Page 86 of Dragonfly

Suddenly, I think I understand. She must’ve seen someone creeping up behind me, known from the gun that it was time for Winter’s guys to work me over, and she tried to tell them where to aim for minimum damage.

Minimum, but from the way Liz grabs her shoulder, sobbing on the floor as she scoots away, seeking safety, it’s probably far more than the good doctor ever expected.

Winter grins over at me. “Now, where were we?”

TWENTY-NINE

REVENGE

SAVANNAH

Ishouldn’t have let Vin go first.

That’s all I’m thinking as I sit on the edge of the passenger seat, clutching the dash, about to climb through the fucking window if that’ll somehow turn back time and stop Vin from walking up to the door.

He had his gun out. It should’ve been a protective measure.

It wasn’t.

He knew Damien was in trouble. The moment the tracker finally stopped about twenty minutes ago, showing us that Damien’s tracker put him along an abandoned stretch of empty and closed-down stores in the slums of Springfield, we both agreed that something was up. Technically, this is the West Side so it belongs to the Sinners Syndicate. But the area is usually reserved for junkies and prostitutes who are too much of a threat to join either of the two organized crime rings in the city.

According to Vin, there’s absolutely no reason why Damien should be here. At first, we didn’t think he was. There’s no sign of his red car anywhere, but I’m not following any tracker that might’ve been installed in case it was stolen. I’m following the dot that correlates with the subdermal tracker in Damien.

Because someone stole my husband, and I want him back.

Once we arrived at the destination, Vin approached in a roundabout way. He didn’t go on foot at first, either. He drove around in the car, searching the left side of the streets while I was looking at the right.

And that’s how I saw a group of three or four people surrounding something in the middle inside of a store that looks like it’s been available for rent for a long, long time.

They’re not working on the inside or renovating it, either. After I point out what I saw inside of the suspiciously dark store, Vin agreed it might be something. We drove around again—and this time? I was almost positive I saw a man sitting in the chair where the other ones were gathered before.

The silhouette of that man looked like it might be Damien. The tracker lined up with it.

We had to check.

Or, considering Vin was in no mood to argue, he told me to stay in the car while he checked.

He parked about ten stores away so that he could sneak up on the store. If that is Damien, he’s definitely not alone. He’s probably in trouble.

Vin paused for a second, grabbing something from the trunk of the car. Once he was ready, he disengaged the safety on his gun before creeping down the street.

From where I was, I didn’t see it when someone opened the door or stuck their gun out of it. I was too focused on watching Vin’s back, and his bulk hid everything from me.

But when his body jerked, then fell backward on the sidewalk… I saw that. Even worse, I watched in abject horror as the door widened enough for two men to slip out, grab Vin by the legs, then drag his big body into the store before closing the door again.

The whole thing happened in a matter of minutes. One second Vin was up, then he wasn’t, and all I could think is: if they’ll kill Vin, what are they doing to Damien?

I don’t have a gun. Vin had the only one. I have my stiletto, and I slap at my hip in panic, fingers unwilling to work right for a second before I’m unsnapping the top of the leather case, pulling the knife out.

But what now? If I try to stroll up the door, I’m dead meat, just like Vin. You don’t bring a knife to a gun fight. The beauty of the stiletto is that it requires intimacy. It’s an up-close kill.

What to do? What to do?

Okay. I can’t leave Damien in there. I just… I can’t. And maybe this is the worst moment in the world to realize just how much I’ve grown to care for him, to depend on him, to love him… but, suddenly, my revenge list has changed.

In my mind’s eye, I cross off Damien Libellula, and then I add: whoever the fuck thought they could take my husband.

For months, I stalked him. I watched him. I studied him. I came up with a hundred plans how I was going to kill him. In the end, I didn’t use any of them. I took an opportune moment to touch him, to steal his knife, to stab him—and I failed.

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