by Kit Rocha
“No, it’s not, goddammit.” He turned to Hunter for backup. “Will you tell him?”
But Hunter remained silent. He stared at Deacon for what felt like minutes--hours, even--then nodded once. “You’ve got this. Walk with God.”
“Motherfu--” Reyes whirled and slammed his hand against the wall, and Hunter stepped closer, speaking to him in low, unintelligible tones.
Deacon moved on. Eventually, the others would help Reyes understand.
Lucio faced him squarely, his eyes clear and wide. Then, bafflingly, he hugged Deacon, drawing him close with both arms wrapped around him. The embrace put Lucio’s mouth right next to his ear, and he whispered, “The voice of the righteous will always be heard.”
Deacon’s confusion melted as he felt Lucio slip something into his front pocket--the tiny transmitter Hunter had hidden away in his boot.
Gabe’s face locked in harsh lines of pain as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood a pace away from Deacon, the silence full of all the words they’d never gotten a chance to say--the air they would never clear now.
Then Gabe extended his uninjured hand. “Brothers in this life, brothers in the next.”
Deacon grasped his hand. “Deliver a message for me?”
“Of course.”
Saying the words out loud hurt, like someone stomping on his chest with their full weight. But he could do this. He had to. “Tell her I didn’t run away. And that I’ll see her again...someday.”
Gabe pulled him closer, into a swift, hard hug. “I will.”
“That’s heartwarming. Now get your ass in gear.” Seth jerked his head toward the door, and Deacon obeyed without argument.
For a moment, fear gripped him, a certainty that Reyes would rush Seth because he couldn’t handle what had to happen now. Deacon held his breath, and he didn’t let it free until the door clanged shut behind them without incident.
“Don’t do anything until I get back,” Seth commanded.
“But, sir--” one of the guards began to protest.
“Lock it!” Seth roared. His rage filled the hallway, bouncing off the walls like a tangible thing.
“Yes, sir.” Resentment seethed under the words.
Seth prodded Deacon down the hallway with the muzzle of the pistol pressed between his shoulder blades. He could fight him, grapple for the gun, but the odds weren’t in his favor. The only thing Deacon had going for him right now was Seth’s single, terse instruction.
Don’t do anything until I get back.
If he played this right, Deacon could buy them something more precious than gold--time. He had to use what he knew of Seth, because every moment he kept him occupied was a moment his Riders had to think, plan, strategize, escape.
Live.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Deacon said finally.
“Oh, okay.” Seth jabbed him harder. “Turn right. And shut up.”
“I’m serious, Seth. You fucked up.”
Seth thumped him on the back of the head with the barrel of the pistol. “I said shut it. End of the hall.”
There was nothing at the end of the hall except a blank stone wall. Deacon stopped at it, tensed to move if Seth planned to murder him where he stood.
But Seth just reached out, keeping the muzzle of the gun pressed tight to the base of Deacon’s skull as he flicked open a concealed panel on the short wall at the end of the hall. There was a mechanical door handle inside, and Seth used it to haul the wall open, revealing a hidden space behind it.
The gun barrel jabbed Deacon again. “Go.”
He stepped into a medium-sized room, about twenty feet square, puzzlingly empty except for the rows of lights on the ceiling. He’d expected torture, or even a summary execution staged for the amusement of the other Suicide Kings. But this was a complete mystery.
At least until he heard a beep, turned, and caught sight of Seth just inside the door. He was disarming, placing all of his weapons into a biometric safe built into the wall. And then Deacon understood what Seth had planned for him.
He wanted him to hurt before he died.
“Fife said it wouldn’t work, you know.” Seth chuckled. “He said you were too smart to fall for the vengeance thing. I told him it’d work like a charm. And you know how I knew?” A pair of brass knuckles hit the top of the pile. “Because you’ve always thought you were the fucking dead center of the whole goddamn world.”
