Ace tucks another knife into his boot. “Six more guns. Six more bodies between them and her.”
I nod. “It won’t be enough for what they’ve done.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a start.”
I snap the final holster in place and reach for the tactical vest. The weight of it is familiar—a second skin we’ve worn too many times to count. Across the room, Ace methodically checks his own equipment, his movements precise despite the rage I can feel radiating from him.
“Twenty-two minutes,” he says without looking at his watch. Ace always knows the time, down to the second. It’s one of his things.
I grunt in response, struggling with the side straps of my vest. The Kevlar feels heavier tonight, like it’s filled with all my fears for Keira instead of ballistic plates.
Ace glances over, notices my fumbling fingers. Without a word, he crosses to me, his boots silent on the hardwood. He bats my hands away and takes over, adjusting the straps.
“Too tight and you can’t breathe. Too loose and?—”
“And it’s useless,” I finish. “I know.”
He checks each fastening point. When he reaches the front panel, his hands flatten against my chest, pressing to ensure the plates sit properly. But they linger there longer than necessary.
I look up and find his eyes, mirrors of my own, locked on his hands against my chest. Something unspoken passes between us, heavy with all the things we’ve never said. All the boundaries we’ve maintained.
“Be safe, brother,” he says quietly.
The wordbrotherhangs between us, loaded with meaning beyond blood, beyond the shared womb that created us. It’s everything we are to each other. Everything we’ve survived together.
“Get her back safe,” I reply.
His hands press slightly firmer against my chest. “Both,” he says, the single word containing a universe of meaning.
I cover his hands with mine for just a moment, a silent agreement, before we step apart and return to our preparations.
44
KEIRA
Consciousness comes in fragments. First, the throbbing in my head, then the burn in my shoulders. I try to move my hands, but they’re secured behind my back, plastic cutting into my wrists. My ankles are bound to the chair legs.
I force my eyes open. The room swims into focus—gray concrete walls, exposed pipes along the ceiling, a single metal door. A bare bulb hangs overhead, casting harsh shadows. The air smells of rust and chemicals.
Footsteps circle behind me—deliberate, unhurried.
“Finally awake, Miss Valentino.” The voice is heavily accented with a musical quality. “I was beginning to worry my men used too much sedative.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man with silver-streaked black hair cut military short steps into view. A scar splits his left eyebrow. His eyes are the pale blue of winter ice.
“Water?” He offers a bottle, holding it to my lips. I turn away.
“It’s not drugged,” he says, taking a sip to demonstrate. “I need you coherent. You’re no good to me if you’re delirious from dehydration.”
My throat burns with thirst, but pride keeps me locked in refusal.
Volkov shrugs. “Your choice.” He resumes circling, his footfalls measured. “Your men killed Vincent Marconi. This disrupted an arrangement worth eight million dollars.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I rasp, my voice sandpaper-rough.
His laugh is like breaking glass. “Please. We’ve been watching you. The Dexter twins are quite... devoted to you.”
He stops in front of me, maintaining a careful distance. His eyes sweep over me clinically—assessing value, not desire.