Savage Queen (The Dark Elite 3)

“FBI!”

Oh, fuck.

22

Grace

I guess Miles Brady listened after all.

My heart races as I dive for cover, trying to avoid the spray of bullets as the chaos in the massive warehouse doubles.

Shots come from every direction, bullets flying through the air. The girls scramble for cover, and I catch sight of Lucy racing away from the guard who was beating her earlier. He’s too distracted by the fight to go after her, thank fuck.

A bullet whizzes past me, and I duck on instinct, throwing myself to the ground before crawling behind a large crate.

My hands shake as more adrenaline than my body knows what to do with pours through me like water.

This could be a shit show. If Camilla escapes, if she manages to get out of here before the FBI can apprehend her, it’s possible all of this could still be pinned on the Novaks. After all, my men and their mafia brothers are here right now, in a warehouse where stolen women were kept, in a shootout that involves the FBI.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

When I sent that text to Agent Brady about the base of operations for the trafficking ring, I didn’t expect to be captured myself. I expected the FBI to raid this warehouse and take care of Camilla and her goons while I was at home, safe with my men.

Now that’s been shot to shit.

Sucking in a few calming breaths, I force my heart to slow a little. I can’t worry about that right now. And I can’t cower back here in fear, not when the men need my help.

I’m not the woman I used to be even a few months ago. I am Grace fucking Weston, my father’s daughter.

I am not afraid of violence or death.

And I’m not afraid to die defending what I love.

More shots ring out, and a second later, a body hits the cement floor just a few feet away from me. Blood spatters against the crates, large droplets hitting my hands and arms. My stomach lurches as I watch as his eyes roll back in his sockets until they’re white, his body going limp as blood seeps from the side of his head, puddling on the cement.

Without thinking, I lunge forward and grab the gun from his unmoving fingers.

The steel is warm in my hand, reminding me it was recently held by a now-deceased man. I grip it tightly as I creep out from behind the crates.

I don’t know where Hale, Ciro, Zaid, and Lucas are. I’m sure they’re trying to find me, but they need to focus on taking down Camilla and her men, and I need to let them. If I go running through the warehouse looking for them, I’ll only put us all at more risk.

But I can still do something. I can help these women.

Most of them are tied up, hands and feet bound. Some are gagged. A few look drugged.

They’re even less used to this kind of violence than

I am, even more traumatized than I am. They’re frozen in fear, screaming, trying to avoid the bullets as best they can with their limbs tied. Some of the less lucky ones are bleeding, trying to cover their wounds and escape all at once.

I scramble for the closest girl, dropping to my knees before her and working at her ties with shaky fingers.

“Listen to me,” I mutter, my voice barely audible above the chaos. “The FBI is here to help, but you’ve got to help too, okay?”

She nods, her eyes wide. She has a black eye and another bruise at her temple, and I hope to hell that she’s not in too much shock to understand me.

“You need to help the other girls,” I continue. “Once you’ve untied one of them, go hide. Hide and don’t come out. The FBI are here, and they’re gonna get you back to your family soon, okay?”

“Thank you,” she whispers hoarsely when I tug the gag off her face.