by Eva Ashwood
But even if I can’t trust the police, they would help these women, wouldn’t they?
My fingers tug at the knots binding Lucy’s wrists as I chew on my lip, my mind whirring. By the time she’s free, I’ve made up my mind. We need to try to get out and call for help. Lucy and I can’t take on all these men ourselves. We need backup.
“Come on,” I whisper, rising to a low crouch and helping her up.
The dark warehouse is a maze, and we avoid pockets of light as we weave between large shipping containers, trying to find an exit.
My heart races so fast in my chest I’m afraid that one of the guards is going to hear it beating, that they’re going to—
Slam!
In the darkness, I run right into a solid form, and the breath escapes my lungs in a whoosh. Large hands immediately clamp down on my arms and stop me, strong enough to keep me from thrashing.
“Lucy, run!” I scream, but it’s already too late.
Another guard grasps her by the waist, circling his arms around her and pulling her to the ground. She puts up a good fight, screaming and biting and kicking, but he’s too powerful for her. A whimper dies in my throat as she’s pushed to the ground, her body hitting the cement with a heavy thud.
The man who holds me kicks the back of one of my knees, sending me to the ground with brutal force, and I grit my teeth against the pain.
“Grace, Grace, Grace.” Camilla stalks toward me, clicking her tongue. Her lips press into a line. “This isn’t funny anymore. You’re not a child acting out anymore, and you know I can’t allow this kind of thing from anyone. Not even you. I’m running a business here.”
This time, I do spit at her feet as those shiny heels get close to me. She grabs my chin and yanks it up, forcing me to look at her.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way, sweetheart,” she says, staring at me with something like pity. “You should have learned long ago that in this world, it’s every person for themselves.”
“Fuck you.”
I wrench my body against the thick arms that pin me to a broad chest. The guard behind me doesn’t loosen his grip though. If anything, he squeezes tighter, making me gasp for air.
“Tie her up again,” my mother says. “And make an example of her friend.”
The words apparently are a dismissal, and the guard shoves me along back to where I came from, kicking my ankles every time I drag my feet. When I make too much noise for his liking, his clammy hand smothers my nose and mouth, and I can hardly breathe.
Another guard picks Lucy up and carries her struggling form into the center of the warehouse, where the light is brighter. He throws her down, and I wince as she skids across the hard, unforgiving cement.
Dammit. This is my fucking fault. I shouldn’t have made her try to escape with me. I should’ve—
What?
Let her stay here to be sold?
Given up hope? Stopped fighting?
Tears well in my eyes as the man who dropped Lucy leans down and delivers a hard punch to her face. She screams as her head whips to the side, her entire body following the motion. He grabs her roughly by the arm, lifting her up to hit her again, and I fight as hard as I can against the man who’s still holding me.
My elbow manages to dig into his side, and when he flinches, I bend my knee and bring my heel up in an awkward kick aimed at his balls. I don’t hit much, but I must at least get close enough to something sensitive that he grunts and doubles over. I throw my head back and hear a satisfying crunch as pain explodes through my skull.
Fuck, that hurts.
It hurts him more though.
He drops me with a loud curse, and the man who’s attacking Lucy stops to look over.
“Motherfucker!” My captor holds a hand to his face as blood pours from his nostrils. “You broke my nose, you bitch!”
He grabs for me, and I duck out of the way, adrenaline spiking in my veins as I realize he’s about to kill me. I don’t even think Camilla will mind.
I pivot on the balls of my feet, but before I can run, he grabs my hair at the roots, yanking me back by my head.
“You fucking bi—”
His words are cut off by a loud pop, and a second later, his hand goes slack on my hair. He falls sideways, nearly dragging me down with him as his fingers tangle with my locks.
Another loud pop, pop, pop fills the air, and then the men on the warehouse floor are shouting, fear and anger in their voices.
“Grace!”
The bellowed word cuts above the din of the chaos around me, and my heart seizes in my chest.
Hale.
His cry is followed by other shouts, other men calling my name, and my limbs go numb with relief and shock.
