Page 66 of Freeing Denver
“I’m not taking anyone’s side!” I say, throwing my hands up dramatically. “But we just got Ronan back. How can you both not realize we should be pulling together? This is good news.”
“Tell him that.”
“Fine, if you won’t, I will!” I half shove him out the way and take the stairs. Cold air blasts into the house as I open the door and take the steps to the street, calling Alistair’s name as he opens his car door. I jog toward him. “This is ridiculous. You both need to make up.”
“It’s none of your business.”
I seize the car door before he can close it. “We got married. We got married, and the first thing he wanted to do was tell you, and he couldn’t.”
Alistair grits his teeth, jaw tensing, and looks away. “Congratulations.”
“Alistair.” I plead with him with my eyes. “He loves you, too, you know he does. We’ve lost so much these last few months. Please, just?—”
Screeching tires have my head whipping to the right. I’m yanked forward, my chest meeting Alistair’s as he pulls us both into the car, my back thudding into the center console as we lie across both seats, his body covering mine.
Bullets slam into the side of the car. It’s a constant barrage of thuds, tiny metal meeting the door and bulletproof windows. Alistair’s head is buried in my neck, his weight heavy and warm against me, his breath hot against my skin until we’re eventually plunged into silence.
“You good?” he asks, and I nod wordlessly. He reaches behind him, unholstering his gun, and pushes himself up on his other hand to look down on me. “Don’t move.”
“I can’t, you’re on top of me,” I wheeze.
“Denver.” He takes my chin in his hand. “I’m not going to watch Colt grieve another woman he loves. Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
He’s gone before I can object, and my own stubbornness comes into play. I sit up, peeking through the seats and through the back window. A car comes to a stop near the end of the street and men pile out. Scrambling forward, I lean out of the car to watch Alistair load his weapon and take confident strides forward.
My eyes widen as he aims—and fires. His bullet lands true, and the man leading the charge is flung back, a bloom of blood and skull where his face should be. A second round of bulletsjoins Alistair’s, and my gaze moves to the house, where Colt is taking the steps down to the street with total ease.
Together, they take down each man. Their shoulders are relaxed, steps even and bold, and when one reloads or ducks behind a car for cover, the other takes charge. It’s a symphony, a dance of death likely practiced over years of friendship—two powerful men coming together and removing a threat without hesitation.
Sweat coats my brow as the firing stops and silence descends once more.
I slump back on the seat, rest my forearm over my eyes, and sigh.
I cannot wait to leave this fucking life.
Chapter 18
Colt
Steven screams as I hammer another nail into his thigh. Sweat pours down his face, his blond hair sticking to his forehead, and tendons strain against his throat as he pants.
“I’ve got a bet on that nail eight is what’ll break you. That”—I point at his legs—“is number seven. Can you hold out for one more?” I examine the nail gun, the power tool comfortable in my hand, and wait for a response.
Steven remains quiet, as he has done for most of the afternoon. Except for the screaming and panting, of course. He’s the only survivor of the attack on us two days ago, and so far, his phone and the car have given away nothing about his employer. It was likely organized by Ranger and got out of hand, but I want to hear this fucker say it.
He grits his bloodstained teeth, breathing hard and fast as he stares at the metal protruding from his thighs, but doesn’t answer my question.
I look over my shoulder at Taf. “You’re gonna owe me fifty bucks in about two minutes.”
“Give him time!” Taf insists. “Steven, dude. Just tell us who you work for, for fuck’s sake.”
Steven remains quiet. I stand, and a resounding cheer from the bar below has us both looking at the door.
“Your wife must be here,” Taf says, grinning, and I grin, too.
The sound of heels up the narrow wooden staircase proves Taf’s prediction correct. Seconds later, Denver steps through the door, her heavy woolen coat dotted with snow, her scarf loose.
“Wife,” I say.
