Dina Van Diem was invited, too. Shocker. A handful of other celebrities traveled down the elevators in groups, each with their own security detail. Ian's was the largest: Bruce, John, Vince, plus Albie and Pongo. They loitered, the chosen ones and their black-suited guards, in a dim, musty basement space, waiting until the whole party had arrived.
Which included, he noted with interest, Sal and Matt Moretti, and Nikola Howard. Nikola's gaze locked briefly with Ian's, but she glanced away again; she didn't recognize him from her office that day, with his hair down and his eyes uncovered. Thank God.
A small, nervous-looking man in a waistcoat stood in their midst, and as an investment banker and his poorly-aging wife stepped off the elevator, he clapped his hands to get their attention and said, "If you'll all follow me, please."
They crossed the basement, stepping around crates and boxes; at one point, Ian glanced back over his shoulder and realized he could no longer see the elevator they'd originally taken. Movement flickered behind a stack of boxes: a guard, waiting in the shadows. If anyone had second thoughts, and tried to go back, he had no doubts they'd be tackled into submission amidst the labyrinth of detritus down here.
Finally, they reached a freight elevator, and traveled down as a group – deep down, until the air became chilled, and Ian could see his breath mist in front of his face. Bruce ghosted a steadying hand at the small of his back, a silent bolster.
No one spoke, which Ian found odd. Yes, they were all flanked by security, but the moneyed crowd treated security like furniture; they never worried about what they might let slip in front of them. A few subtle glances side to side proved that his fellow high-rollers were watching the floors tick by up above; their eyes gleamed with anticipation, and that knowledge left him feeling sick.
When it glided to a halt, the elevator deposited them in a spacious, round room carpeted in burgundy. Tufted couches and chairs offered seating, and a waitress in a tiny dress stood at the ready with a tray of champagne. The little majordomo in the waistcoat encouraged them all to take a glass, and then led them down a long hallway flanked by oil paintings and wood-paneled doors. It was as if they'd stepped into a Georgian manor house, down to the chair rail and the faint hint of sandalwood in the air.
Their guide paused at a door halfway down, opened it, and stepped back, motioning them in with a flourish. "Here is where you'll be viewing tonight's proceedings. Your details may wait in the antechamber while you proceed to the viewing room. Let Natalie know if you have any questions or concerns, or would like a tour of the stalls before we begin. It should only be another twenty minutes or so."
The antechamber proved to be a small breakroom of sorts: coffee maker, fridge, sink, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and a window in the front wall that looked into the viewing room proper. Ian traded looks with Bruce and Albie before he nodded and slipped in – and then he ground to a halt.
In his new life of wealth and privilege, he'd been invited to a sporting event or two; invited into private boxes with glass front walls and cushy seats and bottle service. That was what the viewing room brought to mind. Plush theater seats in tiers, a minibar to one side, low lighting, speakers set in the walls, and an entire wall of glass...which looked down on a wide, round room, a stage at its center, lit with an array of spotlights. Empty, for the time being. He could see other boxes like his own, ranged around the upper levels of the room. There was no mistaking this for anything save an auction ring.
But it wouldn't be cattle or expensive racehorses trotted out tonight.
~*~
Moving was thoughtless. Tenny's body knew just what to do, without any input from his brain. Quick, silent steps, heel-toe, leading with the inner arch of his foot, knees slightly bent. It was dark, in the maze of cubicles, but not pitch-black. Enough ambient glow through the windows to tell shadows from man-shapes – one of which tried to hedge its way around a wall off to his left.
It was thoughtless, too, to fire, one fast shot, one crack through the silence, and watch the shadow slump to the floor.
More gunshots behind him: staccato, semi-auto-fire rounds. He heard a few grunts; the meaty slap of bodies landing, and he kept going, foot over foot, until he reached the door to the stairwell. There was a camera poised above it, red light blinking. He flattened himself to the wall beside the door and waited for Fox to arrive. They locked gazes, Fox nodded, yanked the door open, and Tenny rolled around the threshold and into the stairwell, ready to fire.
No one there.
He signaled with his arm. Forward. And started up, the scrape of boots following.
~*~
"First time?" Dina asked as she dropped down into the seat to Ian's left.
He spared her only the briefest of glances. "Am I that obvious?"
She chuckled and stroked his arm; he resisted the urge to snatch it back. "Everyone's always a little nervous at first. You'll get the hang of it."
He swallowed his rising gorge and said, "How many times have you been invited?" A little frosty for conversational, but she didn't seem to mind.
She gave an offhand wave. "Oh, a few dozen. It loses its novelty after a while. I haven't come in ages."
In more ways than one, probably, he thought, but managed to flash her a tight, toothless smile.
Out on the stage, the lights flickered once, twice.
"Ooh." Dina's hand tightened on his arm, and she pointed through the glass. "We're about to start."
