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)
“I’m kind of known for that.”
Mikhail’s grin widens.
Monty’s going to have feelings. Oh, well. He can yell later. I’m moving now.
The van smells like warm metal, coffee gone cold, and nerves that have been burning for two straight days.
We’re parked a block from Adrian Crowe’s nightclub. The building matches the description in Jag’s notes with its black glass, concrete, and high-end security. A haven for predators hiding behind refinement and exclusivity.
Los Angeles pulses around us, traffic and bass and oblivious lives sliding past the curb.
Leo and Frankie stayed on the island, safe and furious, pretending they’re not counting seconds. She hugged me before I left, while Leo spat all the reasons he hates my plan.
Add it to the pile.
The arguments started the moment I said the plan out loud. They didn’t stop on the flight from Sitka to Los Angeles. Monty flew the jet himself, all red-faced and yelling fury.
Leo called my plan aggressively dumb. Kody called it batshit. All of them called it a closed-casket suicide run.
And here we are.
Inside the van, Monty sits in the driver’s seat, hands strangling the wheel. Beside him, Kody glares out the windshield, lost to the violence in his head.
In the back, Mikhail hunches over a laptop, calm as a Russian mobster, and feeds live data into my skull through an undetectable earpiece.
Oliver moves around me, tightening the strap on my vest, like he’s adjusting a tie before dinner.
“This will work,” he says loud enough for Monty and Kody to hear.
“Fuck off, Oliver.” Monty smacks the steering wheel. “The fact that you’re going along with this bullshit, back-of-the-napkin plan makes me question your reputation.”
“Firstly, it’s a back-of-the-sketchbook plan.” I uncap a sharpie and find my reflection in the rear window. “And secondly, you’re going along with it, too.”
“Uncheerfully,” he grumbles.
“Sounds like you need to exfoliate. Something extra abrasive for those grumpy layers. Maybe concrete.” I set the marker to my face and start drawing.
The plan is simple in the way bad ideas always are.
I’ll walk through the front door of the nightclub and ask for Adrian Crowe. I’ll make sure he understands that if Jag and Dove don’t come out breathing, the building won’t stay standing. And neither will I.
Because I have one of Oliver’s homemade specials strapped to my chest.
The bomb sits flat against my breastbone under the vest. No wires hanging out or blinking lights.
It’s a seamless design. No fumbling, second-guessing, or chance that someone can take it and use it against me. If it blows, it will be because I chose to hit the switch.
I don’t plan to use it. That’s the point. But every person who sees me has to believe I will. They need to believe I’m unstable enough to take myself out and everyone within reach, including the two people I’m here to collect. I need them to believe I don’t give a fuck about Jag and Dove.
They can’t see my attachment or smell my devotion. They can’t even suspect it. They need to look at me and see a violent, unhinged mental patient, one that’s scarier than them.
That belief will open doors.
In and out.
Easy peasy.
Finished with my face, I cap the sharpie and toss it toward the front.
Monty’s eyes meet mine over his shoulder, and there’s a whole argument sitting there. But it cuts off as he takes in my smile.
My Glasgow smile.
I didn’t carve it into myself the way the myth goes. No blades or blood. I drew it instead, the heavy black ink dragging from the corners of my mouth toward my ears. A grin too wide to belong to anyone sane.
I’ve only worn it once before.
The last time Denver hurt me.
The night I made the devil’s bargain.
That night, I didn’t have language for what I felt. I had fear and rage and a need to look scarier and stronger than I was. The ink was a way to tell Denver I could still choose how my face told the story.
As Monty studies it now, he seems to understand. This isn’t humor or bravado. It’s me choosing sacrifice over self-preservation, crossing a line I can’t uncross, accepting how the night might end for me, and doing it anyway.
Jag put himself between a predator and the woman we love. Dove is paying for blood she never asked for. If this is the price to pull them out, I won’t hesitate.
It matters. It’s the only thing that matters. Maybe it’s the most important thing I’ll ever do.
Monty stares at my face like he’s memorizing it. Kody glances at him, and they exchange a look I recognize immediately.
Understanding. Not approval or permission. But an acknowledgment that the argument is over. This is happening with or without their help.
Thanks to the sharpie ink, my smile will hold until the end. My hands won’t shake. Whatever’s left of me locks into place, gut-deep and focused.