by Kit Rocha
Mad released him with a sigh. "Good. I was starting to think I'd have to lead you there by the damn hand."
"Close." Bren reached for his shirt and dragged it over his head. "You up for it?"
"Of course." Amusement sparked in Mad's eyes. "If you hadn't come around, I might have taken care of it myself."
Before he could answer, Rachel rushed through the open doorway leading toward the living quarters. "You're here," she said breathlessly. "Shit, you've got a problem."
Bren tensed. "What happened?"
"Six didn't show up for her shift, so I went looking for her." Rachel pressed a hand to her side and panted. "She's gone."
Mad sucked in a breath and let it out on a groan. "Oh, fucking hell."
Gone. The word tripped through Bren's mind, and every time he thought he had a handle on it, it threw him for another disbelieving loop. Gone meant danger, risk. Gone meant she'd set out for Three, determined to fix his fuckup.
Gone. A rumble drowned out the word, and it took Bren a moment to realize it had come from him, from someplace so deep in his chest it was a wonder Six had managed to touch it in the first place.
Fuck Miller. Fuck everything.
All he gave a damn about was Six.
Chapter Nineteen
Even crouched next to Scarlet on a litter-strewn roof, Six couldn't stop rubbing her thumb over the inside of her opposite wrist. It was like scratching an itch, touching that bare skin and aching at what she was about to give up.
No way would O'Kane give her cuffs now, no matter what Lex said. He may not have meant to shut her down in the bar, but this was something no leader would tolerate. She'd gone rogue, and Dallas wouldn't appreciate that it was Bren's words that had driven her here.
"I don't know, maybe it's unfair to be mad at him. If he'd tried to stop Trent, he would've ended up dead."
"If that were true, not a damn thing would ever change. It's something he tells himself to sleep at night, sweetness."
She wasn't putting the gang first, but at least she'd be able to sleep tonight.
"That's the place," Scarlet whispered. "You sure you want to do this?"
"No," she admitted just as softly, watching the warehouse. There was only one guard visible now, his shaved, tattooed head making him easy to place. Zip had been one of Trent's low-rent thugs, one of a dozen who'd scattered when the O'Kanes started making their presence felt. "But I'm sure I have to do it."
"You really don't." Scarlet laid a hand on her arm. "Let us--me and Elvis and Riff."
Six shook her head. "If it's worth doing, I need to stand behind it. I'm done leaving you to fight this shit on your own."
Scarlet nodded and edged toward the rickety iron ladder on the opposite edge of the roof. Some of the bolts securing it to the brick façade had come loose, and Six braced herself for the precarious climb down.
Scarlet's boots hit the cracked concrete with a thump, and she pulled a pistol from her jacket. "Around the back," she whispered. "Then we wait."
As much as she preferred her fists, Six eased her own gun free and checked it, telling herself not to think about Bren's scarred hands as they slid over the pieces of his rifle, fitting them together with casual efficiency.
He'd never forgive her for this, either.
She'd figured her heart would be numb by now, but it still hurt so much she had to struggle to breathe as she followed Scarlet around the side of the building. From the crumbled wall at the back, they could hear every noise the guards made, from the murmur of conversation to the crunch of boots on gravel and broken glass.
Scarlet's brow furrowed, and she tilted her head. After a moment, she shrank closer to the wall and laid one finger over her mouth.
Someone had walked up to the blown-out window opening above them.
"I ain't doing it," the man rumbled. "You feel free, but don't expect some fucking bonus for it. Even if you managed to knock one of 'em up--"
Rough laughter spilled out, sadistic and vaguely familiar. "Who needs a bonus? A chance at some Eden pussy is all the reward I need."
Six frowned and mouthed Eden? to Scarlet, but the woman raised both eyebrows and shook her head.
"You forget who's lording it over Three now? Dallas O'Kane'll make you wish you'd kept your pants on."
A third man chimed in. "Yeah, if his bitch doesn't get to you first."
