by Kit Rocha
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 hap
pen."
"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 people 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?"
Because it wasn't enough, not for someone like Miller. He should have to confront death, stare it in the face and know it was coming for him. "Too many variables."
"Liar."
Bren's temples throbbed, and his hands clenched into fists. He relaxed them and shook his head. "You don't know Miller."
"I know men like him don't get less dangerous when you're face-to-face and they know you're there." Mad held his gaze. "It's okay to say it, Bren. It's okay to just fucking admit it. You want his blood on your hands."
"If you knew what he'd done--what he made the men and women under his command do--you'd want it too."
"That depends on the cost." Mad pushed away from the wall. "Anyone could see Six was worried about the people in her sector, and you and Dallas shredded her."
Guilt didn't sting--it burned through Bren, closing his throat. "Dallas was harsh, and Lex'll give him hell for it."
"Dallas made the wrong fucking call because you're lying to yourself. He really thinks the only way to get Miller is to wait." Mad stopped a few feet away, burning with unfamiliar intensity. "Have you ever been there, Donnelly? Have you ever been the one in chains? They're worse than helpless, less than human, and if you corner Miller because you're so hungry for blood you can't think straight, they're as good as dead."
"I want to kill him slow." Admitting it felt like admitting a lie, even though that wasn't what he'd done--was it? "I can do both, Mad. I'm good at this."
"It's revenge, man. I feel it, I know it. But you have to own it and know it's eating you up inside, or you'll make stupid decisions and maybe get more than yourself killed."
Revenge. It called to him. He'd waited for it, waited for years--all for Dallas, because risking the security of the O'Kanes wasn't worth nailing Miller to the wall. All the while, he'd comforted himself with the knowledge that, one day, he'd have his chance.
This was it. His moment.
"I can't," he muttered. "I've spent half a fucking decade, Mad. I've followed that bastard before, trailed him right through the sector streets--did you know that? Close enough to kill, but I held back, because the gang didn't need that trouble." The bag swayed behind him, bumped into his side, and Bren slammed one fist back into it and stepped forward. "The second he knows his deal went bad, he'll vanish."
"Why the fuck would he do that?"
Bren stumbled over the question. "If he gets word that I'm coming for him, I mean."
"And who's gonna tell him that?" Mad pressed. "Besides, before you said he'd set up a new operation, not disappear. Which is it?"
Both. Neither. Trapped by the scattered rationalizations, Bren scrubbed his hands over his face. "I need this, Mad. Me, all right? Is that what you want me to say?"
"Yes." Mad squeezed his shoulder. "Christ, man, do you think anyone here would judge you for that? Did you think Six would?"
"Judge me? No." He spun away. "But you sure the fuck expect me to set it aside."
Mad moved without warning, without sound, slamming into him so hard he put Bren face-first up into the wall. He twisted his arm behind him, holding him still with a lock far meaner than the one Bren had been teaching Six.
"How about you check that fucking attitude and consider the facts?" Mad ground out. "Everyone here wants Miller dead, for what he did to you and what he's doing now. Between all the brains in that room, we could have come up with a damn good plan to rescue those people and give you a chance to bathe in that motherfucker's blood. Your bloodthirsty little girlfriend would have probably been first in line to help. But you didn't give us a chance, and now your leader's making stupid, dangerous decisions because you lied to him."
Red. Rage throbbed through Bren, hazing his vision. He twisted, breaking the hold to catch Mad in an identical o
ne, reversing their positions. "You don't know. You don't know shit."
Mad didn't struggle or fight back, but his words landed like blows. "I know you feel something for that woman that I've never fucking seen in you before. And I know you're going to lose her if you don't snap the hell out of it."
The words shredded Bren's justifications, all his safe reasons why this had to work. His plan was solid--take out Miller and free the captives--and the aftermath was equally simple. Once he'd managed to get it done, Six would understand. She'd forgive him, because what would be the point of staying angry after everything had turned out all right?
But Mad's words were so certain, so sure. What if he was right, and this was something she couldn't move past?
What if she didn't forgive him?
Reeling, he released his hold on Mad. "You believe that."
Mad turned, his expression serious. "Did you tell her any of this? That it was Miller doing the kidnapping, and how fucking much you needed this revenge?"
Bren couldn't even remember. It hadn't seemed as important as making sure he could deliver on all his promises, as an ironclad end result. "You've been there--in the chains. Would you forgive me for it?"
The other man paused. Groaned. "Jesus fucking Christ, Donnelly. Tell me she wasn't kidnapped by traffickers."
"I never said I wasn't an idiot," Bren growled. This was what he did--he tore down, ripped apart. Destroyed.
Only Six had ever expected anything different from him, and now he'd fucked that up, too.
Mad seized both of his shoulders. "All right, listen to me. That girl came in here fucked up and scared, and I get it. She triggered something in you, and you want to protect her. Am I right so far?"
Six was a lot of things, but not helpless, and the urge to protect her had melted into something else a long time ago. She didn't need a hero.
She needed someone to love her.
"I have to go," he blurted in a rush. "Tonight. Those people matter to her, and she matters to me."