Page 67 of Wild Card

I don’t know what inspires me to follow that cat, but her eyes remind me of Catriona’s. I see them flash. There’s a door at the end of the hallway and two men stand guard outside. Luckily, they didn’t notice us, and we dart back into the main hallway, pressing against the wall.

If we rush them, it could alert Freddie to what’s happening, and he could kill the women.

“Can you two take the guards? I’ll draw their fire.”

“We can take them,” Callan whispers, his face grim.

Patrick nods.

There’s no way to sneak up on them, so I don’t bother. I head into the hallway, the gun tucked into my back pocket, my hands up.

“Gentlemen,” I say genially. “Is Freddie here?”

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

I recognize this guy.

“Hey Walter. Contractor did a shit job on the side door so I let myself in. I need to talk to Freddie about my uncle.”

“Freddie’s busy,” Walter says, reaching for his gun. “And you’ve made a mistake coming here.”

There’s an edge of amusement to his voice that doesn’t escape me. Busy. With two helpless women? He’s a monster just like his disgusting boss.

Maybe I have made a mistake, but I don’t give a fuck. I grab Walter’s arm, wrestling the gun out of his hand. Patrick seems to appear out of thin air, taking out the other man before he’s even aware it’s happened. Callan smashes his blackjack into Walter’s head, his gun spinning across the floor. I shove the door open.

Freddie looms over a girl whom I assume is Bridget, hurling obscenities at her as she cries. When he hears the door, he spins on his heel. His hands are on his belt buckle which is partially undone.

Fuck.

Looks like we got here just in time.

I whip my gaze around the room and see three of Freddie’s soldiers. I shoot one before he can even pull his gun. The second gets off a shot but misses—it slams into the concrete pillar next to my head, exploding it into shrapnel that slices into my face. I don’t give him another opportunity and drop him too, the sharp crack of the gunfire barely muffling Bridget’s screams. Patrick has the third man on the ground, driving his fist into his face like a jackhammer. He’s wearing brass knuckles. Jesus.

Seconds later it’s silent except for the ringing in my ears from the gun fire. I look over at Freddie. Callan stares him down. Freddie doesn’t have a gun, which seems strange until I remember he wanted his hands free for other depravity.

Fucking degenerate.

He has Bridget, one hand wrapped around her throat, the other around her waist. She’s a little thing—probably not even a hundred pounds even though she’s an adult woman. It sickens me to see Freddie’s hands on her.

But where’s Catriona?

With the immediate threat of Freddie’s soldiers out of the way, I scan the space for her, and my mouth goes dry when I see her laid out on a dirty mattress on the floor looking more than half dead.

Not again. My wild fairy princess. I can’t believe I let her come to so much grief.

Fear and anger war within me as I rush over, pressing my fingers to her pulse point. Her skin is hot, and she’s soaked with sweat. There’s a bloody shirt balled up under her head as a kind of pillow—must be Bridget’s. She’s alive, but barely. We need to get her out of here, fast.

“Gentlemen, welcome,” Freddie says, his loud booming voice breaking the silence as he squeezes Bridget’s throat. She’s crying, the sound barely audible, and Patrick paces like a wild animal. “Gio, I’m surprised at you. You’ve always been such a smart man. Not like your uncle. Did you even see Lorenzo? Or are you too obsessed with that girl to care about your family?”

“Don’t fucking preach to me about family, you repulsive pig.”

Still, I cast my gaze behind me, freezing when I see my uncle dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

It’s jarring, but sadly not the first time I’ve seen family laid out, dead from a gunshot wound. Lorenzo had already made himself dead to me when he bragged about selling out my parents. This scene just finalizes that.

I’m too worried about Catriona to feel anything but anger toward my uncle right now anyway. There’ll be time for grief, in whatever form it decides to take, after I get the women out of here safely.

“He got what he deserved,” Freddie says, tightening his arm around Bridget’s waist. Patrick inches closer and she whimpers his name. Freddie grins, and then pouts his lips at Bridget. “Aw, shush, sweetness.” His tone is condescending, and he squeezes his hand around her throat hard enough to make her gasp for breath. “The men are talking. Don’t worry, though, I’ll get back to you in a minute.”

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