Page 182 of Brutal Collateral

“I’m in an experimental protocol that sends transmitters powered by AI to the brain through an implant.” Miller taps something behind his head. “I’m starting to get the feeling back in my legs.”

“Whatever you’re feeling is going to hurt like a motherfucker,” Griffin growls. “Recall that data dump to the FBI right now, or you leave here with a broken trachea and you’ll never speak again. Can’t make hollow campaign promises without a working voice box.”

Miller anchors himself between the desk and the credenza behind it. “Give it your best shot.”

I’m baffled at his confidence. Or maybe whatever sensor is implanted in his brain gives him super-human strength.

Griffin doesn’t wait to hear any more of Miller’s bravado, he lunges across his desk, his hands going straight for Rand’s throat. But Miller’s SEAL training instincts are still there. He’s quick and deadly with that cane.

He waves it to block Griffin’s fists. My husband jumps back, ducking as Miller swings wildly. Griffin waits and tries again. This time, his fist connects with Miller’s jaw, the impact sending them both to the floor.

Miller somehow gets the cane and slams it into Griffin’s shoulders as my husband tries to block more blows.

I stand frozen watching his hand-to-hand combat with a man who hurt me. A man who’s now trying to hurtus. Heart racing, I hold Griffin’s gun in shaking hands. What is the goal here, if we can’t kill him because of this stupid cult?

Griffin jumps on top of Miller wailing on his face. But all Miller does is laugh. He’s so juiced up he doesn’t feel anything!

With Griffin’s hand drawn back, he stops and takes a breath, his eyes telling me he doesn’t know how Miller can take these blows.

SEAL training, baby.

Blood gushing from Miller’s nose, he turns to spit on the polished wood floor with a grin. “I’d heard about that Irish temper.”

Infuriated all over again, Griffin straddles Miller on the floor, his hands around his throat to choke him. “How long can you hold your breath these days?”

My husband’s raw strength is undeniable, but even without the full use of his legs, Miller is still a formidable opponent. He wrenches free from Griffin’s grip and swings again, striking a blow to Griffin’s ribs.

Miller is like me in this one respect: he won’t be held down. Despite all that’s against him, he maneuvers out from under my husband and then wrestles to get on top, where he rains hard blows to Griffin’s face.

With Miller no longer blocked by Griffin’s body, I have a chance to do some damage. Miller is a painful reminder of my SEAL quest failure. All the taunts, the attacks, the bullying.

I raise the gun, figuring I can clip him in the shoulder, at least make him stop hurting the man I love.

Miller turns his head at me, fist in the air ready to punch Griffin again. “Go ahead, cunt. Shoot me. You’ll be a widow by sunrise. My brothers will come put a bullet in Griffin’s head and then rape you on top of his dead body.”

I wave the gun at Miller. “You deserved what you got that day.”

“Ava, no!” Griffin shoves Miller off him and gets to his feet.

Miller pulls himself up to sit on the credenza with his back against one of the six-by-six plate-glass windows trimmed in lead. “Give me my chair,” he bellows. “I’m leaving here. And, you, cunt, pack up. You’re coming with me.”

“Over my dead body,” Griffin says, just as his phone on the floor rings.

I reach for it and put it on speaker. “It’s Shane.”

Griffin waves at me for the gun back. “Shane, listen to me, we’ve got—”

“I saw an alert from your house. Large amounts of data are queued for delivery to the FBI. What the fuck is going on?”

“Fucking stop it,” Griffin shouts.

“I’m trying.” But the call goes dead.

“Make your choice, Quinlan,” Miller says. “Let me leave here with your wife. Or kill me. Kill me, and my brotherhood comes to kill you, andtheytake your wife. She’ll end up in their trafficking ring.”

The rage under my skin burns so hot, I need air. My heart lurches, and blood pounds in my ears. My angels and demons are in a death battle over what to do.

Make it look like a suicide...

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