Page 182 of His Pretty Little Duet

"Yes, Boss."

"Let's get this sorted out," Clay orders. "I'll drive into the campsite alone, and Carter will bring Max, Bronson, and our men in through the flames behind Dustin's flank. Undoubtedly, he'll have the Stockyard members there, but they'll be on vehicles. You'll be on foot."

Through the flames?

A voice that I think belongs to Bronson says, "Gonna get myself a new bike on the way out. But it's all lit up in red. How do you know where our yellow brick road is?"

"The marked red isheat. Smoke, mostly," Carter confirms. "But I can get you in at this burnout site here. There is an old service road connected to it that runs around the campground.The trees were cleared for the pipes. It should have created a narrow fire break through the inferno. Not visible from above."

"Should have?" Bronson asks in a quiet, unnerving way. "Can’t have my beautiful brothers burning their faces now. We need to be sure."

"Nothing is for certain with fires, Boss." Carter’s voice carries regret. "But I've seen worse than this fire. I was a smokejumper for two decades before your father hired me. I'm confident I can get you in and out."

Bronson says, “We won’t bump into any fire-fighters out there, then? We don’t want innocent eyes around us.”

“The fire is contained,” Clay states, and his voice still catches my breath every time I hear it. “They have no need to be out there. No resources to put it out. It’s too large. State services are letting it run its course, and it’ll go out by itself come the wet season. I have all the roads blocked off. Services are at the head near homes, nowhere near the campsite.”

“He’s a clever son of a Butcher, isn’t he?” Bronson states, humour laced in his voice that doesn’t seem genuine—they are all on edge.

"And Dustin won't see you coming," Clay states, back to business, assertive and systematic. "You will enter from behind the campsite. Wait for my signal. Take the bikers out. If anything happens, if we don't come back, Aurora will organise a hunting party."

"We bring the girl!" someone states, his voice already tight and uneven with sentiment.

Me? I'm going?—

"No, Max," Clay dismisses. "We don’t.”

"We can protect her,” Max grounds out. “But the girl needs to?—"

"Fawn," Clay corrects smoothly. "And I saidno?—"

Max cuts in. "If Dustin asks to see her, and you don't have her, he'll put a bullet straight into Xander's head."

He's right.

We can't risk it.

I can't?—

I can’t risk it.

"This isn't about Fawn." Clay's foregrounding voice leaves no room for emotion. "He doesn't care about her enough to risk his own life?—"

"This is about Xander!" Max snaps, and tears slide down my cheeks, followed quickly by more. They are painful now, after having shed so many over the last twenty-four hours. They leak in thick hot rivulets down my face.

Max is right.

Please listen to him, Clay.

"This is an execution. This is aboutus," Clay states with that cool indifference that hides his true intensity. I need him to think about Xander now. Think about his brothers.

"No," Max repeats softly, hoarse, making me shiver.

"You're angry. Tired. Take a moment?—"

"No—"

"Damn you, Max," Clay hisses, his temper simmering in that sound. "I will not hand over Fawn. This conversa?—"

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