Page 90 of Captive Prize

I shoved the car door open, the cold wind biting at the exposed wound on my arm.

Let it bleed. Let it hurt.

I wasn’t going to war for the family.

I was going to war against them.

And this time, I wasn’t bringing Zoya back in chains.

I was bringing her home.

CHAPTER 22

ROMAN

Ididn't hear the first gunshot.

Or the second.

By the time the third rang out, I was already in motion. My fingers tightened on the trigger as I fired at the men camped out around the warehouse.

That asshole was here.

At first, I couldn't believe he was so stupid. But when one of our men confirmed they found the SUV with the license plate that had taken her, and it was caught on a CCTV feed driving inside the same fucking warehouse and parking there, I knew it had to be Mateo.

And he had to be high off his fucking ass.

Unfortunately, although this particular drug user didn't have a lot of common sense, he was paranoid. He had hired more men or called in men I hadn't seen before.

They were not nearly as inept as the others. These men had muscles that suggested training. They wore tactical gear, not stained T-shirts that hadn't been washed in a week, and they carried some big fucking guns. They still looked bottom of the fucking barrel, but an entry level assault rifle was still a step up from the peashooters their predecessors carried.

They also had training that the others lacked, and they were on guard. They knew someone would come, and they were waiting.

Watching.

Those fuckers saw me before I saw them. That had never happened to me before. I was always so focused, so intent on my target with a plan in place and enough contingencies to cover any potential complications.

That was how I worked. It was how I had gotten so good at my job, how I earned my reputation, and how I survived.

When it wasn't just my ass on the line, my focus was shot to shit.

Still, it only took me a moment or two to clear the door. There were three men. Two of them I was able to get clean shots at, one right after the other. They had counted on being able to take me out before I got a shot off.

If they were better marksmen, or more familiar with their guns, they probably would have.

The third man was a little smarter and much faster. The moment my first shot cracked through the air, he'd already rolled behind a shipping crate, wood splintering around him. Smart bastard. He'd pop up like a jack-in-the-box—muzzle flash, crack of gunfire—then disappear again. Cat-and-mouse bullshit that was eating up precious seconds I didn't have.

I adjusted my grip, feeling the familiar weight of the Glock, and put three rounds through the center of his makeshift cover. The .45 caliber punched through the wood like it was cardboard. His scream was cut short as the third bullet found his skull, painting the concrete wall behind him in a crimson spray that would make Pollock proud.

A for effort, but no participation trophy for him.

I moved to the door, first checking the kills to make sure none of them lived. The last thing I needed was a wounded jackass sneaking up behind me.

They didn't. Each kill was clean, fast, and efficient.

It ran in my family. And was beaten into me through endless training.

This wasn't about making them suffer. I was not going to take extra time with men who didn't deserve it for doing their job.

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