I’ve got everything.

Jarod came through, he gave me everything I needed. He got all the identification to get Braxton and me out safely. Now, all I have to do is get Braxton and get the fuck out of here.

Everything is packed.

Everything is ready to go.

Our tickets are booked.

We’re leaving, and my brother might have a fighting chance at making it through this.

I walk out of my apartment and into the street toward my car, which is packed, ready to go. I’m wearing a hoodie, black, and a pair of faded denim jeans. My plan is I’ll go and get Braxton, and we’ll head out after dark. When it’s less likely we’ll be seen anyway.

My heart is fuckin’ racing with anticipation.

I’m so close to possibly getting him through this, and yet I feel so fucking far away.

I reach my car and unlock it.

I’m about to get in when two dark figures appear beside me, fully dressed in hoods, holding guns. One is stuck into each of my sides, and I’m forced to stand dead still.

“Don’t move,” a gravelly voice tells me, jabbing the gun further into my ribs. “I’ll blow you the fuck away here.”

My blood runs cold.

Fuck.

No.

This can’t be happening. Not here. Not when I’m so fucking close. Not when I could taste the fucking sweetness of freedom.

These fuckers think I’m Braxton, and for a second, I consider letting them. But I have a better chance of getting out of this if they think I’m not Braxton. Otherwise, there’s a high fucking chance I’m about to be taken to some fucked up location and shot without a second glance.

“I’m not fuckin’ Braxton,” I growl, wheezing as they press the guns in so hard my lungs are crushed by my ribs, that feel on the verge of snapping.

“Oh.” One man laughs, low and throaty. “We know that, Dakoda. We’re not here for Braxton, we’re here for you. Braxton will follow.”

Fuck.

This is bad.

This is so fucking bad.

Braxton was right, we were never getting out of this. We were never getting a new life. We were always going to be found. I should have fucking run with him and then found the fake identification. What the fuck was I thinking?

“Walk, do not fight, or you’ll be dead before you reach the fuckin’ truck,” the man to my left barks into my ear, his breath making my skin prickle with rage.

They jab me hard with the gun, and I move, taking a step forward. I’m not fucking stupid enough to try and run. I have two guns on me, guaranteed one will blow a hole clean through me if I try. Then Braxton is dead for sure. Right now, I’m still alive, and while I’m still alive, I’ll still fucking fight.

I will fight.

Hard.

We reach a truck only a block down where the back door is opened and I’m shoved inside, but not before my hands are jerked behind my back and cuffs are thrown on my wrists. I land with a thump on the back seat, panting with rage. The urge to lean forward and choke one of these motherfuckers with my cuffs is so strong, I actually lean forward in the seat.

“Try a single fuckin’ thing,” the dark haired man in the front seat growls, aiming his gun at me, “and your brains decorate the back window.”

I sit back, glaring, teeth clenched.

Fuck.

Why the fuck didn’t I get the hell out of here sooner?

The drive to wherever they’re taking me is only about thirty minutes long. And in that thirty minutes, I contemplate every move. Every scenario. I think of every way I may, or fucking may not, be able to escape. When we arrive, I’m hauled from the car like a fucking rag doll and shoved toward an old warehouse. Big, run down, perfect place to hide.

When we step inside, two men are sitting, lounged on a large sofa. The first stands, and the first thing I notice about him is his flaming red hair. There is no missing it. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. A crisp suit, that’s perfectly ironed, covers his body as he strides toward me—cool, calm and collected.

Dangerous.

No doubt about it.

All these clean motherfuckers are.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, stopping in front of me. “They said you looked scarily identical, and they were correct. Hello, Dakoda. I’m sure you know me ...”

I say nothing. Nothing at all.

And I won’t say a single fucking thing.

Not to this bastard.

Not to any of them.

“I’m Shanks.”

That’s him? That’s the motherfucker who runs this show? Who my brother is so fucking afraid of that he’d attempted to take his own life to escape him? Fuck, I could rip him apart with my bare fucking hands.

“I’m sure you know why you’re here,” he goes on, his voice silky smooth and calm. He does this a lot. He’s a pro. That much is clear. “Braxton hasn’t been easy to find, but when I got word of a twin ... Well, you can imagine the plan was fairly simple, bring you here, and Braxton will follow, eventually.”

“And if he doesn’t?” I spit, anger getting the better of me.

It always gets the fuckin’ better of me.

“What then?” I challenge.

Shanks grins. “I have a strong feeling your brother isn’t going to leave you and run. I could be wrong, after all, he isn’t all that smart as I’m sure you well know, but my guess is his conscience won’t let him leave you in our hands.”

“You’d be wrong, then,” I growl. “So you’re better off killin’ me now. My brother ain’t comin’.”

But I know Braxton. I know him well. He can be selfish and hard and all of the shitty things a human can be, but I know, deep in my fucking gut, that when it comes down to it, he’ll come after me. I know it, just as well as I knew when he got into trouble that I’d lay my life on the line for him.

We’ve always had each other’s backs.

I know that won’t change.

“Oh.” Shanks laughs, throwing his head back. “I’m not going to kill you, that would be far too much fun. If Braxton doesn’t show, I’ll torture you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine, until you tell me where he is. Either way, Braxton will come to me, because of you. And I’ll kill him.”

“Torture away,” I hiss, holding his eyes. “I’ll never tell you where my brother is.”

Shanks smiles, and it’s cold and deadly.

“Have it your way. This should be fun.”

He won’t get it out of me.

So help me fucking God, I’ll protect my brother at all costs.

Even if that cost is my life.