Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
The time passed slowly while tension coiled around my shoulders. Every car that arrived ratcheted the pressure tighter, making my jaw tighten.
When Darren finally stepped out of his black Town Car at eleven sharp, surrounded by other smug bastards with snakeskin shoes and crooked smiles, I stilled. My blood went cold.
“That’s him,” I said flatly. “That’s the sick fuck.”
“Confirmed,” Deviant said in my ear. “Still no sign of Ellen. But the elevator? Guests go down. Most don’t come back up.”
Silence stretched for a beat, then Maverick said, “Send in Storm.”
I jerked my head toward him. “No. I go.”
Maverick didn’t look away from the monitors. “Not a chance. You’ll rip him apart before we know where Ellen is. You want it done clean? Let him ghost it.”
Storm clapped a hand to my shoulder. “You’re better on breach anyway.”
I didn’t like it. But they were right.
Ghost it—yeah. That was what Storm did. He melted into the shadows, silent as sin. And as much as I hated not being the first one through the door, I knew Maverick and Storm were right.
Fifteen minutes later, he came through the comms. “Got her. Second-floor bedroom. Out cold. Lingerie. Lights and a camera. That son of a bitch was photographing her.”
“Get her out,” I growled. “Now.”
Ten minutes later, Storm reappeared from the far side of the house, cutting through shadows while cradling a limp, unconscious Ellen in his arms. She looked fragile and pale, her limbs slack and her breath shallow. Blade opened the van doors and took her gently, checking vitals.
“She’s sedated but stable,” he confirmed. “We should get her to the hospital as soon as we’re home, but she’s not in immediate danger.”
Storm’s face was carved from stone. “This isn’t just a voyeur ring. I heard one guy talking. Darren gave him a pickup receipt. Said his purchase would be ready tomorrow.”
“Photos don’t need pickup dates,” Maverick muttered.
“No, they don’t,” I growled.
“Whatever’s in the basement,” Racer added. “It’s got to be there. And it’s something much damn worse.”
No one disagreed.
Maverick’s jaw clenched. “Let’s get this shit show on the road.”
“Time to go loud?” Wrecker asked.
“No,” I disagreed. “Time to go fucking deadly.”
We breached the mansion through the front, and I was first through the door—silent, lethal, purposeful. The scent of old money hit me the second I crossed the threshold.
The entryway glittered with opulence—crystal chandeliers and marble floors. A grand staircase rose through the center. Music played somewhere—jazzy and hollow, trying too hard to feel expensive. It was paired with the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses. A party, but not the kind that deserved to end with dessert.
“Can’t see him on camera this second,” Deviant said over the comms. “But he was in the kitchen five minutes ago and hasn’t popped up on any other camera since.”
We moved like a unit. Maverick swept left. Wrecker peeled right. Storm and I made a beeline for the kitchen.
I stalked down the hall with a predator’s calm, the weight of my knife and Glock as natural as the leather cut on my back. Suddenly, a man stepped out of a room and turned our way.
There he was. Darren. The vile excuse for a human.
Before he realized what was happening, Storm quickly stalked over and pressed his gun firmly to the bastard’s temple. I followed more slowly, my boots silent on the tile, and my rage coiled tight.
“Move,” I snarled at the little shit.
Storm shoved his gun harder into Darren’s head and herded him toward the kitchen.
Darren’s eyes were wide, and my nostrils flared at the smell of the anxiety bleeding off him.
The kitchen was all sleek steel and gleaming granite. Cold. Sterile.
Thanks to the blueprints of the mansion Deviant had acquired, we went straight to a hidden set of doors behind a stainless steel cabinet. They led to a small corridor, and the elevator was recessed in marble at the end of it.
A sleek keypad blinked beside it, next to a biotech scanner.
“Retinal scanner,” I told Storm as I examined the device.
Darren froze and stammered, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Storm leaned in, breath hot on the back of his neck. “Scan your damn eye. Or I’ll take it out of your skull.”
Darren whimpered and pressed his face to the scanner. The panel beeped, turning green. Then he just stood there as if he was waiting for instruction.
“Now the code,” I said, low and deadly.
“No,” Darren spat. “I’m not—”
“Eight. Three. Seven. Four. Two,” a calm female voice interrupted.
All heads snapped toward the entrance to the hall.
A woman stood in the archway in a red dress cut down to her navel. Flawless makeup. Glittering jewels. Stilettos. But her face was like marble. Her eyes…they were dead. Except when she looked at Darren. Then loathing practically lit her up from the inside.
“He gave it to me once. Thought it made him important,” she said coolly. Then she looked at Storm. “Don’t let him die quickly and make it damn painful.”