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)
“They knew I would be distracted by what I found at the tattoo shop and moved in on Dove.” I grind my molars. “Organized confusion.”
Theo restarts the recording, and a moment later, Jag bursts into frame with a metal chair in his hands. Shirtless and barefoot, he wears sweatpants that hang lopsided on his hips.
“We put a lock on that break room door.” Carl moves closer. “How did he get out?”
“He would’ve known something was wrong when the power shut off. Probably threw himself through that door.” My breathing quickens. “And we took all his weapons.”
Jag holds the chair like a weapon, his legs braced, head cocked and listening, but the pitch-black gives him nothing.
My stomach buckles with dread.
One of the attackers tears the chair from his grip. Another tries to pin his arm. But Jag fights back, dropping the man with a brutal elbow to the throat. Then he spins and catches another in the face.
It’s chaos. Six against one and still, still, they struggle to take him down.
I bend toward the screen, my hands white-knuckled on the desk.
“Jesus Christ,” Carl mutters. “He’s holding his own.”
“No.” My voice strangles. “He’s losing.”
They swarm him.
Blows land hard, driving the air from his lungs. His knees hit the ground, but he leaps back up, blood streaking his temple, one arm limp, dislocated or broken.
Still, he fights.
As he pivots, his foot hits something. Someone. One of the dead guards. His body jerks in recognition. He can’t see, but he knows. I can tell by the way he drops, fast and desperate, hands feeling for a weapon in the dark.
He finds it, pulling a pistol off the guard’s belt in one smooth motion.
When he raises the gun, it’s not toward his attackers, but to his own temple.
My heart stops.
“I’ll do it!” he bellows into the dark, his voice guttural and soaked in rage. “Swear to God, I’ll fucking do it! You want me alive? Tell that cunt Adrian Crowe he should’ve come himself!”
“Adrian Crowe?” Monty stiffens. “The tech billionaire?”
I’ve heard of him, nothing more. He floats through headlines often enough to be a household name, one associated with politicians, royalty, elite social access, all the celebrated infamy of the untouchable upper crust.
How the hell does he know Jag Rath?
On the screen, the attackers freeze.
Even in night vision, I feel the hesitation. None of them expected that.
Jag doesn’t shake or flinch. He holds the gun like it’s a promise. Like his life is worth more to them than to himself.
I can’t look away.
He’s bleeding out, one arm dangling uselessly, barely able to stand, and still, he’s the one in control.
For some reason, they need him breathing, and he knows it.
Until one of the men says, “We have Dove Rath.”
Fire scorches my lungs and chars my airway.
“I don’t believe you.” Jag wildly casts his gaze around in the dark, his body broken in half a dozen places.
The lights come on.
He flinches, blinking hard, swaying, and disoriented. Blood drips from his mouth as he squints at them.
One of the attackers steps forward, holding a phone. Jag looks at the screen, and his face crumples.
I can’t see what it shows, but I can guess.
He falls to his knees, drops the gun, and his agonized roar rips through the audio feed, savage and raw.
I feel his pain to the depths of my soul.
“Don’t you hurt her!” He doubles over at the waist and releases an agonizing, bone-chilling sound. “Don’t fucking touch her!”
Heat seethes through my throat and into my eyes. I blink rapidly, forcing it down. But the pressure bites back, burning, swelling, overwhelming. My fists clench so hard my knuckles crack as I try to keep the tears from spilling over.
Monty’s breath grows shallow beside me, his body frozen like mine, as we watch a man we all feared become something else entirely.
“You want her alive?” The man pockets the phone. “Then come quietly.”
Jag lowers his head, his jaw flexing like he’s swallowing a sob. His whole posture slumps. Not in surrender. In devastation.
One of the attackers comes out of the break room with Jag’s duffel bag. Another one enters the shop, wiping a bloody knife on his pants.
“Side alley’s clear.” The newcomer sheathes the blade. “Took down the shop employee. Dumped the body. We’re done here. Move out.”
Declan’s killer.
Jag stays on his knees, silent and crushed.
His last act wasn’t escape.
It was sacrifice.
I don’t have faith. I have family, and my family doesn’t solve problems politely.
Jag and Dove aren’t coming back through warrants, missing-persons flyers, badges, or agencies. They’ll be found the Strakh way, by breaking laws, spilling blood, and destroying everyone and everything in our path.
Perks of being born into the Russian mob.
The instant we watch Jag sacrifice himself on the camera feed, Monty makes the call.
The Ghost lives alone in the cabin we gave him in Hoss, the one soaked in ruined childhoods. Yeah. That one. We would burn it to the ground before ever choosing to live there again.