Chapter 43

ROSALIND

A sharp kick in the ribs jolts me out of unconsciousness. Each breath feels like razor blades tearing through one side of my chest, and I wonder if I've cracked a rib. I force myself to stay still, even as my heart thrashes against its cage like a trapped animal.

Did Britt escape?

Last thing I remember, she'd opened the hatch. She wouldn't want to leave without me, but she also wouldn't let herself get caught. I shot Cesare in the chest, giving her the opening she needed to jump into the chute.

I crack open an eye and peer through my lashes, finding myself lying on the floor of a room crammed with men and women stripped down to their underwear.

Eight guards stand around us holding automatic weapons, and I shiver. This is a peculiar change to waking up alone in Cesare's dungeon, but not unwelcome.

A large hand lands in my hair and pulls me up to sit. "Get up."

The bastard manhandling me is a stranger with malevolent green eyes and a scar down his cheek. I'm sure he's one of the men I saw a few days ago at the gates, but it doesn't matter. Even though my ankles, arms, and wrists are bound with zip-ties, I have full use of my fingers.

All I need is a distraction, and I'll get the fuck out.

Feigning wooziness, I let my eyes roll in their sockets and scan the room for exits. There's a door on the right, which possibly leads to a hallway, but reaching it means taking out the guards. Behind me is a window secured with iron bars.

This is the downstairs storeroom. I recognize it from the time I walked around the Montesano mansion, capturing footage for Gunther.

"Is she awake?" asks a man I don't recognize.

"Does it matter?" the one holding me upright asks back.

They both snicker.

My jaw clenches, and I wonder what the hell happened between that barrel falling on my head and now. The man releases my hair, and I fall back to the stone floor with a grunt.

I use my ruse of helplessness to scan my body for injuries. The pain in my ribs has already faded, giving me a clue there probably isn't a fracture.

"Leave her alone," says a female voice hoarse with tears.

"Friend of yours?" a male voice asks with a sneer.

"No, but there's no need to kick a helpless woman."

The man chuckles. "This bitch is an assassin. People like her are the reason you're all being held in this room."

The woman defending me falls quiet.

He returns, and all the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The air shifts as he pulls back his leg for another kick.

"Wait," I rasp. "I'm awake."

"Thought so." He steps back, allowing me to shuffle up to sitting.

Blinking away the remnants of my headache, I take a better look at my fellow captives sitting on the floor, recognizing at least four other operatives from the Moirai. None of them makes eye contact, and none of them are Britt.

That has to be a good sign.

"Are you alright?" asks a bleached blonde, whose pink bra strains under her augmented breasts. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara-blackened tears.

"Yeah." My brows furrow. "Why are we all here?"

"You should know." The man grabs the hood of my catsuit. "Everyone in this room either came to the boss's party without ID, or the name they gave doesn't check out. Point out the assassins, and we'll let the innocent people go home."

My stomach plummets to the stone floor, and my lips form a denial. I clench my teeth, already knowing that lies at this stage are futile. The Montesano family already knows I work for the Moirai.

"Talk, bitch." He gives my head a hard shake.

Every operative in the room lowers their heads. Throughout my ten years of being demoted, each one of them has derided me with ridicule, snide remarks, or direct insults. At least two have taken credit for my work, swindling me out of bonuses that could have paid off my debt.

I don't owe any of them my loyalty.

A guard points his gun to the blonde. "Maybe you're defending your colleague?"

"Don't be stupid," I snap.

He swings the barrel of his weapon at me. "What did you say?"

"A trained assassin wouldn't identify themselves by rushing to my defense. She's obviously a civilian."

He flashes his teeth. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Does she look like a trained killer to you?"

The man glances at the blonde, scowls, and lowers his weapon. He doesn't speak, not wanting to admit he's wrong.

"Why are you being so mean?" says a voice beside me that grates on my nerves.

I turn to find Greta hiccupping with tears. The assassin's red hair is styled in a messy chignon with tendrils that barely conceal her black eye.

Greta graduated from the academy the same year as Britt and me. During the graduation run, when we had to compete for a paying job in the Moirai, she shoved Britt down a hole that led to the Beaumont City catacombs and left her there for dead. I saved Britt, making me lose the top spot and a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus that would have paid for Miranda's education.

Glancing down at my lap, I force back a wave of resentment. Greta is always quick to take advantage of an opportunity. She never fails to discredit my contributions to her missions. If it wasn't for her continued sabotage, Gunther might even have reconsidered my demotion.

"What are you trying to say?" the man asks. "That you're an escort like her?"

Greta hiccups. "I'm a reporter. Just call my boss at the New Alderney Times?—"

"Shut the fuck up," he snaps.

My shoulders tighten. Greta doesn't realize she just identified herself as one of the assassins. I glance around, trying to make eye contact with the others I recognize, but they avoid my gaze.

I grind my teeth. What are they doing? All five of us working together could break through our zip-ties, disarm the guards, and drive a vehicle through the gates. We even practiced situations like this at the academy.

"Four-two-seven-five," I mutter the code under my breath, my gaze wandering around the room.

Branson, a dark-haired operative from the year below, offers me a subtle nod. I glance at Greta, who stares at me through wide eyes before blinking YES in morse code.

Over the next few minutes, I capture the attention of the other operatives, and each of them confirms they will execute the attack sequence. Greta even messages the name of their client, GALLIANO.

Heart pounding in anticipation of a fight, I twist within my restraints, trying to find the right angle to break free.

"What are you doing?" The scarred guard from earlier rushes at me with the gun.

"What does it look like, asshole?" I break my wrist free of the zip-ties, snatch his weapon, and shoot him in the thigh.

With a roar, he drops to his knees.

"Get her," someone yells.

The rush of movement I expect from Branson, Greta, and the others doesn't materialize. Instead, the Montesano goons surge forward, while my colleagues remain as stiff as tin soldiers. I swing the pistol toward the nearest guard. Before I can even think about firing, my ears ring with the sound of gunfire and my arm burns with white-hot pain.

Agony radiates across my shoulder and down to my spasming fingers. A massive body slams into my side and knocks me on the stone tiles with a painful thud.

I raise my free arm to fight back, when a guard unleashes a barrage of punches that leave me seeing stars and gasping for breath.

"Bitch," he bellows as the room spins.

The last thing I think about as my eyes roll to the back of my head isn't my failure, or even if Britt made it to Miranda. It's my colleagues' cowardice and utter betrayal.

They agreed to fight with me and escape. Instead, they set me up as a scapegoat. Even in a life-or-death situation, these bastards never change.

From this moment on, I will take any chance I get to save myself and to throw the Moirai under the bus.