“Easy, Spark,” King mutters. “This isn’t helping Iris.”
Thomas, Iris’s other brother is shoulder to shoulder with Cillian.
He’d offered me his hand when we were introduced. I shook it.
But the jury is still out on him.
I’d asked him how much he knew. And he’d shrewdly answered, “My uncle is a businessman. He doesn’t do anything without reason.” He’d also told me how Cillian loved Michael like his own. That the staff member he’d fired had been showing up late, despite multiple warnings. There was no way he was ever going to do the things he’d threatened. It was simply that he knew Iris would believe him capable.
Thomas grabs my arm. The cockiness is gone. “You honestly think we can get her back?”
“Yeah, kid. I do.”
I have to believe it. I’m gonna manifest that shit right now. “I’m coming for you, Iris,” I mutter into the wind.
As we shuffle along the incline, we can see down into the property. The first thing I notice is that there are definitely people there. There are two vans. One is gray. And without binoculars, I can’t see the license plate. But there are two men on guard, both armed.
We share the intel and decide we’re going with the same approach to breaking into the last warehouse, only with a hell of a lot more people on our side.
All I can do is pray she’s in there.
We swarm the perimeter, staying low to the shrubs and planting. Surprise is our greatest ally.
While Bates, Niro, and two of the Irish disarm the guards, I break the lock to the side door. King texts me from the back of the building.
Two words.
We’re in.
My hands don’t let me down as I hear the lock click and force the door open. With weapons raised, we flood inside.
“Truce until it’s over,” Cillian whispers. “You don’t accidentally shoot me in the crossfire, and I won’t shoot you.”
“Truce,” I accept as he goes left to my right.
Maybe once we have Iris safe, we can talk. Properly. Like adults.
Vex found out the old warehouse was once a sound stage set up for touring musicians to practice. There is nothing left now but the old bones. Narrow corridors and small rooms fill the backstage area. I check each one thoroughly with my weapon raised.
Saint covers my back, and we make swift work of searching until we end up face-to-face with King in front of a large set of doors. A scream comes from the other side of them, and I rush for the handle, but Bates grabs me around the middle.
“Think,” he violently whispers.
The tiny sliver of light around and between the doors only presents the slightest glimpse of what is happening inside. I try to angle myself to get a better look.
I shift slightly from left to right, but I can’t see shit.
“We got to go in without intel,” I mouth. “Just be ready.”
Another scream makes the final decision, and I kick the doors open as Cillian and his men flood in from the other side of the warehouse. A quick scan says at least ten men, and I raise my weapon to take out one of them.
King tips a table and drops behind it with Clutch. Bates dodges bullets and gets close enough to put his knife through a shooter’s throat.
Gunfire ricochets off the walls, and the smell of smoke is heavy. A man screams, but I can’t pay attention. I have no cover. My senses fire up as I take in everything around me.
“Stop,” someone yells, and I see a man near the naked body of a woman. She’s suspended from the ceiling by ropes on her arms and facing away from me, but I’d know those curls anywhere. That uninked skin that’s so soft to touch. They’ve removed her brace, and the position must be agony.
“Iris,” I gasp.
He holds a gun to her and spins her so slowly it’s a terrifying reveal. Her bloodied and bruised temple. Her black eye. Blood trickling down her arms from the burn of the rope.
Everything in me wants to run to her. I bite down the urge to puke. Please don’t let them have raped her. The physical injuries I can see are bad enough, but I know how much worse the mental ones can be.
I glance between her legs. There’s no obvious sign of trauma, but that doesn’t mean shit.
Mercifully, she appears to be unconscious. Not dead, because there’s still color in her cheeks. Cheeks I love to stroke with my thumbs.
I shake my head. She doesn’t need this, my recollections of everything she means to me. We can wallow in that later. Now she needs the veteran.
“You’re outnumbered,” I say, stepping forward, but it doesn’t stop the man from putting his finger more securely on the trigger as the firing around us stops. Guns are still drawn.
It’s more humane that Iris is out of it.
“I’m going to need to you to leave,” the man says, coming more clearly into the light. It’s the fucker from the cafe that day. King glances my way but doesn’t say anything. “You think your club is so powerful. Think you could kill some of our ranks and not receive any retribution?”
I see Saint coming around my left. Clutch is headed to my right. I know that King and the others have the rest of the men here under control.
Iris finally stirs and raises her head; her eyes catch mine. Tears streak her bloodied cheeks. The look on her face seals it: I’m going to go around and empty every bullet I have into each of these fuckers. I’m gonna cut out their eyes so they can’t find their way into the next life. I’m going to let Bates cut off their dicks and feed it to them. And then I’m going to burn this place down with all of them in it.
I think of Kabul and that feeling of hopelessness when the suicide bomber was already dead by the time I came around. I remember not having anywhere to direct the anger I felt. Feeling like I was perpetually on autopilot, just trying to help in the aftermath.
I raise my gun. It feels like slow motion.
If I miss, I’ll hit Iris.
Clutch shakes his head a fraction.
But I can’t think about it anymore. I can’t witness it anymore. I need to end this for Iris.
And I pull the trigger.
37
IRIS
My breath comes out on a sob when the man standing next to me falls to the floor with a thud. Blood seeps from a wound on his forehead and floods out in a puddle beneath his skull. But I’ve barely had a chance to comprehend it when I am in Spark’s arms. “Iris, sweetheart. This is going to hurt,” he says, as he lifts me.
There is a scream trapped in my chest. I open my mouth to let it out, but all I can do is wheeze and whimper.
Another pair of hands unhooks my arms, then slowly starts to lower them in front of me.
Pain burns so hard I see stars again. But I can’t pass out anymore. Instead, I tuck my head into Spark’s chest and cry. Big fat tears, choking gulps of air. Several more gun shots follow.
Spark carries me somewhere, only a few steps. Into the corner, I think. Then he kneels facing it, pulling me onto his lap.
His woodsy scent and warmth surround me as he places his hands over my ears and curls his body around mine.
Intellectually, I know I’m safe.
Emotionally, I don’t feel it yet.
I’m still hanging from a hook.
I’m still being assaulted.