Page 158 of Nest of Thieves
I need Doc.
As I grab for Lark’s phone, Jay groans. “What the hell happened?”
The screech of tires tears down the street. My head whips up, and I spot a dark SUV racing down the road.
“Motherfuckers.” I yank the keys from Vette’s pocket and point at Jay. “Watch them!” I sprint to the Corvette. Without a second thought, I follow after the car, taking care to hug the fence lining the parking lot to avoid hitting anyone. I smash the button for the automatic fence and wrench the wheel, speeding in the direction of the SUV.
I catch up to the asshole after a few minutes, but he’s idling at a stoplight and surrounded by other cars. I fall in behind the SUV and suck in sharp breaths, waiting for him to lead me to the lair. After a job like this, he’ll be reporting back to headquarters. The guy is either an idiot or confident he killed us, because he doesn’t notice me following him. I slow as he turns down the same industrial area the guys hit not so many weeks ago.
Popping the trunk before I climb out of the car, I shoot off a quick text to the guys to let them know where I am on the off-chance they’re awake. I open the first case and pull out one of the guns, snapping a clip into place and shoving two more into my pockets. I sweep my surroundings once more before rushing around the corner.
The guy parked in the lot of the warehouse across from the one the guys hit. I dash through the parking lot and press against the wall by the door, waiting. Listening. Not a sound.
Steeling my nerves, I check that the gun is ready for battle and head inside. The dimly lit floor is covered in dust and scraps of old boxes and pallets. What was once a thriving shipment center is now home to vermin. I grip the gun a little tighter, more than ready to play the exterminator. They fucked with my family, my pack, and my heart.
No one bombs Pack Nunez and gets away with it.
Voices come from the far end of the open space, where a light spills out of what appears to be an office. I move on quiet feet across the floor, stopping outside the room.
“—no way they survived.”
“You didn’t check?” A threatening question from a somewhat familiar voice.
Who is that?
“No,” the guy who I assume was in the SUV that sped away from the shop responds. “But the bomb detonated. They’re dead.”
A hand slaps against a desk. “How do you know if you didn’t check? Must I do everything myself?” The scraping of a chair sounds, and I clench my hand around the gun, taking a deep breath and listening as someone approaches the door. Before the person can cross the threshold, I pivot and shove my gun against his chest. Edmund’s eyes widen, a trace of fear flashing across his face.
Good. He should be afraid, but what the fuck is he doing with the Philly Vipers?
Does it matter?
“Remember me?” I ask with a wicked grin.
The other men in the room freeze as Edmund throws his hands up to show he’s unarmed.
“Of course, I remember you. You’re the bitch who stole my ring,” he snarls, chest puffing up as he prepares to fight me.
If it’s a fight he wants, he’s not getting it. He bombed my mates.
“Wow, that’s rude. My name is Jo, asshole.” I pull the trigger and Edmund falls to the floor. “Who’s next?”
There are three other men in the room, but I shoot them all before they can so much as pull their guns. Blood sprays in the air, smacking me in the face. The fallout is rather anticlimactic. They drop to the ground, dead as can be. No one races out of hidden corners. No one shoots back.
“Jo!” Lark calls.
Pointing the gun down, I turn around and watch my men sprint over to me. I take them in. Aside from a few scrapes, they’re mostly uninjured.
I wipe the blood off my cheek with the back of my hand, only smearing it in the process, and smirk at them. “Nice of you to show up.”
They glance around, taking in the dead bodies and the bullets riddling them. Mac bites back a laugh. Vette’s eyes sing with pride. And Lark pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of me. I scowl, but he shrugs.
“It’s for the memory book.”
The funny thing is, I’m not even mad that I’m covered in blood. Our lives aren’t clean. We’re not the picket fence types. This wild memory is just the first of many with my pack. My alphas. My men.
My mates.
