Page 180 of Crave
Didn’t wait.
Theo skidded the car as he punched the brakes. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as we skidded to a halt.
Doors slammed. Boots hit dirt.
Rage hit harder.
Jude was already moving.
His coat flared behind him, knife gleaming in one hand, gun heavy in the other.
There was no hesitation in him. No fear.
Just that calm, coiled rage that lived in his bones—a kind of quiet, righteous fury carved out of blood and purpose.
His face looked carved from stone. Cold. Beautiful. Biblical.
Like a weapon forged in silence.
Theo was fire beside him. No finesse. No subtlety. Just rage and raw muscle.
He moved to the side of the building where we’d seen one of the cartel bastards run. Boots pounding over gravel, shoulder slamming into the door hard enough to split the frame.
It exploded inward.
The scream that followed didn’t belong to him.
It was high. Sharp.
Wet.
The sound of someone learning, too late, that they’d chosen the wrong side.
Theo didn’t stop.
The gunfire that followed wasn’t even frantic—it was methodical. Angry. Precise.
By the time I reached the threshold, the blood was already on the walls.
I kicked the first bastard I saw straight in the throat. He dropped, choking, and I didn’t wait. My gun barked twice—once into his leg, once into the floor beside his head.
“Where is she?”
He muttered something in Spanish. I grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his face into the wall.
“Wrong answer.”
The next man came out swinging. I caught the blade with my forearm—white fire across my skin. It didn’t slow me. I hit him with the butt of my gun, teeth flying, blood spraying.
Jude covered the back. Theo had the stairwell.
The house was screaming now—men shouting, gunfire echoing off cement walls, the sound of bones breaking like percussion.
We fought like men with nothing left to lose.
Because we didn’t.
Gabe was gone.
