66. Chapter 66

66

Wren

" A quick in and out," I mutter, the lie bitter on my tongue as I hang a sharp left onto Rustbucket Road, a strip of cracked asphalt that looks like it's been through a war.

The sun's sinking fast as I cruise through Chicago's old industrial district. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel of this piece-of-shit rental truck. Every few seconds, my eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Nothing yet, but that don't mean shit.

I pull over near a rusted-out warehouse, kill the engine, and sit for a moment. The silence is fucking deafening. Reaching into my pocket, I fish out the crumpled paper where I'd scribbled the address Jake gave me over the phone. 1492 Dockside Lane.

I'd called him from a payphone at the motel—didn't trust my cell. Luckily, the junkie bastard was still breathing.

"Alright, let's do this." I hop out of the truck, my boots crunching on broken glass.

Jake's new digs are a far cry from his old apartment. It's a squat, ugly building that looks like it's one stiff breeze away from collapsing. Guess the city got too hot for him.

I rap on the steel door, three quick knocks. A panel slides open, revealing Jake's bloodshot eyes.

"Well, if it ain't the Ghost of Christmas Past," he drawls, swinging the door wide.

I shoulder past him into a space that smells like stale beer and desperation. "Save it, Jake. I'm not here for a trip down Memory Lane."

He chuckles, shutting the door. "Always in a rush, ain't ya, darlin'?" His bare feet pad across the concrete floor as he moves to a cluttered workbench. "Got your party favors right here."

Jake tosses me a flip phone. "Burner. Clean as a whistle." Next comes a wicked-looking combat knife, seven inches of gleaming steel. Finally, he slides a Glock 19 across the bench. "Nine mil. Fifteen rounds. She ain't pretty, but she'll get the job done."

"Thanks." I pocket the phone, then bend down, sliding the knife into the shaft of my knee-high boot. The cold steel against my skin is a grim comfort. I straighten up, grab the Glock, and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.

"So," Jake says, leaning against the bench. "You gonna tell me what kind of shitstorm you're walking into?"

I holster the gun, avoiding his gaze. "Better you don't know."

He snorts. "That bad, huh?" Jake runs a hand through his greasy hair. "Look, Wren. This Russian war… it ain't like the old days. Ivankov Bratva's been cracking skulls left and right. They—"

"I don't need a history lesson," I snap. But something in his tone makes me look up. Jake's eyes are serious for once, worry etched in the lines of his face.

"These ain't your garden variety thugs," he presses. "They're stone-cold killers. No mercy, no hesitation."

I don't have time for this. My hands clench into fists, anger coiling tight in my chest. "I don't care what they are, Jake. I'll kill them. All of them." I hiss.

He flinches, his eyes narrowing as if he's trying to figure out how far I'm willing to go. "Wren…"

"What?" I snap, stepping closer. "Let them keep coming for my family? Is that what I'm supposed to do? Stand by and watch?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping under the weight of something I can't quite place. "I get it, alright? Just… be smart. Go in with a plan. And if it goes sideways, you get the hell out of there."

For a moment, I see a flicker of the guy I used to know—the one who wasn't completely consumed by drugs and street life. It throws me off balance.

"I can handle myself," I mutter, but my voice lacks conviction.

Jake steps closer, his eyes searching mine. "Can you? This isn't some bar fight or pissing match with local dealers, Wren."

I turn away, unable to bear the concern in his gaze. My eyes land on a corkboard covered in newspaper clippings. Headlines scream about turf wars and rising body counts.

"Jesus," I breathe. "It's really that bad?"

Jake nods grimly. "Worse. The Bratva's been consolidating power for months. Anyone who stands in their way…" He drags a finger across his throat.

I swallow hard, fear crawling up my spine. But I push it down, lock it away. Can't afford to be weak. Not now.

"Thanks for the intel," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "And the hardware."

Jake nods, then hesitates. "Wren, I… I'm sorry. About everything."

I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. "Yeah," I manage. "Me, too."

I stride toward the door, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the past. But Jake's voice stops me.

"Hey," he calls softly. I glance back, seeing a mixture of concern and regret on his face. "Watch your six out there."

As I climb in and start the engine, my phone buzzes.

"Welcome home, little bird. The party starts at midnight, and we expect a smooth transition of power. Tell no soul, or your sister and Daddy Dearest will be swimming with the fishes. Clock's ticking."

Attached is a photo that makes my blood run cold. Em and John, bound and gagged, fear plain in their eyes. A masked figure stands behind them, holding today's newspaper.

"Fuck," I hiss, slamming my fist against the steering wheel.

"What do I do?" The words come out choked, desperate. A tear rolls down my cheek as Alex's face flashes through my mind. My little boy, innocent and oblivious to the shitstorm swirling around us. If I make the wrong move, he could lose everything. His mom, his aunt, even the grandfather he's never met.