The Ritual

Pulling out from underneath her, she doesn’t even move. She’ll be pissed at me when she wakes in the morning, but I’ll deal with that when I’m done with my assignment.

Getting out of bed, I exit her room just as Gunner and Sarah walk through the front door. “Give us a second,” he tells her, and she heads to her room at the other end of the apartment.

“She’s out. Will be all night,” I tell him.

He nods once.

“I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I can.” He understood that I wanted him and Sarah to stay here with her while I’m gone. I may not be able to control what she does or where she goes while I’m working. I still don’t want her up at the house of Lords even if Matt is away, so I needed to give her a reason to stay away. Sarah being here is as good as I could come up with in such a short time.

“Of course. Just be careful.” His eyes go to her closed bedroom door. “And don’t worry about her. I’ll make sure nothing happens to her while you’re gone.”

My cell vibrates in my pocket, and it’s a text from a blocked number.

Opening it up, I see it’s the address of the cathedral. Without saying another word, I exit and head out.

_______________

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’m walking inside the double doors of the cathedral tucked back in the woods. I look around to see I’m alone. But that victory is short-lived when the doors creak open behind me, and Matt steps inside.

“It’ll be like old times.” He gives me a fucking grin when I turn to face him.

“Try not to kill an innocent this time.” I make a jab at him. But instead of taking offense, he just laughs.

The doors open, and we both turn to face the three men who enter. All three wear black cloaks and white masks over their faces to hide their true identity.

My pulse quickens, and my heart begins to race at the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I forgot how much I’ve missed this. The action. This is the part of the Lords that I love. I’m not going to pretend not to like the violence. I love it.

“Gentlemen,” the one on the far right speaks.

Matt steps toward them.

All three raise guns at us. “Hands up,” one orders.

I raise mine as does Matt.

“Turn around. Lie on your stomachs with your hands behind your backs,” the one in the middle demands.

Doing as I’m told, I smile to myself. Let the game begin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

RYAT

I’M YANKED TO a stop and shoved into a chair where each wrist is pulled down to my sides and cuffed to a back leg. My ankles are then also cuffed to the front legs. The hood that’s been covering my face is ripped off, and I suck in a breath of fresh air as I blink and look around.

We’re in a warehouse of some kind. A quick glance tells me it’s underground. No windows, no doors. Just an elevator at the other end of the large space. Concrete floors and walls.

I try to rock the chair from side to side to see how much it’ll take for me to break it, but it’s no use. The bitch is cemented down to the damn floor. A steel table sits in front of me that I bet is also cemented down.

“A little overkill,” I say, testing the cuffs themselves, but they’re the real deal, cinched down tight. I know that Blake secretly likes these damn things, and I don’t know why.

“Are these necessary?” Matt growls, secured to the chair next to me. The chains to his restraints clank as he tries to break free as well.

After we were cuffed and the hood was placed over our heads, we were dragged out of the cathedral and thrown into a vehicle of some kind.

The officer who stands to my right with his hands on his belt says nothing. Another quick look around tells me that the three guys who picked us up are nowhere to be seen. They were delivery boys and nothing else.

The elevator dings, getting our attention seconds before it slides open. Gregory Mallory himself steps off it. I’ve never met him before. A ruthless, powerful motherfucker who has a target on his back. The sorry bastard who tried his shot, missed him. I’m guessing that’s why we’re here. He’s followed by two other men. They look like they work for the FBI—three-piece black suits, sunglasses, and earpieces. But none of them resemble the men I saw on the TV.

He pulls the only other seat out from across the table from us and sits down. I notice his moves. Pulling a picture out of the pocket of his Tom Ford Windsor suit jacket, he slams it down and slides it to the center of the table in front of us. “Erik Bates. Remember the name, brand the fucking face into your goddamn memory,” he orders.