23. Callum

"The plan is simple,"I start, the table between us littered with maps and scribbles. "We hit them hard and fast. No mercy."

Quen's eyes are sharp like he's already playing the scene in his head. "They need to bleed." His words are ice, but his mind is fire, calculating the moves before we even make them.

"Got them," Harry states, grim-faced and ready to kick serious ass. I know he feels guilty for letting them take Vogue, but even the best of us can be outnumbered. He's already paid the price by being shot and living with whatever shit Vogue has had to deal with while she has been with the Vipers. I'm not adding to that unless she's hurt or worse. Then all bets are off.

Harry checks his watch and then looks at each of us. "In the city, Beats club. I don't need to tell you this has cost us. A lot."

"Fuckers," I growl. "Don't worry about that now. We'll get it back. After we've got Vogue. Let's move." But I am worried. This has cost us turf, pride and a whole shitload of other stuff I can't think about right now.

"Take out anyone who stands between Vogue and us," Thayer adds unnecessarily, voice steady, hand on his knife.

"Remember, we're not just fighting for her tonight," I say, feeling the weight of my gun at my back and the knife in my boot. "We're writing our names back into the rules of this game."

Quen hefts his double-edged axe onto his shoulder, a fine piece of craftsmanship that is pristine, even though I know it's hacked more than one asshole into tiny pieces.

"They're going to regret this," he growls as we head out to the black van Thayer secured. We pile in, me driving, and Quen riding shotgun, silent as a grave. Harry's fingers tap a rhythm on his knee that's anything but calm. Thayer's gaze flicks from window to window, like he's already seeing ghosts, the movement of his knife through his fingers never letting up. His idea of ‘warming up'.

The van eats up the miles, black as the mood inside it as we head into the city in the dead of night. Vogue has been with them too long. Anything could've happened to her, but I can't think about that right now. Focus on getting inside and finding her, and then we deal with the shit afterwards.

The club comes into view, neon lights bleeding into the night. My hands grip the wheel tighter, the leather groaning under the pressure. The Vipers won't know what hit them. Not until it's too late, and they're choking on their own blood.

The van rolls to a stop, tucked in the shadows of the side street. I kill the engine, and the four of us sit there for a second, letting the reality of what's about to go down sink in. The club's pulse is a dull throb from here, but it's about to escalate. I turn, locking eyes with each member of my crew.

"Time to storm the castle," I say, voice stripped of any bullshit. "No more playing around. We're going in hard and fast. All of us together, through the back."

Quen nods, his face set in a mask devoid of any emotion.

I pop the glove compartment and grab the spare piece, checking the clip. Metal slides against metal, a sound that's come to mean business. My fingers work without thought, ensuring every bullet is seated just right. You don't get second chances in this game, not when you play at this level.

"Check your gear," I instruct. Each click of weaponry being primed is an echo of our intent. We're not going in for a chat; we're going to tear the place apart.

"Let's go get our girl," I say, and that's all the motivation we need. We step out into the night, moving as one toward the neon haze of the club. It's time to take back what's ours, and God help anyone who stands in our way.

We're shadows slipping through the night until we reach the pulsing glow of the club and slip into the alleyway filled with people smoking or throwing up. A couple fucking on a skip makes me want to lose my own breakfast. They don't give a fuck. Low level scumbags. Nothing more.

There's no hesitation now as we approach the back door; I smash my boot against it, and it gives way with a crash, wood splintering. The world behind the scenes is caught off guard, chaos erupting like a sudden storm.

The first guy comes out of an office straight for me, face twisted in surprise that shifts quickly to rage. He swings. It's sloppy, amateur hour. I duck and pivot, and my fist connects with his jaw. There's a satisfying crack, and he drops. Blood sprays, hitting the wall of the corridor we're moving down with precision. More rush in, figures blurring as music thumps, a sharp backdrop to the violence.

Raising the gun, I fire.

One, two, three—they fall, bodies crumpling for me to step over.

I don't look back at the guys. They can handle their shit. My only mission now is to find Vogue. I start kicking doors in.

The Vipers rally quickly. They come at us with everything they've got—knives flashing, guns drawn—but we're an unstoppable tide. Harry and Thayer are grim reapers at my side, cutting down anyone who dares stand between us and Vogue.

A door at the back catches my eye. "There," I murmur to Quen, who looks up from swinging his axe like a madman.

I kick it open. "Jackpot."

Stairs plunge into darkness. I go down, Quen on my heels, our footsteps heavy on the wooden steps. Every step down tightens the coil in my gut, fury simmering hot and dangerous.

We emerge into a dingy basement, and the first thing I see is Vogue, half stripped, chained to a bed. Two guards look up and then rise when they see it's us, hands reaching for their guns.

But they aren't quick enough. Not by a long shot.

Quen's axe swings through the air, its edge catching one guard across the throat. Blood arcs, and the man clutches at his neck, gurgling, eyes bulging in shock before he hits the ground.

The second guard aims his gun at me, but he's trembling, fear in his eyes. I aim and fire before he can squeeze the trigger. The bullet sinks into his chest, and he drops with a loud groan.