"I ain't afraid of a fucking woman," the familiar voice blustered, but the lie under the words pinged a memory, and a face to go with it--another of Trent's scummy thugs, Warner, a jackass who'd tried to climb on top of her one night by holding a knife to her throat.
He'd been real tough until she bit off part of his ear and shoved the knife into his leg. He'd cried as the other guys hauled her off him, and he hadn't been stupid enough to get within arm's reach of her again.
Killing him might restore her good mood.
"You do what you want," the third voice said. "I ain't taking any damn chances. I heard O'Kane's woman cut off a man's balls and made him eat them."
God, she was going to miss Lex.
A door clicked, rebounded against the wall. "Too much blood on the carpet," Elvis declared, his self-assurance strong enough to waft through the walls. "I'd watch my ass if I ever ran into her carrying a bunch of plastic drop cloths, though."
Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, and Six tightened her grip on her weapon. She could be through the window in a few seconds, if needed, but if Elvis pulled off the first part of their plan, she wouldn't need to. Bren's mentor might be some scary fucking enigma, but she knew the scum of Three. They were lazy, they were dumb...
And they were greedy.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Warner demanded, and Six had to resist the urge to peek over the sill.
"Heard you had something big over here. Wanted to see it for myself."
"What, and report it back to O'Kane? Everyone knows whose boots you're licking now."
Elvis snorted. "You can't win a game you refuse to play, Warner." A pause. "This one's cute. How much?"
A rattle of chains accompanied a terrified whimper, and Six steeled herself against memories and a renewed surge of horror. At least it strengthened her resolve. The captives inside that building were trapped, helpless, listening to cowards like Warner bicker over whether or not to rape them.
Two days was too fucking long to wait. Hell, an hour was too long. And if Elvis didn't hurry along with this plan...
Just offer them the fucking money so we can get on with killing them.
"This lot's not for sale," one of the unnamed men replied. "But if you want to take that one for a ride, be my guest. You could settle our debate. Would O'Kane cut your dick off for it?"
"Probably," Elvis said, and Six could easily picture his affable shrug. "If they're not for sale, what're they for?"
"Not for sale to you," Warner sneered. "This isn't sector trash. These're fresh from Eden, and the communes'll pay top--"
A crack cut him off, the unmistakable sound of an open palm against flesh. "Boss won't like you spilling your guts to an O'Kane lackey," a voice drawled, and Six absently identified Zip. Most of her mind was churning over the implication of Warner's words.
These weren't her people.
They were Bren's.
"Lackey," Elvis repeated. "I take offense to that, Zip. Especially when I come bearing a business proposition--and more cash than you assholes have ever seen in your miserable lives."
Six's whirling thoughts kept swinging around to the same possibility--if these people were coming out of Eden, Miller's part wasn't to drop off money and collect his cargo. He was the one doing the selling.
He could be in there right now, guarding his investment.
Scarlet had obviously come to the same conclusion. Her eyes went wide, and she mouthed a silent curse, but there was nothing they could do. Elvis was already in play, and there was no way to signal him to get the fuck out. They could abandon him, and even he might agree they owed him nothing mor
e--
But he'd agreed to this. He'd risked O'Kane's ire and his own life to do the right thing, and maybe she wasn't the only one atoning for past sins.
Logic said the bastards from Three wouldn't have been bickering over raping their captives with their boss in the room, but Six had been in this warehouse before. There was an entire second floor, not to mention a back corner walled off from the rest, some sort of office with cheap metal furniture too ugly and rusted to steal. Too many places Miller could have settled.
And that wasn't even considering what kinds of city tech he might have brought with him. For all she knew, he had cameras on this damn alley, was watching them and laughing.
"Get the fuck out of here, Elvis, before I have to--"
"Now."
Not a subtle signal, but they hadn't expected to need one. Riff would be plowing through the door now, gun at the ready, expecting that Elvis had accounted for everyone. It was all happening too fast, seconds smashing into one another as the first gunshot sounded. Six only had time to exchange a brief glance with Scarlet, no words, but it didn't matter because she wouldn't have come this far if she wasn't willing to go all the way.
