by Kit Rocha
"But it could upset his operation," Cruz countered. "Fuck, Bren, I want him dead too, but shutting this down needs to come first. Worst-case scenario, you climb the walls someday soon and put a bullet in him from a mile away."
"No." He had things to say to Miller's face while he lay dying. Confessions to make. "I want to kill him close."
Cruz stilled. "Even if it risks your life?"
"It won't."
"If you're sure." He jerked his head toward the street. "The bar's mostly fixed up now. We can track down Riff, or maybe Elvis. Isn't he the one with all the black-market contacts?"
"Better to let Dallas do it." Everyone in Three had been wondering what price they'd have to pay for O'Kane's patronage and protection.
Might as well let them know.
When Bren finally dragged himself back to his room, Six was waiting for him.
She wasn't wearing sexy pants this time or thinking about jumping him. She'd been sitting cross-legged on the foot of his bed so long her legs had fallen asleep, but she was sure he'd make his way home sooner or later, and then they'd talk.
She hadn't expected the frustration that rolled off him in waves, or the way he slammed the door shut behind him. Everything about him had always screamed control, but now he tossed his jacket carelessly across a chair and didn't even notice when it slithered to the floor.
Even his greeting was distracted. "Hey."
"Hi." She straightened her legs and told herself she wasn't getting ready to bolt. "You okay?"
Instead of answering, he rubbed his hands over his face. "Who knows Sector Three best? You? One of the guys who worked for Trent?"
"Depends on what you want," she replied carefully. "I know the inner streets, the good places to loot or hide. But Elvis knows shit about the black market no one would ever tell me, and Cain knows about the outskirts of the sectors, and some of the closer farms."
Bren circled the bed and sank down on the mattress. "Elvis, then."
"For what? Do you need something black market?"
"What? No, it's--" He sighed and turned to face her. "Lennox uncovered a human trafficking operation in Three. He brought it to us so Dallas can stomp that shit out."
Her stomach twisted, the coincidence of it too much to wrap her mind around. But of course it wasn't coincidence at all--Noah had found the traffickers. For all she knew, setting Bren and Dallas on their trail was some sort of test. A way for him to judge how far to trust them.
A way to judge whether or not Bren had changed.
She wet her lips. "What are--who are they moving? And to where? Do you know?"
"Not yet, but I've seen things like this before. They snatch people off the streets in the sectors and ship them into Eden." His jaw tightened. "You don't want to know why."
There it was, the perfect, effortless opening. All she had to do was stumble into it, like she'd blurted out a hundred awkward, stupid things before. "I already know."
But he didn't notice. He just rose again and paced the length of the room. "Right next door--no, in Dallas's damn sector. He's fucking pissed."
She was sure Dallas was, but Bren was the one prowling the room. For the first time, she realized how completely she'd held his attention. Since the moment Trent had dragged her into his life, chained and fighting--always fighting--she'd been at the center of all that intense focus.
Now she was invisible.
It stung, but hurt feelings were bullshit compared to what was going down. If she had to give up the comfort of his attention to save people from the hell of being sold, he could ignore her all fucking night. Whatever he needed to get the job done. "Do you know anyone involved? Any of the guys in Three? I know where people like to hide."
"No," he said firmly. "If Elvis knows his way around this shit, we'll work with him. I don't want you involved."
That did more than sting. It wedged under her skin, an echo of all the times Trent had shut her down. "I'm not going to get in your way. I can help."
"I know that." He leaned over to cup her shoulders, his gaze intense. "I don't want you putting yourself in danger. I mean it."
"Some things are worth it, Bren."
"Agreed. And if we need you, I won't stop you from helping. I promise."
He was looking at her now, seeing her, and she braced herself to dig into his past, to do the one thing they never did--push for secrets.
She ended up giving him one instead. "That's how I ended up in Three. My family sent me to the man I was supposed to marry so the wives could train me in my duties, and I ran. And I was young and I didn't know how to live off the farms--"
Two days. That was how long she'd lasted before blundering into a trap no street kid would have fallen for. She'd been twelve, already an adult in some ways, but so hopelessly ignorant in all the ones that mattered.
Bren pulled her close, into the strong circle of his arms. "It's okay."
She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. "Are they kids? Do you know?"
"There may not be anyone right now, all right? They're probably between shipments, that's why we didn't turn anything up."
"Bren?"
"I won't let them slip past us."
"And we'll get them free?"
"Every single one, sweetness."
She exhaled slowly and pushed Noah's message aside. Digging into the past was stupid when she had the proof she needed in the present. Bren, warm and solid and as gloriously dangerous as ever.
Easing back, she reached for his hands. "You hurt yourself. Do I need to get the medkit?"
"A couple of scratches. Jas took care of it."
She turned his hand over in her own and traced his palm. No sign of cuts or scars. The med-gel the O'Kanes possessed in seemingly limitless quantity was the kind of thing people killed for on the streets. Wounds disappeared like magic, leaving nothing behind.
Her scars were on the surface, where anyone could see. She'd never know how many Bren had. "Are you sure you're all right?"
He gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm sure."
But the smile didn't reach his eyes, and Six was left alone again, even with him in the room, less sure than she'd ever been.
