The barcode on my wrist doesn't burn anymore. The phantom weight of Turner's brand doesn't feel so heavy. I'm not the girl who was taken or the victim who escaped.
I'm the woman who chose.
I'm the woman who acted.
Mason takes the gun from my hand. My eyes are still fixed on Kelly's body. There's no triumph in this moment—nothing so simple as victory—but there's clarity and closure. There's the knowledge that I walked into hell and walked back out on my own terms.
I turn away from Kelly and go toward Mason.
He holds his arm open for me.
I walk right into it, and for the first time since my sister died, I don't feel alone in the dark.
84
MASON
We work fast.
Luke positions the charges along the warehouse's support beams—C-4, precise placement, enough to bring the structure down without spreading fire to the surrounding area. Jake sweeps the perimeter, checking sight lines and exit routes. I run comms to coordinate our extraction timeline with the detonation sequence.
Lily stands near the loading bay door, watching us work. She's steady. Composed. I tucked the gun in my waistband, but I can still see the ghost of it in her hand—the way she held it, the way she fired without hesitation.
She got her closure, but closure doesn't mean safe.
I want her back in my bed, wrapped around me where I can feel her heartbeat under my hand and know nobody’s ever taking her away from me again.
If she can stand my touch after today. If she flinches from me… I shake my head—I don’t know if I’d be able to survive that.
"Two minutes," Jake says, his voice clipped and professional. He's moving toward the exit, double-checking the timer on the primary charge.
“Perimeter's clear.” Luke appears at my shoulder, his crazy grin in place. He lives for this shit. “No movement on the access road."
I nod. "Let's move."
We exit through the loading bay—Jake first, then Lily, then me with Luke covering our six. The afternoon air is cold and sharp after the stale warehouse interior. Our vehicle is parked fifty yards out, positioned for rapid extraction.
That's when I see it—the pickup parked near Luke’s truck.
It’s a matte black F-250 with Montana plates and blacked-out rims. There’s a man leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed casually over his chest.
Cole Turner.
He's alone.
No visible backup, no weapons drawn. He’s just standing there like he's been waiting for us to finish, that snake smile curling his lips.
My hand goes to my sidearm instinctively. Jake and Luke flank out, creating a defensive perimeter.
Lily goes still beside me, her entire body tensing. I squeeze her hand to let her know I’ve got her.
Turner doesn't move. He just smiles. "Gentlemen. And Dr. Carter. I hope I'm not interrupting."
I don't respond. My tactical mind is running threat assessments: distance to cover, angles of fire, extraction routes if this goes hot. But something about Turner's posture—the complete lack of urgency, the casual lean against his truck—tells me he's not here to fight.
He's here to prove a point.
"I wanted to thank you," Turner continues, pushing off the truck and taking a single step forward, like we’re chatting about football. "Patrick Kelly was becoming a liability. Sloppy. Unreliable. Going rogue. You did me a favor taking care of him."