Page 125 of Wilde and Deadly

Davey jumped down onto the track, boots hitting steel and gravel with a muted thud. He moved fast, planting himself directly in Sullivan’s path.

“Sully.”

Sullivan didn’t slow.

Davey’s pulse ticked higher. The guy wasn’t hesitating. Wasn’t even acknowledging them.

Shit.

He reached out and grabbed Sully’s shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, forcing him to stop. “Damn it, look at me.”

Sullivan finally stopped.

But when he turned, his face was set like stone—cold, detached.

Davey had seen that look before. He’d seen it on men about to do something they couldn’t take back.

The kind of men who had already made up their minds.

Sullivan wasn’t thinking anymore. He was acting.

And if Davey didn’t stop him now, he wasn’t sure anyone could.

“You’re too close to this,” he said, voice low, steady. “You know it. I know it. Get out of here. Go home. You don’t need to see this if it goes south.”

No reaction. Not even a flicker. “If my brother has to die tonight, I’m the one pulling the trigger.”

Davey’s stomach turned. “Sully, no.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a warning.

Maybe both.

For the first time since Davey had stepped in his way, Sullivan looked at him.

The enhanced optics of their next-gen NVGs made the world crystal clear even in total darkness—no grainy static, no distortion. Just sharp, high-contrast detail, every feature rendered in eerie shades of green.

And what Davey saw unsettled him.

There was nothing behind those eyes—just a calculated, empty stillness.

Not rage.

Not grief.

Nothing.

Like he’d already made his peace with what was coming.

Davey’s stomach twisted.

That wasn’t Sullivan.

That was a man who’d already decided someone wasn’t walking out of this tunnel alive.

Sullivan’s voice was flat. “Would you sit this out? If it was one of your brothers?”

The question hit like a punch to the ribs—sharp, direct, and impossible to ignore. His grip tightened on Sullivan’s jacket, but he had no answer.

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