Engines chugging and rumbling before we killed them.
Silence rolled.
Evil howling through the sticky stillness.
We both climbed off our bikes, and Braxton stepped out of the car. Could only imagine what we looked like.
Nothing but bloodshed and brutality.
Someone was probably peering out their blinds right that second, calling the cops, which part of me had already wanted to do, but I knew full well this had to be handled a certain way.
Only chance we had was taking this motherfucker by surprise.
We edged down the street. Three of us shoulder to shoulder, stalking toward disaster.
Each step riddled with my deepest fear.
We moved farther down the road. Past one house. Then another.
Every second felt like eternity.
Torture.
Wanted to fucking blaze a path of carnage.
But I held it. Bottled it. Let it feed the determination that lined every muscle in my body.
Lyrik slowed a little more, on guard, silently angling his head to the right at the house that sat on the corner of two streets.
It faced out to the road to the right, blips of the backyard visible through the broken-down planks of rotted wood that was meant to serve as a fence.
Knee-high weeds filled most of the lot. A dilapidated shed was at the very back, roof caved in at one side. But it was the tiny glimpse of a new but plain white SUV parked haphazardly off to the side that sent a dagger of aggression through my soul.
My entire being lurched forward a step, but it was Lyrik who was putting out his hand against my chest, a silent, “Stay cool,” mouthed from his lips.
Cool.
Not possible.
It wasn’t like he was any closer to managing it, either.
His entire body vibrated with madness.
It only amplified tenfold when there was a sudden wail echoing from the house. Distorted and blunted.
Muted.
But there all the same. I nearly cracked because there was no length that I wouldn’t go.
This time it was Brax who stepped in. He gestured with his chin to Lyrik, letting his line of sight glide to the back fence. Lyrik nodded, slinking that way, gaze darting everywhere before he scaled over the top. Landing silent on the other side.
Nothing but stealth.
Braxton edged through the side of the front yard. I followed, sound of my boots barely crunching under me, my pulse so loud I was sure that was what was going to be what gave us away.
We pressed our backs up to the side of the wall, searching that we were clear before we started to slip around to the front.
Breaths shallow and ragged as we waded through the disturbance.
Terror seeped through the crumbling walls, and there was another mumbled cry.
Greyson.
Greyson.
My heart clutched. Fisted and throbbed and nearly bolted from my chest.
Braxton felt it, sensed me getting ready to slip, and he cut me a look, his gun steady in his hands as he pressed close to the wall while mine was shaking.
Finger on the trigger.
Swinging his head around a fraction, he peered through a crack in the window.
Could tell from the way his spine went rigid that we had a confirmation. They were inside.
My guts twisted and my spirit screamed, taking over. Nothing left but this determined desperation.
He gave a sign for me to round to the other side so we would be surrounding them.
I eased that way, shaking and shaking.
I slipped around the other side of the house, peeked up through a window into a vacant, destroyed kitchen. Cupboard doors hanging from their hinges, garbage strewn, broken dishes left behind like the evidence of the hopelessness that leaked from inside.
The broken window had been left open a crack.
I nudged it farther, and I hiked myself up and slipped inside.
I landed on my feet, cringing when the impact made a small thud.
But that chaos raging from inside was louder.
Bleak and tortured.
I kept my footsteps as quiet as I could, inching for the open archway that led out to the living room.
Whimpers bled into my ears, the taste of terror on my tongue.
Nearly dropped to my knees when I pressed my back to the wall and peered out.
Memories flooded my mind.
Blinding.
Gutting.
Horrid and vile.
Morgue.
The same one who’d killed my family. The same one who’d let go of a spray of bullets when I’d gone after him and Nixon the first time. Motherfucker had been the one to postpone my intentions. Hitting me five times on my side. I’d almost died. Probably would have if it hadn’t been for the unrelenting need for retribution.
It was the same man as I’d seen out in Lyrik’s yard that night.
Same one who was looming over Nixon and Mia right then.
Wickedness blazed back.
Evil hovering in the room.
I could barely see her, her back to me where she was tied to a chair facing away. Her hair mangled and her head slumped forward.
But I could feel her.
The girl the storm inside of me.
Light. Light. Light.
Nixon was to her right, hands tied in front of him as he spouted his bullshit. His reasons why he wasn’t guilty. Putting the blame on someone else.
Fuck.
I’d thirsted to put a bullet in that motherfucker’s head for so long. The wrath that had consumed. My entire reason his end.
But the only thing I could discern right then was getting Mia free.
Safe.
Nothing else mattered.
I caught Braxton’s eye where he was kneeled down low, hidden by a short wall that created a foyer at the front door.
He rested his hand on his thigh, giving me a countdown. Three, two . . .
I tightened my hold on the grip of my gun, trying to keep my ragged breaths steady. To keep quiet.
Ready to strike.
I counted down to one in my head when the little voice filled the space, “Uncle, I got you.”
Greyson.
Shit.
Could hear rustling get louder from the back of the house, the quickened pace of energy, and I knew Lyrik was trying to shush him, keep him quiet, get them out, and the only thing I could think was thank God, thank God he got to the kids.
But Morgue jerked up his head and started that direction.
Neither Braxton or I waited for that final count.
We both swung around, guns drawn, the bastard pinned between the middle of us.
He calculated, looking for his shot.
A door banged at the back of the house, and that ferocity shifted, something perfect and relieved.
Lyrik had gotten the kids free.
I knew it.
I knew it.
And I was trying not to look at Mia while I kept the gun steady. Not to focus on the blood that dripped from the corner of her mouth or the fear and relief that burned from her swollen, beaten eyes.
But rage.
It burned.
So intense.
So ugly.
My finger twitched on the trigger.
“Put your gun down, Morgue. This job is over.” Braxton’s hard voice sliced through the agitated air. The guy shifted his head just a fraction to look at Brax.
Brax who edged out farther from behind the wall.
Two of us closing him in.
That was the second that pussy deadbeat jumped from the chair, knocking it over, running with his hands tied in front of him toward the window to the opposite side of where I stood.
Running in front of Mia, leaving her sitting there as he dove for the window.
Morgue spun.
Shots rang out.
Piercing.
Shocking.