My men.
They found me.
They came for me. Somehow, they came for me.
The guards on the warehouse floor are firing back now, and I can’t tell where Hale and the others are in the dimly lit space. The place is utter bedlam, with men racing for cover and firing at their attackers.
Then a new sound reaches my ears. A new voice.
I don’t recognize this one as well as I did the others, but I understand the word he shouts just fine.
“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.
I don’t have time to respond, moving to the next. I tell her the same thing, and she listens, helping one of her fellow prisoners before they run hand-in-hand for cover, ducking into safety.
I shove the gun I stole into the waistband of my pants to free up both hands as I work, focusing on the task in front of me to keep myself from falling into panic. My men came for me, and as relieved as I am that they’re here, I’ll never fucking forgive myself if they get hurt because of me. And if they die…
No. Don’t think about it. That won’t fucking happen.
As I’m untying one of the last girls I can find, movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention. I glance up in time to see Camilla and one of the burly guys who seems to serve as her personal guard darting between two crates. A shot rings out and the man goes down, but Camilla doesn’t even glance behind her. Running in a low crouch, she rounds a corner, heading toward the back of the warehouse.
The man isn’t dead.
He groans, clutching his chest as blood spills between his fingers. He’s still alive, and he probably took that shot to protect her, and she couldn’t even be bothered to help him.
Cold fury fills me, and I pull the gun out of my waistband, wrapping my hand around the grip. It’s both terrifying and comforting how easily it rests against my palm as I dart after Camilla, keeping to the shadows and trying to ignore the terrifying sound of shouts and gunshots ricocheting around the space.
The man lets out a gurgling breath as I pass him, but he’s in too rough of shape to stop me from following Camilla.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I make my way deeper into the warehouse. It’s slightly quieter here, with hallways that seem to lead to smaller storage areas. I slow my footsteps as I near a dimly lit room, and when I catch the sound of my mother’s quiet voice, I rest my finger on the gun’s trigger, drawing a steadying breath before I continue forward.
A strange, pungent scent makes my breath catch, and I round the corner into the room, my gun braced in both hands.
My eyes widen.
This storage area has been converted into a sort of office, and my mother is pouring a canister of gasoline on the floor, the desk, and the file drawers that line the space.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I blurt.
Camilla’s head whips up. She drops the gasoline canister and reaches behind her as she turns, drawing her gun in a smooth, practiced motion.
The world seems to slow down, a single second seeming to stretch out as if time has expanded. I see my mother pulling her gun, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’ll kill me if she gets the chance. Maybe she’ll mourn my death afterward, but I would be a sacrifice she would gladly make.
That thought ripples through my mind before spreading out to every part of my body, filling me from head to toe with a cold certainty.
My finger squeezes the trigger of my stolen gun.
A shot rings out.
And my mother falls.
Time snaps back into motion again, everything speeding up so fast I feel like I get whiplash. Camilla hits the floor with a heavy thud, crying out in pain, and I dart forward and kick the gun out of her hand.
I shot her in the shoulder. It was a messy, wild shot. A lucky shot, but I’m not going to question it right now. Standing next to her, I aim my gun at her face, just to make sure she knows that next time I pull the trigger, I won’t fucking miss.
“What is all this?” I demand, glancing around the room. It still stinks like gasoline, but she didn’t have a chance to light it up yet.
“Nothing,” she bites out, her voice strained as color drains from her face. I don’t think the bullet hit anything vital, but I can tell she’s in pain. And losing some blood.
“Not nothing.” I glare down at her. “This is your base of operations, isn’t it? So everything in here must have to do with your trafficking operation. And you were trying to destroy it. To cover your fucking tracks.”
Her lip curls, and even though she’s the one bleeding on the floor, she looks at me like I’m nothing.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Grace. And I won’t. Because I know you’re not going to kill me.”