We are surrounded within seconds, Thayer and Harry joining us with half a dozen Vipers on their tail.

"Hold tight, Vogue," I state. "This won't take long."

My blood boils at the sight of her, but I push it down. These bastards have touched what's ours. I don't think; I act. I'm on them before they can even react, my gun death incarnate as I squeeze the trigger. The Vipers fall, tripping over themselves and each other in their panic to get away from the fury of The Crowned Syndicate.

Thayer's blade is a silver flash in the dim light, carving paths through flesh. He's silent as always, but his eyes tell the story—anger, protectiveness, a hint of satisfaction with every thrust and parry. Harry uses his fists and knuckles, which are coated in red, and his face is set into a mask of grim determination. Quen's axe is dripping blood. He hacks limbs from bodies; the screeching from the violence feeds the devil inside me, and I turn to Vogue.

"Who touched you?" I growl.

"Pinkie," she stammers.

I pause in my rage. "Who?"

She gives me a weak smile. "The one you shot first."

Spinning back to the asshole that is still alive, gurgling as he chokes on his own blood, I crouch over him, pulling my knife from my boot. "You touched what's mine, and now you will die, but before you go, I'm going to make you suffer, you little prick."

My words are ice, no hint of emotion as I press the blade against his skin. He whimpers, but I've got no mercy left in me. I carve into him slowly—precision guided by rage. He screams, but the sound is drowned by the club's pounding bass. His blood stains my hands, and it feels glorious.

Quen's shadow falls over us, letting me know we are clear, for now. "Callum, we've got to move," he says, voice taut with urgency. "They've called in reinforcements."

"Get Vogue." I nod, knowing he's right. We can't linger with Vogue vulnerable, and our power at the university is compromised. I stand, wiping my blade on the soon-to-be-dead man's shirt before turning back to Vogue.

Quen is already by her side, raising his axe to bring the incredibly sharp blade down on the metal chaining her to the bed. She whimpers, her eyes are wide, watching us with terror but trust as well.

I get to work on the cuffs around her raw wrists, using the tip of my knife to pop the locks. As soon as she is freed from the manacles, she clings to me for a moment before we all turn our attention to getting out. The club is chaos above us – alarms blaring, people screaming.

"Can you walk just while we get up the stairs?" I ask, deftly pulling her shirt closed and tying it off as best I can to cover her up. We could carry her, but we'd be leaving our hands tied instead of free for more carnage.

She nods, even though her legs are shaky.

We move up the stairs in tight formation, Vogue in the middle, protected on all sides by our violent promise. The sense of urgency is discernible as we push through the maze of bodies and wreckage.

Quen cuts a path through the havoc, and we burst back into the now-empty alleyway. We're stained in blood, breathing heavily from exertion and adrenaline. The van's waiting where we left it, so I scoop Vogue up into my arms and carry her towards it while Thayer, showing what a sneaky fucker he can be, pulls the pin on a grenade with his teeth and tosses it down the alley to stop anyone from following us through the back, the front being crowded with panicked club-goers with no clear route for anyone to get out.

As the explosion rocks the alley, I slide Vogue into the back of the van, and Quen climbs in after her, brushing her hair gently out of her face. She gives me a weak smile, and then he holds her tightly. I leave them to it as I leap back into the driver's seat, Thayer and Harry clambering into the back and slam the door closed behind them.

Vogue launches herself at Harry, holding him close. "You're alive."

He grunts from the agony of having his shoulder jolted by the fight and her hold on him, but he hugs her back just as fiercely. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"It's okay. We're both still here."

After that, none of us says a word. The silence isn't comfortable, but it's necessary. We're all processing, recalibrating after what we've just been through.

My mind is now reeling from everything we've had to sacrifice for this mission.

We lost something tonight, some piece of the authority we used to hold over Crestmont. We'll get it back, but at what cost?

As I pull up outside her building, it's like we all breathe for the first time since we busted through the doors of that club. We've done more than save her; we've sworn an oath, not in words, but in spilt blood and shattered bone.

We get out, and I'm the first to reach the building's door, pulling it open. Thayer and Harry are right behind me, forming a shield around Quen, who has Vogue in his arms. Her breath hitches, and she clings to him.

Her flat door has since been fixed and swings open easily. Quen lays her down on her couch, her sanctuary. This place is small, simple, but it's hers. A part of her life untouched by the chaos we bring.

Closing the door quietly, I lock it, sliding the new bolts across it. "You can stay here in your own place, but we are not leaving you alone. We will sleep in shifts and do whatever is necessary to ensure that this never happens again."

"Okay," she murmurs, either not having the strength to protest, or just happy with my orders.

We settle around her, battered and bruised, but unbroken. I can feel it—the shift in the room, in us. The night's horror has forged something new, a determination as sharp as the blade I carry.

"I need to shower," she states suddenly.

"I'll help you," Quen says immediately.

He is the one who has been with her; he is the one that she feels closest to, so we let them go, but none of us take our eyes off the door to the small bathroom. We will never take our eyes off her again.