Page 65 of Wrecked

“Is Crow hurt?”

“A shoulder wound,” Stone said and gazed around the foyer of Jimmy Lincoln’s Hollywood Hills home. “We hit the guy’s house this morning, but neither Rebel nor Lincoln were present.”

“So, he must have another residence,” Real said gruffly. “Put Crow on the phone.”

“He wants to talk to you.” Stone held out the cell phone to Crow.

“Yeah, boss?” Crow put the phone to his ear and walked several paces away.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Lincoln has several residences, one of them is not far from your location, but…” Real trailed off.

“He won’t be someplace that we can easily get to him,” Crow finished Real’s sentence.

“Exactly. Did you leave any of them alive?” Real asked.

Crow glanced around at several of Lincoln’s men sitting against one wall next to the pile of dead bodies.

The cleaners were coming, but they needed time since they were on another job across town.

“Yes, plenty alive,” Crow said.

“You know what to do.”

Real ended the call and Crow handed the phone back to Stone.

“What did he say?” Stone said.

“I get to be creative.”

Rip stepped outside while Crow worked.

It would do them no good if someone showed up while they were in the middle of getting information.

Something dark flashed in his peripheral and he squinted as he eased out the silencer tucked into his holster.

The dark figure spider-climbed up the side of a trellis and leaped lightly between the balcony and the upper level of the massive mansion before dipping over the side of the small patio wall.

For a moment, Rip thought that maybe Rebel had gotten away, but when another figure also dressed in all black followed the first, he knew it wasn’t him.

Rip’s heart just about pounded out of his fucking chest.

He knew one of the small figures as surely as he knew his own fucking name.

Tucking his gun away, Rip raced across the distance and climbed up the same trellis. He went over the side of the balcony and ducked inside.

It was fucking daylight. What the hell did Boston—and he was sure the other was Azrael—think they were doing there?

Rip still wore his mask and had half a mind to remove it, but some sixth sense had him dropped low. It was a good damnedthing because a knife whizzed past his head. Rip rolled and came up on one knee, his weapon pulled.

The bigger of the two slender figures darted for the door. The smaller one fast on the first one’s heels.

Rip lunged across the distance and caught the smaller one around the waist.

Boston fought, slashing with the knife in his hand. The blade would have nicked Rip’s arm, but his reflexes kicked in. He spun Boston around and took him to the floor, clamping a hand around the wrist holding the blade.

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