Page 52 of Reaper
The safe room is stark and blindingly bright, lined with towering server racks and a massive desk littered with burner phones and ledgers.
The Ares broker cowers behind the desk.
He's a soft man in a tailored suit, entirely out of place in a war zone. His hands tremble violently as he grips a silver-plated semi-automatic pistol, aiming it wildly at the doorway.
"Put it down." Frost keeps his rifle trained squarely on the broker's chest.
The broker's eyes dart frantically between the two of us. He takes in the tactical armor, the blood soaking my clothes, the absolute lack of hesitation in our stances.
"You're dead." The broker stammers, the silver pistol wavering in his grip. "Both of you. The syndicate will?—"
The threat dies in his throat.
My sidearm clears the holster in a fraction of a second. The weapon kicks in my hand.
The round punches directly through the bridge of the broker's nose.
The impact snaps his head back. His body collapses in a boneless heap behind the mahogany desk, knocking a stack of ledgers onto the floor. The silver pistol hits the concrete, sliding across the polished floor and comes to a rest against the server racks.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Lowering the sidearm, I stare at the blood pooling around the expensive leather shoes jutting out from behind the desk.
The network is broken. The threat is severed.
Addy is safe.
The sudden, total absence of adrenaline hits my system like a physical blow. The jagged pain in my ribs flares, overriding every other sense in my body. My knees buckle.
Gravity drags me down. I hit the concrete floor hard, the rifle clattering loudly against the server racks.
Frost is there in an instant. He drops to one knee, tossing his rifle aside. His hands grip my tactical vest, keeping me from collapsing entirely onto the floor.
"Kade, secure the perimeter. Flint, Riot, sweep the rest of the house." Frost's voice echoes in his comms, tight with an urgency I haven't heard in four years. "I need a medkit in the safe room. Now."
"On it, boss." Flint's voice crackles over the radio.
Frost shifts his attention back to me. His gloved hands move quickly, ripping the velcro on my tactical vest open to expose the cracked chest plate. He tosses the shattered ceramic aside, pressing his fingers gently against my bruised ribs.
A groan tears out of my throat. My vision swims, the bright fluorescent lights blurring into a halo.
"Ribs are cracked. Maybe broken." Frost mutters the assessment under his breath. His eyes scan the bloody mess of my left arm. "You're a stubborn bastard."
"Yeah, but she's safe." The words taste like ash.
Frost stops working for a fraction of a second. His hands hover over the cracked armor. He looks down at me, the harsh light illuminating the deep, exhausted lines around his eyes.
The anger that has defined our relationship for years is gone. The judgment is gone.
"Yeah." Frost pulls the velcro strap tight, securing my vest. "She's safe. You did good, little brother."
The words settle into the quiet of the room, heavy and final. The rift doesn't magically close. The blood isn't washed away. But the isolation of the last four years shatters, leaving something raw and real in its wake.
"Come on." Frost hauls my uninjured arm over his shoulder, lifting me off the concrete with raw physical strength. "Let's get you home."
SEVENTEEN
The Return
