his throat. “Don’t come closer,” Cris yells, his arm locked tightly around Abel’s small neck. Abel doesn’t fight against him; he just goes limp and let’s his brother use him as a shield. The blade digs into the skin at Abel’s thin and soft throat.