Pulse pounding in his ears, he watched a dark curtain part; watched a thickly-muscled man with a shaved head and a gun on his hip march a girl forward, her hands bound, her balance precarious on sky-high heels. She wore a bra, and a skirt the size of a cocktail napkin, and her gaze, as she eyed the dark rows of seats, was wild and white-rimmed.
Dina clucked. "Shame about her hair."
It was red, same as the two spots of color high on her cheeks.
Ian's first instinct, as a smooth, detached voice floated through the speakers – "Tonight's first item is a twenty-two-year-old Minnesota student with..." – was to bid on her. To bid on every girl they dragged through the curtain; to take them all away with him, wrap blankets around them, and tell them their nightmare was over. Instead, he gritted his teeth, and waited.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a waiter leaned over the back of his seat and asked if he'd like something to drink.
"No, thank you. But I'd like to know where Mr. Waverly is. We have business to discuss."
"He's in his private box, sir, but I can take a message."
Ian waved him off. "No. I'll see him later."
When he was gone, Dina patted the back of his hand. "Don't worry, hon. Everyone's jumpy at first. It's exciting, right?"
Ian swallowed hard, and watched the redheaded girl get led off the stage and back through the curtain. "Right."
~*~
Footfalls muffled by the thick rubber of their boot soles, the strike team moved up the concrete stairs to the next landing. Through silent agreement, they opened this door as they had the one below: Fox pulling the handle, Tenny rolling off the wall and through the jamb first.
But this floor...
Tenny halted, because this floor was comprised of an entirely different setup, and for a moment, it paralyzed him.
All the lights were on, the fluorescent tubes droning overhead, beating down mercilessly on a stretch of empty tile floor. No cubicles, no walls, not chairs or desks. Nothing.
Save four doors. To the left, restrooms, men's and women's. To the right, one that led to places unknown. And straight ahead, marked storage.
It wasn't the same: there was no smoke, and the floor wasn't the same white as the walls and ceiling. There were no batons rapping on shields, and men coming at him from every angle, no crackled voice of his handler through hidden speakers: again.
But Tenny's breaths came in short bursts, and his clothes clung to the sweat beading his skin. His muscles twitched in anticipation of a brawl, of an all-out fight for his life.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Abe's quiet voice startled him. "We keep going up. We don't stop here."
The door to the men's room flew open, but Tenny didn't get a chance to see who or what or how many spilled out of it. Strong hands gripped the straps of his vest and yanked him back into the stairwell. The door clanged shut.
"Go," Fox ordered. "Up, go, go, go."
Tenny gritted his teeth as he went, because he wanted to fight. None of this firing off quick rounds and dropping stormtroopers without a challenge. He wanted to get his hands dirty.
A want the universe seemed to answer, because on the next landing, he heard the thunder of descending footsteps.
~*~
The girl on stage was so drugged she could barely stand. Her head hung forward on a limp neck, sheet of shiny black hair hiding her face. One of the thick-necked guards had to hold her upright. He gathered her hair in a fist and pulled it back, exposing her face – pretty, with almond-shaped eyes and painted lips – and tipped her head all the way back, so her throat was bared, fragile and bruised.
Beside Ian, Dina lifted her paddle, a fast, deft movement. She'd done this before. Many times. It was old hat for her. "My husband likes Asians," she said in an aside, and it took every ounce of self-control not to backhand her.
The waiter returned, puff of minty breath across Ian's face. "Mr. Waverly would like you join him in his personal box," he said.
Ian stood, hand tight around the head of his cane.
~*~
Fire. Reese's whole body was on fire. That was his first thought upon waking. The pain came from so many places that it all merged together until he was one solid bruise, laced all over with sharp, electric crackles of more acute pain. His head throbbed in time to his pulse, in time with his ribs, and his knees, and his feet. What had happened to his feet while he was out cold? Only one of his eyes would open, the other tender and pulsing, swollen shut.
He blinked and blinked, but his vision wouldn't clear. Everything seemed to tilt and sway around him. He couldn't feel his arms; wasn't sure they were even still attached.
Someone was talking in a low, furious voice. Hunter. "...the fuck is wrong with you?" Smack. "What good is he if he walks with a limp the rest of his life? What if a broken rib punctures his lung? He'll suffocate before I can get him intubated! Was there even one goddamn thought in your head while you were doing this?"
"I–" That was Jax, voice small now, uncertain. He fell silent against the crack of another slap.
"Gear up. Both of you. The alarm system got tripped."
"Dad–" Gray started.
"Go. See if you two fuckups can keep from getting killed by his friends. I want them dead, and I want it twenty minutes ago. We have to leave."
Friends. Tenny? Fox? Were they coming? Reese's heart lurched, and the pain swelled up, white-hot and awful, until he thought he might swoon again and had to breathe carefully, shallowly through his mouth until the wave of black spots faded from sight.
