Page 85 of Property of Fox

Brea lies there, motionless, her skin pale against the dark floor. My breath catches in my throat as Van kneels beside her, his hands shaking slightly as he reaches for the shackles binding her to the table—the key glints in his grip, a tiny beacon of hope in this hellish nightmare.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, willing the lock to give way. Each second feels like an eternity as Van fumbles with the key, his usual steady hands betraying his urgency.

Finally, with a satisfying click, the first shackle falls away. Brea's wrist, raw and angry from her struggles. Van moves swiftly to the next one, his movements more assured now. One by one, the restraints fall away, the sound of metal hitting concrete echoing in the cavernous space.

As the last ankle shackle is removed, Brea stirs. A soft moan escapes her lips, and I feel a surge of relief so intense it's almost painful. Van gently cups her face. “You still with us, Brea?”

Van's eyes meet mine, a silent understanding passing between us. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tosses the key in my direction. It arcs through the air. I stretch out my bound hands, desperation fueling my movements. The key lands with a soft clink against my chains, and I fumble to grasp it. The cold metal of the key slides against my skin as I struggle to maneuver it into the lock. My heart pounds in my ears. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, trickling down my temple as I twist and turn the key, praying for it to catch.

Finally, I feel the mechanism give way. The lock springs open with a satisfying click that reverberates through my entire being. The chains fall away, clattering to the ground, and for a moment,I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of freedom. But there's no time to relish it.

I push myself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle in my body. The world tilts and sways around me as I force myself to move, crawling across the debris-strewn floor towards Brea. Each movement sends shockwaves of pain through my battered body, but I grit my teeth and press on. Nothing matters except getting to her.

Van's eyes lock with mine, a flicker of relief passing through them. "She's alive, Fox. Breathing's shallow, but she's hanging on."

"Get her out of here," I order, my voice raw and desperate. "Now!"

As if on cue, the air around us erupts in gunfire. The sharp cracks of pistols and the deeper boom of shotguns blend into a deadly symphony. Muzzle flashes illuminate the smoky air like lightning in a storm cloud.

I realize with a start that it's not just Van who's here – the entire Bastard Boilers MC has come. Through the haze, I catch glimpses of familiar faces, their expressions set in grim determination as they engage Tank's men in a fierce firefight.

Van doesn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he scoops Brea into his arms, cradling her limp form against his chest. Her head lolls against his shoulder. He hunches over her, using his body as a shield.

"I've got her," he shouts over the din, his eyes meeting mine one last time. There's a promise in that look. A vow to protect her with his life. Van disappears through the smoke, Brea's limp form cradled against his chest. The acrid haze swirls around them, obscuring their retreat until they vanish like ghosts. My heart lurches, torn between relief that she's safe and the primal need to follow, to protect.

But I can't. Not yet. My body screams in protest as I force myself to move, every muscle crying out in agony. I grip the chair I was chained to, my knuckles white with the effort. The metal is cold against my palms. With a grunt that feels like it's ripped from my very soul, I haul myself to my feet.

The world tilts and spins, a kaleidoscope of smoke and flashing lights. I blink hard, willing my vision to clear. As the dizziness subsides, the scene before me comes into sharp focus.

Across the room, Azrael and Orion are pinned down behind a stack of crates. Their guns blaze, muzzle flashes illuminating their grim faces in staccato bursts. Azrael's eyes are narrowed in concentration, his movements precise and deadly. Beside him, Orion grins ferally, the thrill of battle lighting up his features.

A Hellion pops up from behind an overturned table, his gun aimed squarely at Azrael. Time seems to slow as I react instinctively. My hand finds a discarded gun next to Tank’s body on the floor beside me. I grip it, the metal cold and heavy in my palm. Without conscious thought, I raise it, aim, and squeeze the trigger.

The recoil jolts through my arm as the gun bucks. The Hellion's head snaps back, a spray of crimson misting the air. He crumples, his shot going wide.

Azrael's head whips around, his eyes locking with mine. A flicker of surprise crosses his face, quickly replaced by grim approval. He nods once, a silent acknowledgment, before turning back to the fight.

The gun feels like an extension of my arm now. Adrenaline courses through me, dulling the pain and sharpening my focus to a razor's edge. I scan the room, picking my targets with cold precision.

One by one, the Hellions fall. Some to my bullets, others to the relentless onslaught of the Bastard Boilers. The air is thick with gun smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Suddenly, a figure looms before me. One of Tank's men, his face twisted in a snarl of hate. He swings a heavy chain, aiming for my head. I duck, feeling the rush of air as it whistles past my ear.

Off-balance, I stumble. The gun slips from my grasp, clattering across the concrete floor and sliding out of reach. I stumble backward, my back hitting the wall as the Hellion advances, chain swinging menacingly.

"You're gonna pay for what you did to Tank," he snarls, eyes wide with rage.

I scan the area frantically, looking for anything I can use as a weapon. The chain whistles through the air, a deadly arc aimed at my skull. I throw myself to the floor, my body screaming in protest as I hit the concrete. The impact sends shockwaves of agony through my battered frame, stealing the breath from my lungs. The chain slams into the wall where my head was just moments ago, sending chips of concrete raining down on me.

I try to push myself up, but my arms tremble beneath me. The adrenaline that's been fueling me is fading fast, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Every injury, every bruise, every cut comes roaring back to life. It feels like my very marrow is on fire, each movement sending fresh waves of pain coursing through me.

The Hellion looms over me, a twisted grin distorting his features. His eyes gleam with a sadistic light as he raises the chain again. The links catch the dim light, a metallic constellation promising nothing but pain. I can see the muscles in his arm tensing, preparing to bring the makeshift weapon down on my prone form.

My vision narrows, focusing on the chain as it begins its downward arc. I brace myself for the impact, knowing there's no way I can dodge in time.

But the blow never lands.

A blur of motion erupts from my peripheral vision. Asher, moving with lightning speed, tackles the Hellion from the side. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs, the chain clattering away harmlessly.

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