Page 174 of Desperate Actions

Angel lets out a slow breath, nostrils flaring.

If he is pissed, then I don’t give a fuck.

Because his daughter—my wife—is out there.

And I will burn the world down to bring her home.

Luc, smirking, leans back comfortably in his seat.

“Well,” he muses, “I have to say, I do love the classics. Funny, isn’t it Angel? That he’s tracking her?”

I’m mildly confused, but Angel just snorts.

Still, I don’t respond.

Because my mind is already there—on the battlefield.

With her.

And Santos.

Rage. Pure, unfiltered, animalistic rage.

It’s in my veins, my bones, my fucking soul. I let it settle. Let it burn through me like gasoline waiting for the match. I don’t fight it.

No. I marinate in it.

Let it fester. Let it build. Let it consume me.

We’re two minutes out.

Two fucking minutes from hell.

Two minutes from war.

I grip the wheel like I want to snap it in half.

Santos—that motherfucker—chose an abandoned factory in Bayonne, right outside Jersey City.

He picked this place on purpose cause it’s close to the Den.

Like maybe he wanted this to come to a head sooner rather than later.

Like he’s been waiting for this.

Like he thinks he’s ready.

He’s not.

I am, though.

I am so fucking ready to end him.

I am going to kill him.

And I already know how.

The SUV speeds forward, tires screeching as I make the last turn.

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