Page 105 of Wraith

“Good luck,” Havoc says, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice.

Then they’re moving. Havoc and Mayhem toward the front door, low and fast. Evan, Breaker, and Goldie disappear around the side of the house toward the back entrance. Bishop takes position near his truck, medical kit ready, his pale blue eyes already cataloging potential injuries before they’ve even happened.

Molly and I stand near the vehicles. Waiting. The gun feels heavy in my hands.

Seconds stretch like taffy. I count heartbeats. One. Two. Three.

Then the front door explodes inward with a crash of splintering wood. Havoc’s laughter, wild and unhinged, echoes through the neighborhood. Gunfire. Shouting. The back door must have gone down at the same time because I hear more shots, more voices, everything overlapping into chaos.

And then Wraith screams again.

This one is worse. Longer. Deeper. The sound of someone being broken in ways that can’t be fixed.

Something solidifies inside me. Some decision I didn’t know I was making until it’s already made.

I’m going in.

Because New June fights for what’s important. New June doesn’t stand on the sidelines while someone she loves is being destroyed. Even if he betrayed me. Even if he tied me to a bed and left me to die. Even if every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is suicide.

I take a breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly.

Then I walk toward the house.

“June, what the hell are you doing?” Molly’s voice rings out behind me, sharp with alarm. “They told us to stay put!”

“I can’t. I can’t just stand here and listen to him die.”

“You’re being crazy!”

“I know.”

My feet hit the front steps. The door hangs off one hinge, wood splintered around the lock where Havoc kicked it in. Inside, the house is a storm of bodies and gunfire and screaming.

“Wait up,” Molly says, suddenly beside me. Her shotgun is up, ready. When I glance at her, she shrugs. “If you’re going to be crazy, at least you’ll have backup.”

We step through the door together.

The living room is in chaos. Mayhem has someone pinned against the wall — I recognize Hawk’s face contorted in pain. Havoc is trading shots with someone in the kitchen. There’s blood on the carpet, on the walls, spattered across a family photo hanging crooked near the stairs. Then I see him. Bruiser. Massive and mean, holding a shotgun, swinging it toward Mayhem’s exposed back.

My body moves before my brain catches up.

I raise the Beretta. Line up the shot the way Wraith taught me. Breathe out. Squeeze.

The gun bucks in my hands. The shot goes wide, punching through drywall three feet to the left of Bruiser’s head.

But it’s enough.

He turns, distracted, just for a second. Just long enough for Mayhem to spin and put two rounds center mass. Bruiser drops like a puppet with cut strings.

“Nice distraction!” Mayhem shouts, grinning like a maniac. “He almost killed me. Isn’t this fun?”

More gunfire. More shouting. I see figures running through the kitchen, out the back door. Moose’s distinctive build. Irons right behind him. And Midnight, that terrible smile visible even in profile as he disappears into the early morning light.

They’re running. The Sons are running.

Then silence crashes down. My ears ring from the gunshots. Smoke hangs in the air, acrid and choking. Havoc is breathing hard, checking his brother for injuries. Evan appears from the back of the house, face spattered with blood that might be his or might not.

“Clear,” Breaker calls from somewhere deeper in the house.