Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Where is she? Is she scared? Hurting? Fighting like hell to get back to me?
I shake out my hands, hard. Again. Again. My shoulders burn from holding myself back. My breath comes too fast. Smoke swamps my lungs as I light another cigarette and let it burn down too close, too consumed by a dark place where all I see is death.
I’m back on that cliff. The place where I stop being strategic and start being terminal.
Haven’t I learned anything?
Rage like this won’t find Dove. It just makes more bodies.
I crush the cigarette under my heel and stand there until the red haze thins, the city comes back into focus, and my hands stop shaking.
My legs give out, and I sink to the ground, my back against an alley wall.
I’m not alone. Haven’t been all night. Leo peels away from the shadows and lowers beside me, snaking an arm around my shoulders.
He doesn’t speak, knowing I’m on the edge.
My jaw grinds. My chest hammers. The violence hasn’t left. It waits behind my breastbone, pacing and snarling.
I force myself to sit there, picking at a rip in my fishnets, widening it without thinking.
My kilt is all twisted from the run, and when I rub my face, my hands come away black. Makeup streaks my fingers, and I stare at the mess, breathing slowly. Controlled. In. Out. Again.
Leo stays silent and solid at my side, letting me pull myself back together piece by piece. The fury still rattles my ribs, but it quiets enough for me to stand.
Leo rises with me. As I start to turn away, he catches my arm.
“Hey.” He grips my face in both hands. “You’re not alone.”
“I know. I lucked out with the best least-favorite brother from another uncle.”
“Don’t get sappy on me.” He rests his forehead against mine. “It’ll ruin the moment.”
“If I get any sap on you, that’s on you for standing too close.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls me closer and tucks his nose into my hair, breathing me in and holding me steady.
He used to hold me like this in Hoss when the trembling wouldn’t stop. When Denver’s evil broke me. When sleep came in scraps and fear did most of the talking. Leo couldn’t fix anything back then, but he stayed. He let me borrow his strength until I could find my own again.
Same grip now. Same patience. He holds me until he feels the shift, until my weight settles back into my own legs, and I’m no longer leaning.
“Let’s go find your girl.” He releases me, trusting me to stay upright.
I turn back toward the street, back toward the hunt, back to the tattoo parlor with Leo on my heels.
The crime scene lights illuminate the entire block. Tape flutters. People murmur. Monty’s presence sits heavy over everything, his power and reach unfurling in real time.
He’s built for this kind of war. So am I, when I stop letting my heart drive.
I step inside, and everything in me shifts from feral to cold.
Monty stands near the back wall, issuing quiet directives. Leo sticks to my side, eyes tracking every corner. Kody’s absence tells me he took Frankie back to the island. Good.
Carl relays updates into a headset. Jasper leans against a workbench, sleeves rolled, watching for threats. More Strakh guards swarm the property, some I don’t recognize. New faces, clean lines, disciplined postures… Pros. Monty’s pulling from deeper benches.
Wilson, the private investigator, is here, too, flanked by his own people. They claimed a table with laptops spread out on it.
The uniforms, radios, and clipped voices of Sitka PD crowd the perimeter, trying to look useful while staying out of Monty’s way.
The bodies are gone. Photos have been taken, evidence logged. The forensics team finished their sweep and cleared out.
I cut straight to Monty.
When he clocks me, he pauses mid-sentence, his eyes sweeping over my busted knuckles, rigid posture, and smeared makeup. There’s concern in the way he examines me. Real concern. He just doesn’t let it show.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Focused.” I set my jaw. “Catch me up on everything.”
He nods and pivots us out of the traffic flow, shielding the conversation with his body.
“We found this.” He reaches into a satchel and hands me the journal. “It was under the mattress on the cot.”
“Under it? Like it was hidden there?”
“Yes.”
I flip through the book, hunting for any sign Jag touched it. Dog-eared pages, notes in the margins, anything. But there’s nothing. No fingerprints. No tells. It looks exactly the way I left it.
“If Jag didn’t give a shit…” I pass it back. “Wouldn’t he have left it out in the open?”
“Don’t read intent where there’s absence.” He returns the book to his satchel. “Wilson’s pulling cross-referenced feeds.”
Beside us, the private investigator turns a laptop toward me, displaying harbor feeds, CCTV traffic videos, and private cams.