Page 73 of Tiny's Testament
They scan the lot together, eyes bright with mischief.
“Hope you boys got targets,” the first muses.
“Because we brought itchy knuckles,” the second adds.
Kensi walks past, smiling at Aloiki, who has removed his shirt and stuffs it in the saddle bag with a sigh of relief on his face. Both Twins peel off from their bikes and drift toward her at the same time, leaning on the same post with mirrored smirks.
“Hey, baby, you lookin’ cherry today.” One murmurs with a smooth voice.
“You look like you could use two very bad decisions tonight,” the other finishes, lowering his voice mischievously.
Kensi rolls her eyes. “Hard no.”
The Twins straighten, exchange a delighted look, and speak together. “She definitely likes us.” They fist-bump.
Capone glares skyward. “Why am I cursed?”
Aloiki laughs. “Eh, calm yo’ nuts, Prez. We stay here to help.”
“Tiny.” Capone grunts. “Brief them before I have a stroke.”
Leading Aloiki and the twins to Church, I lay out everything. The tracks, the drag marks, the likely sedations, the courier’s dying words. Everything that feels like it’s unraveling inside me faster than I can breathe.
By the time we enter the Chapel, the light fades from Aloiki’s grin. “That motherfucker, Lattimer.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Him.”
The Twins exchange a look, cracking their knuckles with eerie synchronicity.
“Well… shit,” one murmurs.
“Guess it’s violence o’clock,” the other finishes.
When Capone orders us to wait for a coordinated response, something inside me fractures. I hear the words, but my body refuses to accept them. Syvannah doesn’t have time for strategy. She doesn’t have time for negotiation. She doesn’t have time for anything except me finding her before whatever they injected into her bloodstream becomes the last thing she ever feels.
I turn and walk out before Capone is done talking. He calls after me, voice sharp with command, but my legs move anyway. “Tiny!” Capone roars. “You WAIT. We do this clean!”
“No.” My voice is gravel, smoke, blood.
Torch tries to stop me, hands raised as though approaching a wounded animal, “Brother, breathe.”
“Get out of my way.”
Trigger tries reason. “We can do this smart.”
“I’m done being smart.”
Dagger grabs my arm, desperate. “If you go alone…”
None of it gets through. Syvannah is gone, and the world has narrowed to that single unbearable truth.
“I’m not alone,” I growl. Because when I swing my leg over my bike, three more engines fire behind me.
Aloiki. The Twins.
They don’t ask permission. They don’t seek approval. They don’t even look toward Capone. They simply fall into formation behind me as though this is where they were always meant to be.
Aloki’s expression loses its usual brightness, replaced by a fierce determination that settles across his features like warpaint. “You ride, brother,” he says, voice low and steady. “We ride with you.”