Chapter Seventeen
No one had invited her to the meeting.
Six polished shot glasses that were already too clean for the drunks who'd be tumbling in after the bar opened and tried not to look like she was listening in.
"Thirty-two people," Elvis was saying. "They've got 'em locked up tight in a warehouse close to the city border. Best I can tell, money's exchanging hands sometime soon. Two, maybe three days."
Six's heart slammed into her ribs as Mad spread out a meticulously drawn map and ran his finger across it. "Cruz flagged a couple of likely locations, but there was nothing there when they looked."
Elvis leaned over the table and tapped one marked spot. "It's this one." He squinted up at Cruz. "You called it, huh? That's pretty slick--for a city boy."
Cruz ignored the jab and tilted his head. "It's the first one we checked out," he told Bren. "I remember enough about the layout to plan a rescue."
"From seeing it once?" Dallas asked doubtfully.
"Training." Cruz shrugged. "And I had a hunch."
Bren finally spoke, his gaze riveted to the map. "You don't underestimate this bastard. If you do, you're dead."
"No one's underestimating him," Dallas drawled, leaning back in his chair. "He trained the both of you. That's warning enough."
Six's fingers clenched so hard the rim of the shot glass dug into her palm, and she couldn't hear whatever Mad said next over the blood pounding in her ears. The last few days clicked into place with stark, painful clarity. Bren's rage, his distraction, his mounting obsession--
They were chasing the man who'd made him. The man who'd thrown him away.
And he hadn't told her.
He looked up, his gaze clashing with hers, and she knew his silence hadn't been an oversight. He hadn't forgotten to tell her.
>
She pivoted, putting her back to him. Row after row of O'Kane liquor stretched out in front of her, some of the bottles perilously close to empty. She should be checking them now, figuring out what needed replenishing, and hauling ass into the storeroom.
Her feet wouldn't fucking move.
"The building is built for optimal stealth, not so much defense." That was Cruz, sounding as calm as if he were making small talk about the weather. "Unless the guys guarding it are professionals..."
Elvis snorted. "These knuckleheads? Not hardly."
"Then this is an easy job. Hell, toss a gas grenade through the window and wait for them to drop. It'd only take one."
Six tensed, and she wasn't even sure why until Mad voiced the sick feeling in her gut. "Only if you want to gas the captives, too."
"They'd recover."
"They might. That shit can kill, you know."
"So can a bullet."
"So don't let them get shot, city boy. It's an easy job, right?"
"Enough!" Dallas barked, slamming his hand down on the table so hard it rattled. Six glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw Mad glaring at Cruz, whose blankness had faded to a hint of confusion. "Bren? You wanna weigh in on a plan of attack here?"
Silence. Then, "We should wait. Hit them when Miller's there. Take care of the whole damn thing in one strike."
"No."
Heads swiveled to face her, and Six realized the word had escaped her lips. God knew they felt numb enough, but with everyone staring at her, she wasn't going to back down. "That could take days. Do you know what they can do to someone in that time?"
"They won't damage the cargo," Bren argued. "They want to get paid."
Her blood chilled. "They're not cargo. They're people."
"And we're going to get them out of there. But we need to shut down the operation, not just this one run."
Cool logic, so reasonable it twisted her gut. "Don't you know who it is? You can get him any time."
His eyes flashed with annoyance. "It's not worth the risk of letting Miller get away. Not if we can end it now."
He was pissed at her, and it was pissing her off, too. Her fear was bleeding into anger--at herself for wanting so fucking badly for him to be a hero, and at him for holding so much of himself back when she'd given him everything, showed him the most vulnerable, broken places in her heart.
Maybe that had been her mistake. She wasn't his partner. She was his project.
Her hands ached as she braced her fists on the bar. "What would be worth the risk? Anything? Anyone?"
"It's not a sacrifice, Six. It's strategy. A choice."
A choice to corner the motherfucker who'd taught him to kill, and to do it in a building with thirty-two helpless, frightened people. Staring into those hard, intense eyes, Six almost believed he'd consider the death of every last one of them an acceptable loss.
She opened her mouth again, but Dallas cut her off with a snarl. "I don't have time for bickering. Six, if you can't keep your mouth shut while you're stocking the bar, then you need to leave."
Her teeth clacked together as heat flooded her cheeks. Humiliation was too fucking familiar, and for one terrible moment she was back in Three, raising her voice to be heard over the greedy babble of Trent's men, trying to exercise what tiny influence she had to make someone safer.
Shut up and pour the drinks, bitch.
"Declan." Lex's protest was firm and quiet, but it lashed through the silence like a whip.
Dallas flinched.
Mad slid into the awkward silence. "I agree with Six. Rescue should be our priority, not to mention that this whole thing gets a lot more dangerous if Miller's there."
Bren crossed his arms over his chest. "I can handle him."
He wasn't even looking at her anymore. She was invisible again, irrelevant to his mission objective and therefore unimportant. He stared at Dallas, who rested both elbows on the table and sighed. "Cruz? Can you still pull this off with Miller sitting on top of the captives?"
