Page 4 of Ruthless Redemption

Shots reverberate through the alley. Bullets whiz past.

Layla screams. Cole ducks.

Hunter returns fire from behind us.

The noise is deafening as I lunge for the passenger door and yank it open. “Get around the other side of the car. We’ll cover you.”

Cole complies as I climb into the Lincoln and Bishop hits the gas. We cruise forward, Layla’s brother doing a crouching run beside us to where his vehicle waits at the mouth of the alley.

“Let me go with him,” she begs through the window. “Let me out.”

Never.

“It isn’t safe.” I don’t trust her with a brother who could easily give her up. She’s mine to protect now.

We nose up to Cole’s vehicle and he climbs inside, Hunter doing the same, before they both slam their doors. The town car violently reverses, clearing our path to escape as bullets ping off the back of the Lincoln, smashing a tail light.

“Hold on.” Bishop clings to the steering wheel. Our tires screech with rapid acceleration. “Am I heading for the airport?”

“Yes.” I grab my cell from inside my jacket and dial the pilot’s number, my ass sliding from side to side on the seat as we speed through the parking lot and onto the main road. He answers on the second ring. “Get the jet ready. We’ll be there in fifteen. I don’t want any delays.”

“I’ll need to schedule it with traffic—”

“Get it done.” I disconnect, return the device to my pocket, then lower my sun visor. I use the makeup mirror to gain a glimpse of Layla in the back seat, her bowed head and slumped posture threatening to reawaken emotions long since hibernated. “Are you okay?”

She raises her gaze, meeting my reflection with a scowl. There are no words. No actions. Just hard eyes that scream of loathing.

“We’ll get you out of Denver,” I vow. “You’ll be looked after.”

“I don’t want your help. Leave me at the airport. I’ll find my own way home.”

“That’s not an option.” I can’t win her back when she’s not by my side. “We can discuss the future once we’re settled at a safe house.”

Her lip curls, her vehemence increasing, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she drags her gaze out the window while we continue weaving through traffic, Bishop slamming the horn like it’s an arcade button.

We reach the airport without a sign of Cole or Salvatore. Thankfully, there are no cops on our tail, either.

Bishop takes us to the gates leading onto the private runway, escorting us inside as soon as they’re opened by airport staff.

We stop by a hangar in front of the jet already waiting on the tarmac. The ignition is cut. Silence descends. Nobody moves.

It isn’t until a guy pauses at the driver’s door, waiting to take the Lincoln off our hands, that Bishop looks at me in recrimination. “Are you sure this is the right move?”

I don’t need specifics to understand he’s talking about Layla.

He wants me to leave her behind. To dump and run.

“It’s the only move.” I shove from the car and open her door for her to get out.

She doesn’t.

She remains seated, staring straight ahead. She doesn’t even look at me.

I’m not sure if I should be livid or impressed that rejection is high on her priorities even though her life is in danger.

“We need to get out of here.” I pull the door wider.

She crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to acknowledge me. She’s all defiance and spite. Hostility and fury.

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