Scarlet planted a boot on the edge of the window and vaulted through, Six hard on her heels and laughing at the irony as fear sent her adrenaline through the roof. Bren's training had ensured she was more dangerous than ever. She should have been less scared, not more, but that was Bren's fault, too.
He'd made her want to live. It would suck to die now.
She made it through the window in time to see Riff drop one of the guards. Scarlet strode right into the chaos, ignoring the clatter of bullets and chains, firing high to avoid hitting the men and women cowering on the floor along the walls.
Warner caught sight of Six, and his eyes bulged. She lifted her pistol, but not fast enough. The coward lunged for the nearest woman, dragging her up by the throat to use as a human shield, and Six exhaled and snatched for the calm Bren had been slowly teaching her.
Control herself, control the situation.
Warner lifted his gun--pointed at her, not the woman--and that was his mistake. His grip on his hostage loosened, and the girl thrashed, kicking at his knee. He cursed and dropped her, and Six hit him with three shots to the chest.
"Look out!" Elvis slammed into her, knocking her sideways with a low grunt. They skidded across the floor, the rough concrete scraping the skin from her arm and ripping her shirt.
Ears still ringing, she tried to shove Elvis off her and swore when her fingers slipped on blood. He was bleeding from the bullet that had almost hit her, bleeding all over her as one of the guards lined up another shot. Trapped, she could only lift her arm and do her best to take aim.
Her first two bullets went wide, digging into the ceiling. The third struck the guard's shoulder just as one of Riff's caved in the side of the man's face.
A heartbeat later, an even louder shot rang out, crashing through one of the few remaining sections of low-hanging ceiling tile. A man stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand tangled in a female captive's hair. "What the fuck is going on here?"
Six pushed at Elvis's shoulder again, and he rolled off her with a hiss of pain. His blood was all over her, sticky on her skin and her torn shirt, but she ignored it just like she ignored his moan.
Instead, she focused on the man who had to be Miller.
She knew better than to think evil always came in an ugly package, but Miller wasn't handsome or hideous. He was...bland. A generic man whose face you'd forget the instant he was gone, his coloring not dark or pale, his hair not long or short, his clothing nice but not fancy.
But his eyes. Looking into them, Six knew he'd done things she couldn't imagine and hadn't merely slept fine afterward. He'd enjoyed every moment.
"A rescue mission?" His tone was just shy of polite, and he dragged the woman up to stand beside him. "None of you are from the city."
Six shifted to her knees. Slowly. "Guess we're equal opportunity heroes."
"Three of you. Four, if you count the one bleeding out on the floor." Miller stared her down, his gaze riveted to hers even as he thrust the barrel of his pistol into his hostage's mouth. "Not very heroic."
She could see the next few minutes playing out as if she'd already lived them. His finger squeezing the trigger, the horror as he blew off the back of the woman's head, the sick knowledge that her death would be on Six's hands.
How many bullets did she have left? Enough to make Miller's death a sure thing? Maybe, if she was willing to let that one woman die. Six met her eyes without meaning to, and the terror there made the room swim.
God, she was no fucking hero.
A clink and a hiss startled her, and a small, sleek grenade rolled out into the middle of the floor. Lush white smoke began to billow up from it, and Scarlet shouted something Six couldn't hear through the roaring in her ears.
Don't breathe, don't breathe-- It was the only thing she could think, with Cruz's casual mention of knock-out gas so fresh in her memory. She moved on instinct, rolling to one side so she wouldn't be in the last place Miller had seen her. Boots scuffled at the door, and Six squinted, trying to make out some familiar feature in the bodies flashing through the smoke.
A shot. A scream. Her lungs burned, and she had no choice but to gasp in a breath. But it smelled like smoke, not gas, and she had one second to indulge her sheer relief before a blurry figure loomed in front of her.
She lifted her gun and found herself pointing it straight at Bren's face.