“Says the man who’s getting ready to beat me to death when a bullet would get the job done quicker.” Deacon shook his head. “That was your second mistake--falling for your own con. You can say it ‘til you’re blue in the face, that this isn’t about me, but you’re proving something different right now.”
The safe closed and locked with another quiet beep. “Humor me--what was the first mistake?”
“Taking a contract on the Riders.”
“You think so?” The corners of Seth’s mouth pulled down, as if in thought or consideration, though Deacon knew he could be giving neither to his warning. This was all a show to set up his next verbal jab. “I’m pretty satisfied with how it’s going so far.”
“They’re not soldiers or mercs who just happen to work for Gideon and live in Sector One.” Deacon watched as Seth flexed his fingers. “They’re part of that place. Of its religion.”
“Uh-huh.” Seth stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Then why would someone hire me to kill them all?”
His words were still hanging in the air when Seth shot across the room. There wasn’t enough space to avoid his grapple, but Deacon dug in his heels to keep Seth from using the momentum to slam him against the wall.
Seth recovered quickly, wrapping an arm around Deacon’s neck to hold him still for a solid punch square to the nose.
Deacon staggered away, pain blossoming through his head, and Seth drew in a deep, satisfied breath. “Yep, this is gonna be fun.”
Deacon interrupted his celebratory moment with a feint left that turned into a hard right hook. The force of it snapped Seth’s head to one side, and blood splattered from his busted lip.
Seth touched his ravaged lip gingerly, then smiled at him through bloody teeth. “If you think this is gonna stop me from beating your face in--”
Deacon danced away. “Trust me, I don’t.”
“Good.” Seth bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity as he began to circle Deacon. “I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Might have to get regen afterwards, but you know what?” He shot forward again, landing a sharp jab on Deacon’s chin before quickly drawing back. “It’ll be so, so worth it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The smokers had stopped coming outside.
As hour two ticked down, Ana paced a safe distance from the terrifying tangle of wires, steel, and God-only-knew-what that Zeke was methodically assembling. He’d stripped parts from two of their motorcycles to put with half the tech gadgets in his and Laurel’s combined stash.
Ana had to trust he knew what he was doing. And pretend he wasn’t muttering, capacitor, transformer, trigger over and over in a voice that reminded her of the mad scientists in the old movies he liked to play in the common room sometimes.
The fact that the smokers hadn’t returned bothered her. It could simply mean their shift was over. Or something could have gone down inside that building--an escape attempt or a murder or just Deep Voice and the Drawler finally working themselves up enough to risk Seth’s wrath by shooting the Riders.
She wouldn’t know until she got inside.
A rumble behind her heralded Laurel’s return. Ana turned in time to see her lifting a bulky bag off the back of her bike. “Got the thing you wanted.” She was panting as she delivered the bag, as if she’d ridden so hard she hadn’t had time to breathe. “It wasn’t cheap, either.”
“I gave you enough cash to buy Sand Harbor,” Zeke retorted, unzipping it so fast the bag tore. He lifted out a large coil of copper tubing thicker than Ana’s thumb and moved to the front of his device, where lo
ng metal spikes stuck out like the skeletal structure of an enormous megaphone.
Ana started to follow him. “Do you need--?”
“No,” Zeke barked, throwing out his hand. “Stay back. I’m only about fifty percent sure I’m not going to electrocute myself before this is over.”
Ana obediently took two huge steps back, until she stood next to Laurel. “Don’t listen to him,” she told the other woman under her breath. “I recognize that tone of voice. He’s got this, but he wants us to properly appreciate how amazing it is.”
“If he pulls this off, trust me. I’ll be properly appreciative.”
In spite of the stress of the moment, Ana found her lips curving. Few people could resist Zeke. “They have their moments. After we rescue everyone, you should come back to the barracks with us and hang out. Some of these jerks can be downright charming.”
“If my heart can take it.”
Thinking about the common room was a mistake. If they didn’t manage to pull Deacon out of there alive, Ana didn’t know how she’d ever set foot in her sanctuary again. Or her bedroom, where the memory of those last angry words would always battle the memory of his warm skin gliding over hers as pleasure broke over her.
