The backroom of the bar where the gang usually meets is empty. I give another call to Seb, but it goes unanswered.

The bartender shoots me a dirty look when I come back out. “Nobody’s here.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Any idea where they all are?”

“All of you should stay the hell away from here. The police came around sniffing the other day, asking about your gang. I don’t need no cops in my goddamn business—”

I slam my fist on the bar, rattling the glasses he’s been drying. “Where. Are. They?”

“Had a big job coming up, so Angel said.” His hands flutter anxiously, gaze skittering to the door behind me, as if expecting someone to come in and save him from me. “Some huge deal. Everyone was stressed for days.”

Ah fuck. The big job Angel was talking about is tonight?

Reaching over the bar, I grab the front of his shirt. “Where? Think.”

“What? Oh no, I don’t know. They didn’t say.”

“I said, think.” I shake him. My gun is a warm weight in the small of my back, and I fight the urge to pull it out. “You probably eavesdropped on the whole thing, didn’t you, you filthy little shit? Where are they?”

“A warehouse downtown.” His jowls jiggle when I shake him again. “Jesus, okay. I’ll give you the address, just let go.”

I release him, and he stumbles backward, straightening his shirt. “I’m all ears.”

“You all wanna get killed, don’t you?” He sighs. “Fine by me. At least we’ll get some fucking quiet in here.”

* * *

When I climb out of the cab, I’m disoriented for a few long minutes in the dark. The place looks abandoned, no cars or trucks parked in the lot, just some junk piled up in the corners. The warehouses loom in a long row, like dark, sleeping dogs.

Okay, I’m here, so what do I do? Is the job going down now, is it over, is it still to come?

And who’s their watchman now that I’m not around? Jorge probably. Or maybe Elena. Or Shem, if he’s still around.

I text Seb.

‘Seb, leave before it’s too late. Get out of there.’ I hesitate, then type, ‘I can’t lose you, too.’

Not after Mom passing. He’s an ass, but he’s my brother.

Of course I get no reply. I pace in the yard, the phone clutched in my hand. It’s too cold to just sit and wait, an icy wind howling down the yard and whistling between the warehouses.

My phone pings. A message from Seb.

It just says, ‘Trap. Don’t come.’

What the fuck? I stare at the words until my brain can process them. Shit.

‘Where are you?’ I type, my fingers uncoordinated, so that I have to fucking delete and rewrite everything twice.

But nothing more comes back from Seb. I stand in the cold wind, gazing at the fucking warehouses, my heart hammering.

Of course I’m not staying away. I have to find him, get him out.

Move it, Jarett.

So I start searching, try the warehouses doors one by one, circling them and looking for ways in. One is locked up. One opens, but only rats scuttle around. Another is locked, but I look through a broken window and see only darkness inside.

I’m making progress, though. I can do this. I’ll find him.

And then several bangs make me jump. Gunshots? The rat-tat-tat that follows sounds more like machine guns.

No fucking way. It has to be something else, I tell myself, as I run from warehouse to warehouse, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I’ll find him. I can still get him out.

More machine gun fire. Windows smash. Someone screams, not far from where I’m standing.

Jesus fucking Christ.

A figure runs in the dark, almost crashing into me. Pumped with adrenaline, I charge him and tackle him to the ground, sit on top of him.

“Get off me, fuck, get off me,” he babbles, “God fuck…”

It’s Jorge. “Where are the others? Where’s Seb?”

“Always with Seb, Jesus, let me up, I have to go…”

“Go where? Where are the others?”

“It was a goddamn trap. They had a vendetta with Mav, wanted us out of their way. Gunned us down—”

“Where?” My breath is frozen in my chest. “Where’s Seb? Jorge, where’s Seb?”

“You go in there, you die.”

I don’t wanna be here. I wanna be with Gigi, in her arms, in her bed.

But I can’t just leave my brother behind.

I grab Jorge’s hair, lift his head. “Just tell me where!”

He points with a shaky finger. I let go of his hair, and his head flops down to the concrete. Getting up, my knee so stiff it’s a miracle it holds me, I limp over to the warehouse he indicated, drawing my Glock from the back of my jeans as I go, and point it down as I push the back door open and enter.

The smell assaults me the moment I step foot inside. Something real fucking bad. Blood, and urine, and shit.

Christ. Where the hell are they? What do I hope to do? Would I kill for Seb?

Could I do it?

Cold sweat runs down my back, sticking my T-shirt to my skin under my jacket. My knee twinges. My shoulders ache. The gun is heavy in my hand.

I inch inside two more steps, and then I hear the wailing of sirens.

Holy fucking shit, the police.

The cars skid into the yard outside before I even have the chance to step back out. Cops pour inside, guns trained on me.

“Put the gun down. On your knees! Hands in the air!”

Shit. I comply, placing the Glock carefully down, holding my hands up. “I have to find my brother,” I tell him. “There was a shoot-out.”

A cop come to stand over me, a dark shadow. “We will check that out. You stay here.”

“No fucking way. I’m going to find Seb—”

The cop aims his gun down, right at my head. “Don’t fucking move. Hands behind your head.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

I lace my hands behind my head as more cops pour inside.

Time slows down, stretching like molasses, crisscrossing the night. I’m caught like a fly in a web, unable to move, unable to think. I barely feel the cold, or the hard concrete under my knees.

Seb will be fine. Yeah, he’ll be fine. They’ll escort him here, we’ll talk, and I’ll convince him to walk away. Leave the gang. Turn over a new leaf.

Paramedics pushing gurneys go past us, and I stare at them. Of course. Shooting. Bullets. Blood. The wounded have to be taken to the hospital.

“Don’t move,” the cop says. “What’s your name?”

“Jarett.” My teeth are chattering. I clench my jaw. “Jarett Fenris.”

“And your brother’s name?”

“Sebastian Lowe.”

He doesn’t comment on the different family name. “Stay put.”

Seems like an eternity and a half has passed before there’s movement behind me. I twist my head to see, and my vision blurs.

The paramedics are returning, pushing the gurneys. Loads of gurneys, the bodies on them bloody and still.

I start to get up, but the cop beside me barks at me to stay down, his gun still trained on my head. My breathing rattles in my chest, in my ears, like I’m the one dying.

More gurneys pass by.

Another cop approaches, grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. “Come on,” he says, grabbing my wrists, clapping cuffs on them, and pulling me toward a car.

I jerk away from him. “No. Where’s Seb?”

“Who?”

“Sebastian Lowe. Where—?”

And then I see him. On a gurney. His eyes are open and unblinking.

My knee gives way, and I drop back down to the concrete as they roll him by.

“No,” I whisper. “No. Dammit, no.”

Someone shouts something over my head. I can’t make out the words. It’s all white noise. I shiver. Suddenly I’m so damn cold I can’t feel my legs, my body.

“Hey, come along now. On your feet.”

He drags me up, hauls me along. It’s hard to breathe, like trying to breathe underwater. I’m sinking deeper.

A trap. Seb tried to warn me. Is that why he didn’t return my calls earlier? Did he try to save me?

“Get him to the station,” the cop says to someone I don’t bother looking up to see, and I’m shoved into the back of a police car.

I don’t fucking care. Where we’re going. What they’ll do with me. What happens next.

Fuck this shit. Fuck everything. My heart hurts like a splinter in my chest.

Am I destined to lose everyone?