Almost two years later

I’m sitting on the hood of my car at the entrance to the Sugarbeet Hills Campground, just another camper in the shade of the tall oaks, sneaking away to do phone shit.

But really waiting for Grayson.

Nervous.

Two years he was inside. I still can’t believe it worked. All those months of planning, all that money paid to Grayson’s rat. The whole prison breakout. And the way he got word to us through that ridiculous prison stories journal? Brilliant.

We fucking pulled it off. Knock me over with a feather.

But I won’t rest until I see him with my own eyes. And he could have a tail, so I’m armed to the teeth. Things got messy. He had to take a hostage.

I pull the ball cap low over my head and keep my focus on my phone, but my awareness is everywhere.

Soon enough, I catch sight of the blue Honda rambling up the shady gravel road. My heart is smashing near out of my chest. Wait and be sure. Don’t blow it now.

First thing I notice: it’s two people. Grayson’s still got that hostage with him. What the fuck? But my anger about the hostage disappears when he jumps out of the car, comes at me for a bear hug.

“Grayson. Fuck.” I pull him to me, hold him a long time. It’s not my style, but it’s Grayson, and there are no words for how incredible it feels to see him. I pull back and clap his shoulder. “Motherfucker, looking good.”

Actually, he looks older, harder.

That’s partly on me. I should’ve seen it coming, him getting framed like he did.

I tell him about being pulled over on the way here. Ten hours I drove from Franklin City. But I had a fake ID. They let me go.

“The guys cannot wait to see you. Two words: party central. Whatever you want.” I glance toward the girl in the car, sitting like a petrified deer, eyes staring ahead. Why does he still have her? He needs to get rid of her. “When are you going to do it?”

He shrugs. Mumbles. Grayson’s always had a soft heart, though he wouldn’t like me to know it. Not one for violence.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “Let me do this for you.”

“I got it,” he says.

I narrow my eyes, not liking this.

“She can still be useful,” he adds.

Useful. Such bullshit. He never could lie to me. I shake my head. Getting attached to some hostage is the last thing he needs to do. Every minute he keeps her doubles the danger—to all of us, now that she’s seen us together. “Grayson,” I warn.

“Fuck you,” he says. “It’s not like that. I got this.”

“Shoot her in the woods out there. No one’ll find her.”

He gives me a hard look. Yeah, it’s a harsh thing to say. Extreme.

It’s just that we don’t do captives, and we definitely don’t do relationships. We made that pact a long time ago. No women except to fuck. Allegiance to each other and nobody else. One blade to protect my brothers, one blade for vengeance.

I made myself stop seeing Brooke, and it feels like having my leg sawed off not to see her, touch her. Which just proves the point. That kind of connection? It’s a weakness.

“It’s under control,” he growls. “And then we’ll pick up where we left off. At the Bradford.”

“You’re not bringing her to the Bradford,” I warn. “I’ll tell you that right now.”

He holds up his hands like that’s the last thing he’d do.

“She’s a hostage,” I remind him. “She served her purpose. You keep her, and it endangers you and your brothers.” I give him a look. “Keeping her, it makes you like them.” Them meaning the ones who took us. Are my words penetrating? I can’t tell.

I grab the clothes I brought for him. His favorite old boots.

I watch the girl while he changes. She’s pale, brown hair in a messy bun. Delicate features. Pretty.

Maybe he can’t do it. Or maybe he’s waiting for a better spot. I’m not going to fight him on this. Unless he tries to keep her. Then I’ll deal with her myself—for his own good and hers.

I tell him we have leads on the governor. How we’re going to make him pay. How awesome it’ll be. He seems distracted by the girl. “You’re okay?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He gives me his classic grin.

We discuss logistics.

Ten minutes later, I watch him drive off with a bad feeling in my gut, like everything’s about to change. Maybe it’s a little hypocritical of me to warn him away from this girl when I’ve been taking Brooke hostage like it’s a goddamn hobby.

But like I said, I stopped. More than a year and a half since I’ve touched her.

Every so often I let myself follow her around for a couple hours. It’s past the point where I can pretend it’s about keeping her quiet. This is about needing to be close to her, even if it’s twenty yards away. I look at her and remind myself of what I can’t have.

It’s what Grayson can’t have either. He’s my brother, but he has to live by these rules. This is how I keep all of us focused. This is how I keep us alive.

And it’s working. Case in point: we’re closing in on the players.

Jimmy Brass turned out to be a retired cop who did all kinds of work for them. Signed off on patrols that never happened. Made evidence disappear the one time there was a bust.

He never touched one of us, that I know of, but that doesn’t matter. He’s plant food now. Fertilizer. Six feet under. He put his dumb kid through college with money we earned with our bodies. He deserved what I did to him.

Now we’re closing in on Keeper. There’s an old paper trail someone forgot to cover up. A shell company that bought and sold a house—not the house, but the one next door. How’s that for twisted? Can’t have the neighbors complaining about kids screaming in pain.

Keeper bought that house and kept it empty on purpose. They hide behind nicknames because they’re cowards, but I’m going to find him. I’m going to break him.

It’s times like this that I really miss Brooke, when I’m tense, when I’m getting close to a kill. She has a way of making these things bearable.