Page 122 of Trigger Happy Ending

“Take what you need,” Carson instructs as he grabs a set of keys hanging from a hook near the door. “And let’s go.”

I move, grabbing two guns and four knives. Fuck it, I’ll grab a pair of ninja stars too. As I load and strap the weapons to my body, Carson watches me.

“You’re not a weapons dealer. Are you?”

I glance over my shoulder at him, but don’t stop what I’m doing. “Weapons expert.”

It’s not a lie; I am. But it’s still only half the truth. Carson knows this is leverage for him. When this is over—and providing Raine and I both survive this—I’ll owe him one. Carson doesn’t do shit out of the goodness of his heart. He’s self-serving. And right now, I’m okay with that. As long as he helps me find her.

And once I find her, I’m going to kill every last motherfucker who put their hands on my girl.

Chapter 50

Raine

Is this how I’m going to die?

How ironic I find myself in the same position as one of my most recent assignments. Blindfolded and chained to a chair in a cold, dank room. Or is it a basement? No. Not a basement. I smell oil and rain and can hear running water, but not from pipes. It’s coming from outside. A stream or river maybe? Or is it raining? I can’t tell, my hearing is fuzzy, warped; there’s a ringing in my ears making it hard to distinguish what sounds I can hear.

I need to keep pushing through the struggle.

I won’t have any ch—

My blindfold is crudely ripped off my face, followed by the duct tape that was plastered across my mouth. A layer of skin from my lips is removed with it, but I hardly feel the sting. My body is wrecked in worse places.

“Hello, darlin’.”

I squint through my swollen eyes to see who is talking to me, but all I can make out are shadows. My eyes are still adjusting to the sudden light. I clock two guys on my left and three to my right. All flanking this gruff-voiced prick who is kneeling in front of me.

“You’re in a world of shit. You realize that, huh?”

Forcing my swollen eyes to open wider, I finally get a decent look at him.

Blinking the caked blood from my lashes, I spit in his face.

He cops it, and I watch my blood-laced saliva drip down his bearded face. I smile. I can only imagine how psychotic I must look. Purple and blue face, bloody nose, mouth, and teeth. Sweat, grime, and dirt all over me.

Chuckling, he uses the back of his hand to wipe my bodily fluids from his face. He stands tall, pausing just for a moment, before he backhands me, my jaw nearly shattering at the impact. Then comes his fist, slamming into my stomach. The wind is sucked from me. I gasp for breath and spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor. I don’t cry out; I’m not giving this asshole the satisfaction. Besides, I’ve been trained for interrogation. I can find a place deep in my mind and disassociate from what’s happening to me. Even if my insides are bleeding and fading out with every minute that ticks by.

Something cold presses on my temple. A gun. His ugly, bearded face drops close to mine.

“You took out our New York chapter. Who hired you?”

I slowly open and close my jaw before spitting out a tooth. I run my tongue over my front teeth and breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn’t one of those. Funny, isn’t it? The mind. Imagine being in so much pain it reverberates throughout your core (honestly, I think I might be dying) and being worried if your smile still looks pretty? It’s irrational, but you can’t help what your brain does when it’s desperately clinging to life.

“Her. Name. Was. Cherry.” I don’t recognize my voice, it comes out raspy, wet, and thick. A sign that I could be bleeding internally. In fact, I know I am. It’s like I can feel my insides beginning to drown.

“What?”

“Cherry,” I choke out. “And you fucking dogs took her life.”

The bearded monster’s eyebrows knit together as one of the thugs in the background says, “This was about Derek’s dead old lady?”

Another one chimes in. “All this for her?”

I struggle to swallow. My throat feels scratchy and tight.

“Her. Name. Was. Cherry,” I grind out through gritted teeth.