Page 124 of Nest of Thieves
“Good,” he says with a small smile.
He comes in for a kiss, but I turn my head, and his lips hit my cheek. He releases a soft sigh of frustration, and I step back, pinning him with a look. “You can’t expect rainbows and sunshine after ignoring me.”
Sticking his hands in his pants, he rocks back on his heels. “I know.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“I know this conversation needs to happen, but we have to go, mami. Lark can apologize for being a dumbass when we get back.”
“Okay. Don’t die,” I call after them as they leave the room. As soon as the door to the garage shuts, I race to my room. I squeeze out a generous blob of scent suppressing lotion and slather it on before slipping into all black. I grab my shoulder holster and put it on before sliding my gun into the slot. If they’re dealing with pissed-off gang members, it could get bloody. For extra protection, I strap on a few knives.
By the time I’m done, the guys are climbing into the car, strapped up. Vette is driving. Lark isn’t looking at his phone. I keep an eye on the phone and place pillows under my comforter, doing my best to make it look like I’m sleeping for when he does get curious. They’re talking ,but the camera in the truck doesn’t have a mic. Whatever they’re discussing is providing a much-needed distraction.
I grab my phone and race down the stairs, sprinting to beat Lark checking his phone. He’s still sitting in the passenger seat, engrossed in conversation, as Vette starts to pull out of the garage. I wait until the garage door closes before heading into the large space. I grab the keys to Lark’s Aston Martin from the hook on the wall and hop inside, waiting another twenty seconds and checking my phone. The guys are talking. Vette turns left at the end of the driveway. A few more beats and then I turn the car on. The engine roars to life, and I tear down the driveway and street until I catch up, keeping five cars between me and the Raptor.
I take one last glance at my phone, but the guys are still deep in whatever conversation they’re having. Vette isn’t even checking the rearview, which is honestly surprising. I thought they’d be more careful. After what happened with the Philly Vipers, I’m sure they’re all feeling a little guilty and off-kilter. Gripping the wheel, I ease off the gas and fall behind the fifth car a little, keeping my eye on the taillights of the blacked-out truck.
Fifteen minutes later, the guys turn right down a mostly deserted industrial street. Realizing I’ll be caught if I turn too, I go around the block and park a street over. I check the feed, but the guys have left the car, so that’s not doing me any good. Shoving the phone under the seat, I climb out of the car and place the keys in my bra. It’s the only safe place I can think of. Streetlights line the road, and I carefully check my surroundings. The area is deserted and perfect for illegal activities. I palm a knife and head down the sidewalk in the direction the guys had gone.
I don’t know how far down the street they went, but only a minute or two passed between me parking and them getting out of the truck. I reach the end of the block and peek around the corner, scanning the street. On my right, there’s a small line of trucks and cars parked alongside a seedy warehouse. I spot the black truck and tentatively head in that direction.
The warehouse is surrounded by a swaying chain-link fence. Two spotlights beam across a gravel parking lot, highlighting speckles of broken glass mixed in with the rock. This place isn’t exactly the picture of privacy, but something tells me the alphas aren’t worried about being attacked or someone eavesdropping. They’re here to retaliate.
Wrinkling my forehead, I step inside the gate. My crossing the threshold is met with an immediate pop of a gun. I drop to the ground with a grunt, but the shot wasn’t for me. Dozens more ring out as the gravel digs into my skin.
Ah. This is business, and not the good kind.
I walked into a gunfight, and my pathetic handgun is nothing against the semi-automatic weapons firing inside the building. If I’m spotted, someone could easily get off three shots before I even fire one.
Shouts ring out of the building, and I contemplate the right move. I could run and go home, staying far away from the gunfight. I could go inside and catch someone who will tell me what I want to know. The smartest decision would be to run, but I’ve never shied away from danger in the past.
“Vette! On your right!” Mac roars so loudly, his voice slams into me right before a rapid series of shots fire.
My heart rate spikes. The only right choice is to go inside. I push off the ground and put the knife back, grabbing my gun from my shoulder holster instead and running straight toward the brick wall. I press against the rough bricks and sidestep toward a gray steel door. Shots continue to cut through the air, only more intentional now.
They’re hunting.
The only question is: who is the prey? My guys or whoever they’re battling? The Philly Vipers. I clench my jaw and hesitate with my hand on the knob. I’m in way over my head, but Mac shouted a warning at Vette. What if he’s hurt? My throat thickens at the thought, and I swallow past that panic, knowing it won’t do me any good.
I need to be focused.
Calm.
Sucking in a steadying breath, I slowly open the door, waiting ten seconds to make sure no one is right there before slipping in and gently shutting it. The air reeks of dust and gunpowder. I crouch down and let my eyes adjust to the brighter setting of the giant room. Big overhead lights shoot beams of light toward the ground, revealing rows upon rows of pallets stacked two-high. The stacks are tightly wrapped in plastic, except for those that have been hit by stray bullets.
Shoes pound against the pavement nearby, and I shrink against the wall, holding my breath as a guy I don’t recognize races out from between a row of pallets, sprinting to the other side without glancing in either direction. I’ve been a sitting duck long enough. I stand and walk toward the first corner, which is mostly protected by pallets.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Screams follow the shots.
The sounds bounce off the walls, hurting my eardrums. I hold my gun by my chest and stay pressed into the wall, edging deeper into the room. I pass the first row of pallets and stop in my tracks, mouth dropping open. Two men collapsed on top of one another and are lying on the ground in a pool of dark crimson liquid.
They’re not so different from the man I shot all those years ago. As if desensitized to the reality of the situation, I avert my gaze and focus on finding the guys.
Bang.
A few rows down, a bloodcurdling scream slices through the air. The cry turns gurgled, and a body smacks into the concrete. My heart beats against my ribcage, and I clench the gun in my hand.
