31. Harrison

"Tell me I'm wrong,"I spit out as I smash another guy in the mouth. They're every-fucking-where, and I'm getting a good old dose of pissed-off to go with my deep suspicion. "This. Is. A. Set-up." I slam my foot into the guy's gut, making him stumble back.

Callum and Quentin glare at me from their positions in this all-out fight. Thayer, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen, but I know he's out there, taking down whoever he can.

We're cornered in this derelict warehouse, Vipers coming at us from all sides like they got tipped off to our play. We're outnumbered but not outsmarted—not with Quentin's brain working overtime and Callum's fucking born-for-this leadership.

My shoulder is fucking murder under this onslaught, but I crack my knuckles, feeling the familiar sting as another wave approaches. My focus shifts between survival and the burning need to find Vogue, because now I'm seriously worried about her.

"We end this," I say through gritted teeth, ducking a wild swing. "Or we don't walk out of it."

Callum nods sharply, "Back to back. Cover each other's six."

Quentin's already moving, his eyes scanning for the best strategic advantage even as he swings his fist, which connects with a satisfying crunch. "Harrison, left flank. I've got an idea."

In this chaos of fists and fury, my mind flicks back to Vogue. She's tough, but… "We shouldn't have left her."

Another thug comes at me with a pipe, showcasing his move like a goddamn amateur. I sidestep, grab his arm, and flip him over my shoulder with a grunt of agony without breaking stride because Vogue doesn't need a wreck to come saving her ass—she needs me sharp and ready.

"Go get her," Quen grits out as he lashes out with his knife. We are out of bullets, this fight is that hectic. "She's alone in that warehouse. Fuck knows what's happened to her already."

It's all I need to move my ass towards the door, dodging anyone who wants to get in my way. The sounds of grunts and the sickening cracks of bones fill the air, a grim symphony to the shitstorm we're weaving through.

I burst out into the open, scanning for the quickest route back to Vogue as I pull out my phone. Dialling her number while I run, it rings out. I sprint across the empty lot, my mind is racing faster than my legs. Vogue is tough, but this isn't her world; she didn't grow up with violence as a second language like we did. We're supposed to be her shield, her goddamn fortress, and we fucking left her exposed. I've let her down once already, I won't do it again. I can't.

A cold dread creeps into me, icy fingers wrapping around my core. She's more than just a mission, more than a responsibility—I feel that now with every step that eats up the ground between us. It's not just about keeping her safe because of some mafia codes or family honour—it's personal. Deeply personal. Things are developing in a way that makes my skin tingle, and while I know she's taken that step with Cal and Quen, Thayer and I won't be far behind. She just needs a deeper connection to us. Time.

We need time.

I dodge down an alley, hurdling over a low fence. All those workouts in posh gyms don't mean shit compared to adrenaline-fuelled terror driving you forward.

The warehouse where we left her looms ahead, empty and silent. I pause at the entrance, straining to hear anything that might tell me what I'm walking into—nothing but my own ragged breathing greets me back. Fuck.

The metal door creaks softly as I ease it open; I slip inside, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Racing up the stairs, I come to a halt when I see the binoculars case on the floor and no sign of Vogue.

"Fuck!" I roar and kick out at nothing. "This was a fucking set-up. Fucking Aaron." I don't need to be told this was his doing. He has her. I've no doubt in my mind. Dialling the phone again, I get Thayer.

"What?"

"Aaron has Vogue."

"Fuck."

"Get the twins and move out. Leave those Viper idiots to fight each other. This is bigger."

"On it."

Thayer hangs up, and I open the back door of the van and climb in, leaping over the front seats and onto the driver's side. Grabbing the keys from behind the visor where Quen left them, I fire up the engine, I see the three guys hurtling towards me, Vipers on their tails.

They dive into the van, and I slam my foot on the accelerator as Quen swings wide to get the doors at the back shut.

"Motherfuckers!" he yells.

"Don't stop, just go," Callum pants, sliding into shotgun as we face a sea of Vipers that literally has to be their entire crew. There's fucking loads of them.

I give Cal a dark smile. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

"Not fair," Thayer pants, sticking his head between the seats as I drive forward, hitting a few dudes before the rest part like the Red Sea.

"Just call me fucking Moses!" I shout, raising my fist in the air.

"Vogue," Quen says urgently from the back. "You sure it's Aaron?"

"Has to be. He is the only one she wouldn't have shot. And probably only because she would've been too surprised to."

"We are dead." He leans his head back against the side of the van, catching his breath.

"No fucking shit. The question is, where did he take her?"

"He won't hurt her, he's her father," Callum points out, but I'm not sure if it's for his sake or ours.

"Did you ring her?" Quen asks.

"Obviously. Rang out. Try again."

He dials on speaker, the ringing taunting us until it cuts to voicemail again.

"Shit!" I slam my hand against the steering wheel, weaving through traffic that is building up now we are hitting the city on the other side of Crestmont, each passing second a reminder we're miles behind where Vogue needs us to be.

"Calm the fuck down," Callum orders, his voice so cold it could freeze the blood in my veins. "Losing your shit isn't going to help Vogue."

He's right. It's the last thing I want to admit, but he's right. I suck in a deep breath and focus on the task at hand – getting to Vogue and ripping anyone apart who stands in our way, even if that is her own father.

The cityscape blurs by as I push the van harder, cornering like we're in a high-speed chase. Because we are. We're chasing time; every passing moment without Vogue is a countdown to a potential disaster.

Quen is quiet in the back, his mind working on overdrive. "He wouldn't take her anywhere secret. He has no reason to move in the dark. He will want to impress her and make her see the power he wields, which she can have if she accepts him and his legacy. They'll be at his office in the city."

"Swot to the rescue," Callum mutters with a quick grin at his twin. "But I agree. Head there."

With a decisive nod, I turn the van onto the ring road that skates the city, heading around and coming back through the one-way system into the heart of mayhem, which in rush hour is a ball ache we could do without. But this is where she is. She has to be.