“Omar Lank,” I growl into the darkness.
“In here, Mr. Big Man,” Omar giggles, sounding like a deranged court jester who’s mistaken himself for a prince. “And let me remind you, if you step foot in here with a weapon, it’s bye-bye to Mr. Rust.”
I feel Kat seize up behind me, her whole body turning tense and terror-filled.
When Rusty makes a soft yapping noise, Kat tries to dart forward, instinct driving her to move as much as mine cause me to block her.
“I’m handling this,” I whisper fiercely, gripping her shoulders in my hands.
I stare at her, her dark hair tied up and her shoulders straight and ready to face anything.
Pride whelms inside of me, for this woman, this queen who’ll always do whatever it takes to protect her brood.
“I know,” she whispers. “But what if it all goes wrong?”
“Then you do what we discussed,” I growl. “You get Rusty and get the fuck out of here.”
“And leave you behind,” she mutters hollowly, sounding as if she’d rather die than do that.
I love you.
But there’ll be plenty of time to tell her that later.
I turn and push the door open, feeling it swing on its hinge.
Kat stays behind me and I reach back, softly guiding her, a physical reminder that I’m her human shield.
We emerge into what was once the lobby area of the orphanage, Kat gasping as she looks around at the ruination. Then our gazes move to the only source of light in the room, a shaft of moonlight penetrating the ragged roof and a lamp flickering dully.
Omar Lank stands with a pistol in his hand, holding it limp-wristed, casually pointed at Rusty who is secured with a rope around his neck tied to a rusty hook sticking out inexplicably from the floor.
All around Omar, his men watch, hired goons—muscled, steroid-infused-looking men, some of them smoking, others holding batons and baseball bats, one holding a gun like Omar does.
Rusty leaps when he sees Kat and starts straining at the rope, filling the room with his high-pitched whining, desperate to be free of his bindings and leap into his rightful owner’s hands.
“It’s okay, boy,” Kat says from behind me. “Calm, Rusty. Calm.”
The bedraggled dog tilts his head and frantically sniffs the area, as if to assure himself that she’s really here, that she’s returned to save him.
Omar is about six foot with floppy black hair resting across his face. He wears a black hoodie and black pants, grinning in the half-light. Pride beams from his every shit-eating gesture as he moves the gun from one hand to the other.
“What did you think was going to happen when you came here, eh?” he beams.
“I thought I was going to make you an offer,” I say.
“An offer?” Omar laughs frantically. “What sort of an offer? I’ve got a ransom in you and a lover in the slut hiding behind you. What else do I need? No amount of promised money can change that, Colton Crew. A bird in the hand and all that.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not going to offer you money, then,” I snarl, the war-drums pounding in my ears, getting me ready, amped for battle.
Now-now-now, like the oars of a Viking ship battering the stormy waves.
This man and his goons have no idea who they’re dealing with.
I start inching subtly forward, priming every muscle in my body.
“What are you offering me, then?” he laughs.
“Leave now. Take your men and get the fuck out of here and I’ll consider not breaking your arms.”
“Ha,” he cackles. “Now that I’d like to—”
I spring at him and make throwing my arms out, just in case he manages to get a shot off before I can get my hands on him.
Even if he’s schooled in the ways of the streets, he’s weak and slow and he reacts like a fucking glacier.
I crash into him and grab his wrist, snapping it violently, hearing an audible crack as Rusty starts to yap and bark, straining to get back to Kat—not at all interested in this piece of shit who called himself his owner.
I grab Omar and swing him around, throwing him like a ragdoll into the goon with the gun.
The man yells and falls backward and then I surge forward, fully in berserker mode now, the blood rushing loudly in my ears as my entire existence hones down to the fight.
I grab the gun and yank it from his grip, and then backhand him across the mouth, hearing the crack of his dislocated jaw.
Then they mob me.
All of them— leap on me.
I should be beaten.
There are at least eight of them and I should be beaten.
But I remember the baking sun and the snapping bullets and the message that was drilled into us every second of every minute of everything unforgiving hour, that we drilled into each other, into ourselves.