Cruz hesitated, glancing at Six with a pity that stuck in her throat like glass before he nodded once. "The risks are within acceptable parameters."
"Fine. Bren and Cruz, draw up a plan of attack." He jabbed a finger at Elvis. "I want you and Riff sitting on top of them for the next forty-eight hours. These fuckers are not sneaking anyone out past us."
Elvis nodded. "We can do that."
More of the men snuck glances at her, enough pity and sympathy to make her queasy. With her throat burning, she pushed through the employees-only door behind the bar and stumbled into the darkened kitchen.
A hand wrapped around her arm, and she knew it was Bren even before he spoke. "Six, wait--"
She snatched her arm away. "You've got plans to make. And I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut, didn't you hear?"
"Dallas didn't mean that."
"Yeah, you men say a lot of things you don't mean."
Bren heaved a sigh and dragged both hands through his hair. "Russell Miller is a nasty piece of work, okay? If I don't get him now, while I can, he could fall off the face of the motherfucking planet. Gone, all right?"
Something about the words felt off, but he was looking at her again, seeing her, and he was so strong and intense and certain that doubt wormed its way into her heart. "Those people will suffer," she protested, and it sounded weak to her own ears. "You should know how much damage you can do to someone without leaving proof."
"I do," he allowed quietly. "I also know what Miller's capable of. That's why we can't miss this chance. We have to get him."
"And this is the only way? Leaving them--" Her voice broke, and she steeled herself. No more tears for him, no more moments of vulnerability. "I probably know some of them. Most of them. The people in Three no one would miss? Those are my people. So don't ask me to be okay with this, because it's not going to happen."
"You don't have to love it." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "You just have to understand."
"No, I don't. I just have to shut up and fall in line." She turned toward the door that spilled from the kitchen into the side alley. "Don't worry, I've got plenty of practice knowing my place."
Bren slammed his hand against the wall, blocking the door. "Don't. Don't fucking compare this to Wilson Trent's shit."
The barely contained violence of it kicked her heart into her throat and prickled warning over her skin. Worst of all, it brought guilt roaring to life. Bren had never hurt her. He cared about her, about the people they were trying to help. And she was so brittle inside, so broken and wary, so ready to find an excuse to shove someone away.
Déjà fucking vu.
No, this couldn't compare to Wilson Trent at his worst. But this was the beginning of the journey, step by tiny step into the darkness, while she made excuses and beat on herself for being so suspicious, so distrustful, so damaged that she couldn't recognize a good thing.
Trent hadn't bothered fucking up her body until he'd bored of playing with her head.
Staring at the rigid muscles in Bren's outstretched arm, Six gathered the tattered shreds of her pride around her. "Am I not allowed to leave?"
He stood there, trembling with tension, and finally stepped back. "Fuck it. Think what you want to think." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen, leaving her alone.
It was better that way. She'd tried, she'd fucking tried, and this was what came of it. Humiliation, pain, feeling so small and stupid. And she couldn't even blame Bren when Noah had provided the first push, and she was the one who couldn't make herself believe.
Maybe she was too broken to deserve being loved.
Chapter Eighteen
Bren never taped his hands when he hit the practice bags. Some of the men did, but he was as used to fighting outside the cage as he was to the brawls inside it. Assholes on the street didn't stop long enough for you to grab some gloves or brass knuckles, so he went after the bags bare-handed.
Today, it wasn't helping.
Those pe
ople will suffer.
The words haunted him, but not nearly as much as the haunted look in Six's eyes. The betrayal. The disbelief.
And this is the only way? Leaving them--
He growled to drown out the echoes and hit the bag harder.
Leaving them--
Bren's fist slipped off a slick spot where a rip in the heavy canvas had been patched with tape, and the force behind the blow pitched him forward. He hit the bag and shoved it away, ignoring the ache in his hands. If he burned off all this nervous energy, he could sleep--exhausted, dreamless--and he wouldn't have to hear her words anymore.
He'd get it done. Free the captives and end this shit with Miller, once and for all, because failure wasn't an option. And afterwards, Six would understand.
"I thought you and Cruz would be planning."
Mad, as sneaky as usual. Bren hit the bag one last time and turned, stopping it with the bulk of his body as it rebounded against his shoulder. "Too much planning for a mission is counterproductive. You know that."
Mad watched him, gaze dark and unflinching. "I know a lot of things. I know you. I just don't know what in hell you think you're doing."
"Letting off steam?"
"Don't play dumb. I thought you gave a shit about that girl."
For the first time, his hands ached--not from hitting the bag, but from the sincere desire to punch Mad's face in. "Careful, Maddox. I'm not in the best fucking mood."
"Nothing you could do to me scares me, Brendan." Mad crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, deliberately casual. "She's right. We should be over there right now, hauling those people out of there. If it was the only way to get to Miller, fine. Another couple days probably won't kill anyone. But it's not, and you know it."
"It's the best way. The surest one."
"Says the sniper who can kill a man from the other side of the sector. Fuck, man. I've seen you take shots that should have been impossible. You could drop that bastard at his dinner table or in the fucking bathtub. We could free those people and have you set up to blow his brains out when he shows up. So why aren't we?"