He knocked it away and lifted her off the floor, holding her up when her knees would have buckled. "Are you hurt?"
Getting enough breath to answer involved inhaling smoke, but Bren didn't seem to notice. His hands were everywhere, sliding over her body like he'd forgotten he didn't own it, but the panic in his eyes as he wiped away Elvis's blood silenced her protests.
"It's not yours." He cupped the back of her neck, pressed his forehead to hers. "It's someone else's blood."
The fact that Elvis didn't speak up to point out it was his was enough to force her away from Bren. She turned, almost grateful for the excuse to pull free when every instinct in her traitorous body was screaming at her to wrap herself around him.
"I need a medkit," she rasped, sinking to her knees beside Elvis's unmoving body. His pulse fluttered under her fingers, weak but still there. She jerked her knife free and cut through his shirt. "Scarlet and Riff--"
Cruz appeared out of the smoke, towering over her. "They're fine. No casualties among the captives. But Miller's gone."
Every muscle in Six's body tensed as she braced herself to become invisible, but Bren ignored the words and knelt beside her. "We'll patch the wound and send for Doc. He'll make it."
Shock held her immobile as Bren took over assessing Elvis's wound. All of his focus was on the task at hand, all that intensity pulsing in the air between them.
Even Cruz watched him with a frown of confusion. "You don't want to mount a pursuit?" he asked. "We could still catch him in the tunnels."
"I don't give a fuck," Bren barked. "Clear the smoke and get some gel--lots of it."
Cruz vanished, and even though Bren and Six were crouched in a room surrounded by hysterical captives and dead bodies, the smoke shut out everything but the two of them.
She didn't know how to reach out, didn't know if she wanted to. But she knew his heart was as wounded as hers, and one thing might fix it. "They're safe now," she said, her irritated throat turning the words into a rasping whisper. "You should go after him. I know how much it means to you."
Bren tore a strip off Elvis's already ripped shirt and pressed it to the man's wound before meeting her eyes. "You're more important."
Then he looked away.
He couldn't have shoved her harder off balance if he'd said I love you--though that practically seethed under the words, the unspoken assumption, the only logical conclusion.
If she could believe him.
Not tha
t it mattered either way, since she was about to vanish from his world in all the ways that counted. She could build a decent life in Three, she honestly believed that now. She'd survive, and maybe she'd do some good.
It would never be the same as being an O'Kane.
Six helped Bren bandage Elvis and pretended it was the smoke making her eyes sting and water.
Dallas
Dallas O'Kane was a king with a pissed-off queen and a mutiny problem, and he wasn't stupid enough to think the two were unrelated.
He paced past her again, trying to walk off the edge of tension since he hadn't been able to sweat it off, and Lex was still way too upset to offer to relieve it any other way. "I can't give her ink now. When you go rogue, I look tougher for having a tough queen. Six running off on her own ain't so neat and tidy."
"That's true." Lex poured two drinks and handed him one, which was definitely progress. "Though, if you think about it, who really knows what Six did?"
Reason. That was the blessing and curse of venting to Lex. "Me and you. Bren. Cruz. Mad. The people from Three."
"No one with anything to gain by talking about it."
"And if she gets her ink and decides she doesn't like my next order?"
"Ah." Lex sat on the couch and crossed her long legs. "Now, that's another question entirely."
Dallas drained the whiskey in one gulp and slammed the glass down on the sidebar. "Will she?"
"Don't know. I guess that depends on a lot of things--including you."
"You're gonna make me say it, huh?" This part wasn't a blessing. Sometimes they both knew the ugly truth, and all he wanted Lex to do was drag it into the open so he could pretend it was a surprise. It was hard enough to be wrong. It was a thousand fucking times worse to have to admit he'd known it--and had taken the easy way out.
Lex set her drink down with a thump and shifted onto her knees, tucking her legs underneath her. "You've never been that asshole, Dallas. The guy who just wants his people to follow orders, no matter what their consciences dictate. Why start now? Because she doesn't have her ink yet? Or because you feel guilty?"