Or the workout room, where he’d knocked her on her ass a few hundred times--and she’d only done it to him once. Just the one time, because she’d never have another chance.
And the armory. Sweet fuck, the armory. The saints didn’t have enough mercy between them to erase that memory. She’d have to start every fight for the rest of her life staring at her locker and remembering how it felt to have Deacon pin her up against it.
“Okay,” Zeke said, interrupting the miserable spiral of her thoughts. “I think I got this.”
Ana turned and painstakingly kept doubt from her face. The contraption looked...
Ridiculous.
Zeke had coiled the copper tubing around the protruding metal rods in a loose spiral. The mess of wires and metal behind it looked like a contained storm had whipped through a room of old tech and left everything in a tangled heap.
“Don’t look at it like that,” Zeke chided as he herded them back. “It’s a fucking masterpiece. People are gonna write ballads about the time I pulled this off.”
“If it doesn’t kill us,” Ana reminded him.
“Well, obviously.” Once they were a sufficient distance away, Zeke drew a pellet gun from his belt and handed it to Laurel. “See that little metal plate I drew the X on? Can you hit it to close the circuit?”
Laurel lifted the gun. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask me that.”
Ana pulled out her binoculars and sought out one of the cameras, watching its slow movement as it swept in a wide arc. “Okay,” she murmured. “If this works, we have to move fast. Make sure you’re ready.”
She heard Zeke’s calm voice over the soft click of a magazine sliding into place. “Got it, boss.”
“Okay, Laurel. Do it.”
Ana didn’t know what she expected. An explosion, or at least some crackle of electricity. But the clink of the metal plates slapping together faded into silence so intense her nervous breaths echoed loudly in her ears.
The camera stopped.
“Move!” she ordered, already charging forward. She swept up the bolt cutters on her way and skidded down the dirt and gravel incline, comforted by the sounds of Zeke and Laurel hard on her heels.
“Zeke?” she shouted as they bolted across the road and toward the fence.
He had one of his multipurpose gadgets in his hand already, held out at arm’s length. “It’s still dead, no electricity.”
Ana didn’t waste time. If she were the Kings, she’d have a backup generator inside with at least enough juice to keep the air flowing and light the emergency evacuation routes.
And to keep the perimeter fence hot.
The cutters sheared through the steel like butter. Zeke hauled at the fence as she cut, until they’d opened a hole wide enough for Laurel to wiggle through. Ana dropped the cutters and followed her, the back of her neck crawling as they darted across the open space to the door.
But no sniper shots cracked out. No alarms went off. Laurel skidded to the front door, and Ana drew her gun to cover her as she swung the heavy door wide.
Laurel went in firing. Screams echoed through the dark room, quickly drowned out by return fire. Bullets whined through the air, one passing by Ana so closely that she could feel its heat on her arm.
She ducked inside and put her back against the wall. Time had slowed again, giving her that sweet edge--but satisfaction and anticipation didn’t follow. The stakes were impossibly high, and the cost of failure--
Please be alive.
The thought came as she lifted her arms and focused on her first target. The light spilling through the door was just strong enough to outline vulnerable spots--heads, throats, unarmored chests.
As she’d hoped, the blackout had sent the Kings surging for the exit. They flooded into the atrium like unusually violent lambs to the slaughter, and the ones Ana didn’t get went down from Laurel’s efficient headshots.
It was easy. Almost too easy. She’d crafted a flawless plan, drawing their confused enemies out in total panic. They couldn’t organize themselves, because every time one opened his mouth to shout an order, he drew Laurel’s deadly attention.
It was beautiful, perfectly executed violence, and Ana should have been high on the taste of victory in the face of such impossible odds. Zeke sure as hell was--his exhilarated laughter rang out as he fired his semiautomatic pistol, the sound reverberating through the concrete atrium.