The certainty in her voice makes me grit my teeth, my hand tightening on the grip of the gun. “You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure.” She grimaces, glancing around subtly, probably looking for her weapon. Then her gaze flicks back to mine. “You won’t kill me for the same reason you wouldn’t join me. Because you’re fucking weak. Just like your father.”
My stomach twists. I take a step closer, until I’m standing right above her. “Dad wasn’t weak. He just had a kind of strength you could never see. He knew how to feel love.”
With that, I drop my aim and pull the trigger. My mother screams in pain as the bullet tears through her leg, and I put another one in her other leg just to be sure. I only have a basic idea of where the femoral artery is, but I tried to avoid it. I don’t want her to bleed out before Agent Brady can find her and take her in.
She’s still screaming, hurling obscenities at me as she tries to claw her way across the floor. She doesn’t look elegant or put together now. For the first time in maybe her whole life, she looks like what she is.
A monster.
A demon.
Ignoring her, I stride over and grab her gun from where it skidded when I kicked it. There’s a box of matches on the desk, and I grab those too, shoving them in my pocket just to make sure no one can come finish the job of destroying this evidence.
I’m about to turn and leave the room when I hear footsteps outside.
Fuck.
I took too long. Camilla’s screams must’ve drawn attention to our location. My heart lurches into my throat, and I raise my gun, praying to fuck that there are more bullets left in it.
A second later, a man bursts through the door, and my body jerks as I yank my finger off the trigger.
It’s Brady.
We stare at each other in surprise for a moment, and he blinks at me. “Grace?”
Of course. He had no fucking idea that I was captured, so he definitely didn’t expect to see me here. And considering I just pointed a gun at him, I’m not sure how willing he’s going to be to let me walk away.
“This is Camilla Weston,” I blurt, gesturing at my mother. She’s stopped screaming, but is still making low, almost animalistic sounds of pain. I point at the gasoline-soaked desk and file drawers. “There’s your proof, Agent Brady. She’s the one who’s been kidnapping and selling women.”
“What are you…”
He glances around, his eyes widening when he takes in the sight of my mother and the gasoline canister, which lies discarded on the floor. Then he strides forward, glancing at the papers scattered across the desk.
That’s all I need.
With him out of the doorway, I bolt toward it, slipping out the door and running down the hallway.
“Grace!”
His shout carries after me, but I don’t stop. There’s more than enough evidence in that room to implicate my mother. Besides
the documents, he now has the woman herself. And if that’s not enough, I’m sure Lucy and the others will be more than willing to testify to what they know.
Now, I need to get my men and the rest of their backup out of here before they get dragged down with the Rooks.
Staying low, I make my way back toward the main part of the warehouse. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crash through my ribs, and I work to stay calm and focused as the sound of shouts and gunfire grow louder. The fact that this fight is going on for so long makes me think that the various sides must’ve dug in for cover, taking shots at each other when they can and trying to get a tactical advantage.
“Grace!”
The hushed voice behind me makes me jump. For a second, I think it’s Agent Brady calling for me again, that he left my mother’s office and came after me. But as soon as the irrational panic fades, I realize I know that voice. It’s the same voice that was calling for me when the gunfire first erupted.
I wheel around, a sob catching in my throat as strong arms wrap around me.
Hale crushes me to his chest so hard I can’t breathe, but I don’t even notice the lack of oxygen. I cling to him for a second, three other bodies surrounding us as the men gather around me. Then I push away, remembering the urgency of the situation.
“We have to get out of here,” I tell them. “Now.”
“What about the other women?” Zaid asks. He’s got a small cut above his eye, and his suit has spatters of blood on it, but he looks otherwise okay. They all do, I think. They’re still standing, anyway. Still alive.
I shake my head. “The FBI will take care of them. They know about the trafficking ring. I told them everything. But you need to get your men out of here—whatever backup you brought—right now.”
Hale’s eyes flare wide. I can see a dozen questions flickering in their blue depths. But he doesn’t ask any of them. There’s no time right now, and he knows that. So he just nods, grabbing my elbow and pulling me along as the men form a tight knot around me, weapons drawn.
