Page 112 of Single Mom's Daddies
Ruger doesn’t answer.
Gunfire barks from the upper stairwell. Someone screams—too far to see who. Someone with too much turgor in their posture rounds the corner, and a muzzle flash brightens the smoke. Ruger fires, and it hits. The shadow man clutches his shoulder and runs the other way.
Ruger looks me in the eye. “I know I fucked up. But if I survive this, I’ll burn every one of these motherfuckers to the ground.I’ll dedicate the rest of my goddamn life to making sure the Costellos never know a peaceful night again.”
I believe him. Not because I trust him. But because he looks like a man who’s finally figured out which side of the line he wants to die on.
And then I grin, teeth bloody, pulse still pounding in my ears.
“Damn,” I say. “Then I guess you gotta live.”
We don’t speak again. We just move. Through smoke. Through shattered glass. Toward the next breach at the back of the estate. We push into the final corridor together—me, Ruger, and Roman—each of us bleeding in some way, visible or not.
The smoke is thicker here, wafting through from a busted window in slow, choking tendrils. Moonlight cuts through the haze, slicing it into jagged ribbons of gray. A half-dozen bodies litter the hallway—ours and theirs. It’s quiet now, too quiet.
Movement at the end of the corridor. Two of Costello’s men, low and creeping, weapons drawn. They don’t know we’ve flanked them.
Roman lifts a hand—silent signal. Wait.
We wait.
They come closer. One scans right. The other looks left—toward us. His eyes widen.
I raise my gun. So does Ruger.
We fire at the same time. Two clean shots, one body down. The second bolts for cover. I run after him, ignoring the bite in my thigh and the weight in my lungs. He dives through a side door. I follow. He whips around to fire—too late.
I kick the gun from his hands, slam him against the doorframe, and put him down with a blow to the back of the skull.
When I turn, Ruger’s behind me. His chest rises and falls, a dark smear of blood on the side of his neck. “You good?”
I nod once. “Clear. You?”
“Yeah.” But his eyes are wide, and he’s panting. “Thought the firefight at the warehouse five years ago was bad. This…this is fucked.”
I should be numb by now. Should be used to it. I was raised in violence. It molded me. Made me the man I am.
But when he brings up the warehouse Nadia died in, all I can see is Saffron in my head, and my body clenches at the thought. Victor said she’s in the panic room with the kids. It’s good tech—I put it in myself. But that doesn’t mean I don’t doubt it every second we’re under attack.
I want to go to them. Protect them. Make sure they’re okay. But the best way to do that is to keep going.
I gulp my anger down. “You’re right. This is fucked. Next hall.”
Before we can move, the radio crackles at my hip—Victor’s voice. “North fence is secure. We’re mopping up stragglers.”
Roman’s voice follows. “East wing is clear.”
I exhale through my nose, gun still raised. North side, south side, the yard, the fences, there’s so much more to do. So many more assholes to kill.
Ruger says, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I was gonna bug you.”
“Now, now, don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Agent.”
“We could die today, Nikolai. I wanted to set the record straight.”
I snort a laugh and raise my gun as we breach into the next room. A storage room of walls lined with plastic storage bins and not much else. Nowhere for someone to hide, so no one is inside. “Ruger, you wanted to apologize because you think you’re gonna die. That’s some stupid bitch shit right there. Stop it. You’re gonna live. We need someone legit to exonerate us.”
He chuckles. “You did not just tell me I’m gonna live in the middle of a damn attack. That’s bad luck if I ever heard it.”
