I’ll never use it to hide from my enemies, but you can be assured I won’t hesitate using it to sneak up on them unaware. When you’re storming a compound, the last place you foresee being attacked is from behind. It will leave my enemies clueless while helping my empire grow.
While Rocco fills the Rover’s tank, I yank my phone out of my pocket and call the last person I expected to speak to tonight. Maddox answers two rings later, and even over the phone, I can tell he’s fuming mad. “I swear to fucking God, Dimitri, if you don’t bring my sister out here immediately, I’m going to wring your fucking neck.”
“If you want your sister to get out of tonight alive, I suggest you shut your mouth and listen to me.” My brutal tone immediately gets his attention. I doubt he’s even breathing. That’s how menacing my voice is. Although I’m not technically prioritizing Justine over Fien—it only takes one person to fill the gas tank, so I’m more utilizing my time wisely than fucking around—I still hate that I’m in this predicament to begin with. “Tell the goon manning the gate that you need to go to the Gauntlet, give him the passcode ‘cannon.’ When you arrive, fall to your knees and fucking beg. Say anything and everything Col wants to hear—”
“Dimitri…”I don’t know whether he pauses to catch his breath or to plot one of the many ways he plans to kill me. Whatever it is, he’s wasting time he can’t afford. My father has no patience whatsoever. Once he’s handed down a ruling, it is immediately executed. If Justine isn’t dead, she’s walking straight toward it. “What the fuck is going on?”
When Rocco nudges up his chin, wordlessly announcing the Range Rover is good to go, I say down the line, “You said you’d die for your sister, right?”
I hear Maddox swallow before he pushes out, “Yeah.”
While slipping into the makeshift seat in the minecart next to Rocco, I mutter, “Tonight is your chance to prove that. Your life for hers, Maddox. I don’t see Col taking any less.”
Stealing his chance to reply, I press the end button on the screen of my cell, stuff it into my pocket, then tap on the roof of the Range Rover telling Rocco to floor it.
I never wanted to be a hero until I looked into the eyes of my daughter.
Tonight is my chance to become one.
My lungs wheeze in protest to the stuffy conditions, and I’m covered in dust, but as predicted, we make it out the other side of the tunnel in just under twenty minutes.
“Leave it uncovered, we don’t have time,” I tell Rocco when he commences sheltering the mineshaft cart with the camouflage netting he pulled off a real-life Range Rover. “Smith sent logistics to the Range Rover’s mainframe. The airstrip is eleven miles from here.” I lift and lock my eyes with his so he can see the urgency in them. “I need to be here ASAP. The jet is fueled and ready to go.”
“Give it to me.” After sliding into the driver’s seat, he snatches my phone out of my hand. His eyes zoom over the screen as he calculates the quickest route.
Once he’s confident he has his bearings right, he jabs his finger into the ignition button, fires up the engine, throws the gearshift in reverse, then peers over his shoulder. There’s nothing but scrub behind us, which he parts like the Red Sea two seconds later.
Spotting my shocked gawk, he mutters out, “Why go around when we can go over?”
He flashes me a wink that has me forgetting the direness of the situation for a few seconds before he whacks the gearshift into first to commence our trek over sandy plains.
We pop out onto one of the many freeways servicing Ravenshoe a couple of minutes later. Since it’s late, traffic is practically nonexistent.
The frantic beat of my heart slackens when I realize how close to the blue dot we are. Rocco’s shortcut shaved a good three to four minutes off our travel time.
“Take the next exit,” I advise Rocco when a message from Smith pops up on my screen. He’s hacked into my system to advise us of the most direct route to take.
The further we travel up the ramp, the more the headlights of the Range Rover bounce off a figure coming from the other end. Although the ground is wet from a recent sprinkling, all the clouds have moved on, exposing a full moon. It adds to the deathly halo shrouding the petite blonde.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Rocco mutters under his breath when the brightness dims enough, we spot the streams of blood gushing down the blonde’s face. She’s barely walking, her wobbly strides more stumbling steps than polished strides. Her dress and boots are ripped like most punks pay out the eye for when selecting designer jeans, and her blonde hair almost looks red from how much blood it’s absorbed.
She’s either been in a car accident or run over by one.
Their list of injuries are about the same.
“Someone fucked her over good,” Rocco summarizes, stealing the words straight out of my mouth.
He glares at me like I’m insane when I demand him to keep going. Although he didn’t place his foot on the brake, he did loosen his pressure on the gas pedal, slowing our pace.
“We don’t have time. Fien’s jet could taxi toward the runway at any moment.” I can see the lights of a control tower just over the horizon. We’re almost there. “I’ll send someone back for her once Fien is safe.”
“All right.” Although he’s agreeing with me, he isn’t happy about my decision. He has a soft spot for battered women since his momma was one. His dad used to beat the living shit out of his mother. Discovering the reason for her many bruises saw him facing his first stint in juvy at fifteen. His second was for his father’s murder. I loaded the gun and handed it to him. He took care of business how I should have done with my father years ago. Regretfully, my surname means there are rules I must follow. Back then, Rocco didn’t face the same issue.
With Rocco’s jaw as tight as mine, he increases his pressure on the accelerator. The paintwork on my door gets friendly with the railing on the side of the road when he takes a wide birth around the stumbling blonde. I don’t pay any attention to the brutal grind. I can’t take my eyes of the one green eye popping out from a mattered mess of unbrushed locks when we whizz by the blonde.
I’ve seen that eye before—more than once.
“Stop!”
Rocco locks up the brakes so quickly, I’m winded when my ribs collide with the glove compartment. It’ll teach me for not wearing a seat belt. Ophelia was killed when she was flung out of the windshield of CJ’s ride. If she had been wearing her seat belt, she may have survived their accident.
With my mouth refusing to relinquish my words, it takes me a good three seconds to garble out, “Go back.”
“Back?” Rocco double checks, not willing to risk death if he heard me wrong.
Although certain I’m making a mistake, I scream, “Yes! Now! Go!”
Rocco thrashes the living hell out of the Range Rover’s engine after tossing the gearshift into reverse. We arrive at the bottom of the ramp in an instant, but the blonde is nowhere to be seen.
“Where the fuck is she?” My eyes go wild, seeking the reflection of her stark white hair. “We’re the only people out this way. She couldn’t have just up and vanished.”