Ana had no problem pulling the trigger. She did so easily, automatically, again and again until the floor was strewn with bodies and blood--
But this wasn’t victory. Nothing about this bloodbath was winning. She hated them for making it necessary. And today, she didn’t feel all that great about herself for being so good at it.
Victory would come when she knew her people were safe. That was the only part of any of this she could take pride in.
The final body fell, and Ana waited, her gun trained on the darkened hallway as Zeke dragged his final two kills out of their path.
Laurel waded through the carnage and crouched beside a groaning man who was clutching his shoulder. When she drew close, he swung a wicked-looking knife up from his side. Before Ana could shout a warning, Laurel snatched his wrist and twisted--hard.
The knife clattered to the floor as he screamed, but Laurel didn’t flinch. “Where are they?”
He played dumb. “Wh-where’s who?”
She held on to his wrist, but gripped his shoulder with her other hand. “The Riders,” she said calmly, then pressed down, digging her thumb into the bullet hole in his shoulder.
He screamed again, and Laurel leaned closer, whispering to him. Ana couldn’t hear what he said in return, but after a moment, Laurel stood and wiped her bloody hand on her shirt.
“You made a good choice,” she said, then drew her pistol and shot him in the forehead. She stepped over him and nodded to Ana. “They’re one level down. Some kind of holding cell.”
“Then let’s go.”
Ana followed Laurel into the hallway, and Zeke fell into step beside her, his gun pointed toward the floor and his gaze on Laurel’s back. “Okay, so...she’s fucking insane,” he said in a stage whisper. “Reyes is going to love her. Or they’ll wind up killing each other.”
They drew close to the stairwell, and Laurel shrank back against the wall, her rifle at the ready. A moment later, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Ana glanced at Zeke, who moved to cover from the opposite angle.
Pistol in hand, she swung around the corner and nearly sagged in relief.
Hunter stood three steps below her, with Lucio and Reyes helping Gabe, who looked like he’d been beaten half to death. But the stairs behind them were empty, and Ana’s momentary relief shattered.
She tried to hide her panic as she lowered the barre
l of her gun. “Where’s Deacon?”
Hunter grimaced. “Seth took him. We don’t know where.”
Lucio pushed forward. “Hunter managed to keep his comms transmitter, and I gave it to Deacon. If you can pick up the signal--”
“Zeke?” Ana cut in, turning.
He’d already pulled out a handheld tablet and was tapping furiously. “Nothing’s popping up yet. I can keep trying, though.”
“Then we look the hard way. Except you, Gabe.” She pointed at him as he tried to straighten, but one eye was swollen shut and he could barely stand upright. “Reyes, get Gabe out of--”
“No,” Gabe interrupted, shaking free of Reyes’s supporting arm. “You need everyone to clear this place. I’ll get to the door and hold it down. I just need a gun.”
Ana hesitated, but only for an instant. If Gabe said he could get it done, he’d get it done. “Okay. Laurel?”
She nodded and pulled a 9mm from her thigh holster. She checked it, pressed it into Gabe’s hand, then draped a bandolier of spare magazines around his neck. “Be careful.”
“I’ll be fine--”
“I mean it,” she cut in. “You can’t afford any more whacks to the head.”
He almost smiled, though it had to sting like a bitch with his split lip. “You’d just rescue me a third time. Now go rescue Deacon.”
Gabe disappeared around the corner, and Ana turned to Zeke. Even though Hunter was standing next to her--even though she was the newest Rider--all eyes were on her.
Getting everyone out was her job.
Deacon had laid this responsibility on her shoulders, and Ana suddenly understood why her normal exhilaration was nowhere to be found. Striding into battle was easy. She could test her wits against the world, knowing the penalties for failure would always fall most heavily on her. Leading other people, on the other hand...
The weight of it was unfathomable. But Ana was used to carrying people’s hopes and dreams. Now she just had to do it with their lives.
She was meant for this.
“Come on,” she said, starting down the stairs again. “Let’s find Deacon and get the fuck out of here.”
