Page 15 of Save Me
Cal, Quen, and Harry are shadows waiting for us, their forms slowly taking shape as we approach. They’ve been here before, done this before, but it doesn’t make my heart beat any less erratically. I check the rearview mirror—the guy is still out cold, bound now and unaware of his fast-approaching fate.
I roll to a stop as Cal opens the back door and nods once.
Then, I watch as the guys move into action.
5
THAYER
I slideout from the backseat, leaving the traitor behind, and as I do, a sharp nod from me is all it takes—Cal, Quen, and Harry close in around the SUV. They’re pros at this, just like me. No hesitation. They understand what needs to be done.
The rain is picking up now, coming down in sheets that turn the world into a blurred mess of lights and shadows. The wetness doesn’t faze us—it can’t, not in our line of work.
I move closer to Vogue, seeing her there in the driver’s seat with that tight grip on the wheel, her hands still in the gloves I gave her. She’s tough as nails, but her breath comes fast, chest rising and falling like she’s run a marathon. She’s new to this shit, but she’ll learn.
“You have a choice to make. Go home or come with us.”
She glares at me, and I smile. “I’m coming,” she says forcefully and cuts the engine, climbing out and moving around to the other side.
Cal leans into the car and grabs our betrayer by the ankle, letting him hit the deck as he drags him out of the backseat. “Let’s get him inside,” he says in that controlled tone of his. Weall know ‘inside’ means one of those rooms where no one can hear you scream.
Quentin and Harry haul the bastard up and drag him across the slick grass toward an unassuming building on campus—a place we’ve used before for meetings that aren’t for public consumption.
Vogue follows silently behind us, carrying the artwork in the tube as if her life depends on it.
Well, it kind of does.
Flicking on the low light in the disused building, Harry and Quen throw the guy on the floor, and I cross over to him, ready to find out why he fucking decided to betray us and for whom.
The inside of the building is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, and only something wicked could warm. We all stand in a circle around the betrayer, whose consciousness is now creeping back.
The prick on the floor groans, the zip tie rubbing on his wrists as he moves. His eyes are wide now as he scans us—the firing squad. Harry moves first, slowly pacing towards him with that predatory grace he’s known for.
“Why did you do it?” Harry asks, voice deceptively sweet.
The man’s voice trembles, his eyes darting nervously around the room. “I have these debts, and they’re threatening me if I don’t pay up. I had no other choice.” I roll my eyes, tired of hearing the same fucking lame excuses over and over again.
Callum keeps his back to Vogue; he’s shielding her from what he knows will happen next. She shouldn’t have to see this part—but maybe she should? Maybe she needs to understand what we are—what she’s becoming a part of.
I kneel down in front of him; I’m close enough to smell his fear. “Who did you sell us out to?” I demand.
The traitor looks up at Vogue once, pleading with his eyes.
I grip his chin and force his gaze to mine. “Don’t look at her. My parents are not going to be happy with you, assface, so I suggest you tell me now, and maybe I’ll go lighter on you.”
His lips quiver as he stammers out a name—a name we all recognise, a rival who’s been trying to screw with our operations for months. “Saint Monroe.”
I stand up and glance at the guys. They know what this means—war. And the betrayer on the floor has just signed his own death warrant by choosing the wrong side. I tighten my grip on the knife and stab him once in the gut, feeling the blood well up as he screams, the sound echoing off the walls of the cold, hollow room. His screams don’t faze us; they’re a part of the shitty symphony we conduct when disloyalty is on the table. Quentin steps forward next and kicks him in the ribs before punching the betrayer’s face.
Harry joins in, his boots thudding against flesh, each hit punctuated with a grunt of effort. It’s a symphony of violence, the only kind the Syndicate truly understands.
Vogue’s eyes are wide with shock and fascination. She’s not one of us, not yet; she hasn’t been baptised by blood and brutality. The look in her eyes tells me she’s teetering on the edge—she could break or become something stronger.
Callum finally turns to look at her, his face an unreadable mask. “Stay or leave, Vogue,” he says quietly. “But choose now.”
There’s a moment where the world seems to hold its breath, waiting. Then she steps forward, placing the tube on the ground. Her voice is steady when she speaks next.
“I stay.”
