Page 53 of Sweet Touch of Venom

“The back is locked and caged. There’s no escaping.” Wicked’s voice speaks through the earpiece.

“Catch up with Boone, and we’ll see each other soon,” Ronan orders, pressing his finger to his earbud. Loud footsteps echo from the side double doors. Voices come through.

“The outside cameras are down. I don’t know what it is, but we are checking now. Yes, we will keep you updated.”

Our eyes shoot to each other, and we silently hide behind the wall, which cuts off the front door and the foyer. I press against the wall, gun to my chest, and Ronan follows but pressing intome. I peered up to see him looking off into where the voices were coming from. Determination and focus in his gaze.

Doors bust open, slamming into a wall from the brutal force, and the stomps closer and closer with squeaks against the white marbled floor.

“They aren’t answering their fucking headsets!” one guy’s voice booms.

“Mike! Pat!”

I’m guessing the other one is speaking into the microphone, hoping to get an answer. From the sounds of the feet, it could be about?—

“There’s three men walking toward us,” Ronan says low and calm, like he’s ordering a meal.

He glances down with a deadpan expression. I nod and once the men approach the wall, and we go for it.

“Mike and Pat are gone,” Ronan speaks with poison to his tongue. The men’s eyes widen, grabbing at their guns—but we’re faster. We pull the triggers on our Rugger .22, knocking off two men.

“Oh, shit!” The other dodges the flying bullets. Scurrying off back toward the double doors, but Ronan is fast. He doesn’t even run; his legs are long, making his strides wide and swift. He takes aim with one hand, then shoots the man in his calf. He yelps, falling to the floor. His crimson leaking out and staining the marble like red juice on a crisp white dress.

“Fucking shit man.” The man growls, cupping his injured limb. His gun lay next to him, and Ronan steps closer to the man, lowering his weapon. I stroll up to him, hovering over the withering man—who’s sweating like a pig. His brown face has paled from the shock and his lips are drying from breathing too hard. “Don’t kill me, man,” he begs, inching closer to his weapon.

Ronan lets out a low irritated sigh. Then he steps over his body, kicking the man’s weapon to him. “I’ll give you a fair chance.”

My brows fly up, with my mouth parting in fascination.A fair shot.Loud running steps are rushing down the long hall. I’m sure they heard the man screaming.

The man stares at Ronan like he’s deranged. I’m sure his life is flashing before his eyes. But he takes the chance, swiping the gun and pointing it at Ronan. Before he can even put his finger on the trigger, a loud sound erupts and his head explodes, splattering all his useless brain, painting the floor officially red.

“Shit,” I say, whipping my head around to see Boone strolling towards us while lowering his shotgun. Wicked walks besides him. “So much for fair chance.”

“What the fuck was that!?” The voices come closer, and my heart picks up speed. Other muffled voices lapping over each other frantically, and I’m anticipating seeing a group of large men rolling down the steps.

“Guess he got his head job.” She snickers. “No pun intended.”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling, ignoring the stupid pun because, clearly, it was intended. Boone doesn’t speak, but his death stare is more intense than before. Like he’s ready to blow that shotgun right through me.

I thought we were good. Maybe Wicked got into his head or something. I shake the thought because I shouldn’t—don’t care. The mission is my priority and all I care about.

I look away, pursing my lips and releasing a breath. I switch my gaze to Ronan, who’s looking at the top of the stairs.

“They’re getting closer. Let’s go.”

I nod and we head to the double doors. Making our way inside the room, not locking the door behind us. There’s no point.

“Are we ready?” Ronan speaks, his attention now on us.

Mal throws her AK-47 over her shoulder, placing her hand on her hip with an eerie smile. “I was born?—”

“Don’t,” I say blandly, fixing the strap on my thigh that holds my knife. I’m over her cliché catchphrases and weird puns. They’re far from unique.

Mal looks over at me with a scowl and rolls her eyes. She switches her head back to the door, her ponytail slapping her on the side of the face. If she didn’t have garbage for blood, she’ll probably be someone I could like. She almost reminds me of a mixture of Eve and Kyra. Absolutely gorgeous—and deadly insane.

Rambling sounds of loud footfalls echo around the outside of the door. We all at once point our guns at the door, holding our stance.

“Come out, whoever the fuck you are,” a loud voice booms out. “You have no clue who you’re fucking with, coming into my place.”

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