Page 71 of Victorious: Part 3
And then I hear it, again, a deep, throaty scream.
It’s Montana.
I abandon caution and sprint toward the sound, the chaos and commotion of the women starting up again as they begin to chant and bang as they run riot. I bring my gun up, knowing I’m probably running straight into an ambush but unable to stop myself.
Because that’s what brotherhood means.
You don’t leave family behind, even when staying means dying.
Especially when staying means dying.
The corridor ahead curves left toward what Garver’s intelligence indicated was the punishment wing. As I roundthe corner, I see them—Montana on the ground, blood pooling beneath him, while two Cartel operatives stand over Valerie with a knife at her throat.
And in that moment, staring at the scene before me, I realize this was never about rescue.
This was about Javier making us watch our family die.
Chapter Thirteen
MONTANA
The concrete floor beneath me feels like ice against my cheek, but the warmth spreading across my shoulder tells a different story.
Blood.
My blood.
Seeping through my shirt, then my club cut in steady pulses that match the frantic hammering of my heart. Through the haze of pain and the ringing in my ears, I hear someone screaming my name. Not Montana, butNoah.
Mom.
Hearing her scream,Noah, the name she gave me before this life, before the club, before everything went to hell, causes a rush of adrenaline to surge through my shock-riddled body. She’s the only one who still calls me my given name, and hearing it now, raw with terror, cuts deeper than any bullet ever could.
“Noah!Oh God, Noah!”
I try to push myself up, my good arm trembling as I fight against the concrete that seems determined to keep me in place. My vision swims, black spots dancing at the edges, but I force my eyes to focus.
BecauseI haveto get toher.
She’s right there.
Not twenty feet away, with a Cartel guard’s arm locked around her throat, a knife gleaming against her skin. And blood, not much, but enough to make my stomach lurch, trickles from a thin cut just below her jaw. Her eyes, wide with panic, are locked on me.
Not on the blade at her throat.
Not on the chaos erupting around us.
Onme.
Like she’s more afraid for my life than her own.
That’s my mom.
“Stay down, you little shit,” one of the guards snarls, his boot connecting with my ribs. The impact sends fire through my chest, stealing what little breath I had left.
But I don’t stay down.
I can’t.