Leave. If they left here, Tenny would never find him.
Plastic crinkled, and a door closed. Then it was quiet.
Reese closed his one good eye, and when he opened it, Hunter's blurry face hovered in front of his own. Reese wase past the point of being startled; everything hurt too much for him to find shock in the soundless way that Hunter had moved to stand in front of him.
Not just Hunter.
Dad.
His father.
It seemed to take minutes to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Why?" he croaked, and even that hurt.
Hunter cocked his head to the side.
"Why...do you...want me back?"
Hunter studied him a long moment, before his gaze slid down his body, stopping somewhere along his legs. Reese wondered if the knife was still lodged in his thigh; he couldn't feel whether it was or not.
"I made mistakes," Hunter finally said, lips compressing, gaze flicking back up. "With these two. Gave them too much rein – allowed them too much...personality." He made a face, as if the word tasted foul. "They fear me, but they don't value what I have to teach them. You can change that. You can show them."
Each breath sent pain like knives through his torso, the fractured ribs plucked at nerves like guitar strings. "I won't."
"Oh," Hunter said evenly, unsmiling. "You will."
"They'll...they'll stop you."
He shook his head. "In about ten minutes, they'll be dead."
~*~
Tenny clicked his rifle over into full-auto. Ahead of him, black-booted feet appeared on the upper landing, shins clad in black tac pants like his own.
He opened fire.
"Christ," someone hissed behind him.
Bullets ricocheted off the concrete; one zipped past his ear; a sharp bee sting pain along the outside of his arm meant he'd been hit.
But four of the guards heading their way collapsed, their legs chewed to shreds, and toppled down the stairs toward them with a clatter of dropped guns and riot shields. They were alive, shouting and flailing, but in Tenny's experience, once you crippled a man, he stopped trying to fight you.
A shield slid to a halt in front of him, and he snatched it up, and charged up the stairs toward the rest, trampling men as he went.
Bullets hit the shield and cracks spiderwebbed across its thick plastic. 9mm rounds – not strong enough to punch through, but given enough shots and enough time, the plastic would weaken to a critical degree. So Tenny moved fast. He was running by the time he hit the landing. He dropped his rifle to dangle from its strap, drew a twelve-inch tactical knife, and then it was close quarters, and it didn't matter how many of them there were: he had a shield, and he had his life of training and toughening.
He stabbed a man through the soft skin inside his jaw bone, and whirled, blocking another shot with the shield, and reaching around it to stab another in the side of the throat.
A baton cracked against his knee. He gritted his teeth against the pain – again – because it was nothing he hadn't endured before. He ducked low, stabbed a thigh; hamstringed another man. Came up with a vicious swing of the shield, its edge cracking off someone's face with the wet sound of a nose breaking.
Spun, struck, ducked, dodged, struck, struck, struck.
He kicked a man in the back and sent him tumbling down the stairs. The crack of a single gunshot meant Fox or one of the others had capped him.
Tenny kept moving. His body worked with the speed and efficiency of an Italian sportscar; he was athlete and assassin both. His breaths measured and deep, his muscles flowing from one strike to the next, instinct driving every duck and every punch of the shield. He stabbed necks, and thighs, and the narrow strips of bellies between flak vests and belt buckles.
Again, and again, and again.
Until the floor was slick with blood.
A gunshot sounded right by his ear; a sharp crack, and then sound fritzed out, replaced by a high, tinny ring. Tenny slashed at a bare patch of wrist, and the hand spasmed, the gun falling soundlessly. All he could hear was his own breathing, and that awful ringing, throbbing inside his head. He slashed out toward a goggle-covered face–
And his foot slipped. Slid without purchase in a puddle of blood, and he overshot his target; stumbled forward until their chests collided.
He brought the shield up in his left hand, as the man tried to grapple the knife out of his hands. Cracked the hard plastic off the side of his helmet once, twice, three times. The man staggered, heavy and clumsy, weight falling against Tenny. He twisted his wrist and the knife met soft flesh, forgiving, tender; the blade went in, and in–
And something hard cracked across the back of his neck.
He stumbled, skidded in the blood. Then he was shoved. He lurched sideways, his chest hit the rail, and, ears still ringing, he went over.
He dropped the shield, and caught one of the metal balustrades. Gripped it tight. His body kept falling, though; swung down in a wide arc, like a clock pendulum, and he felt the pop, the give, the tooth-jarring pain of his shoulder dislocating beneath the force of his torquing body as his grip yanked him upright.
Nerveless, his hand opened. He was thirty-two floors up, and the gap between the climbing stairwells yawned beneath him, dark and bottomless. He was going to –
He jerked, and shuddered, pain arcing like lightning through his out-of-socket shoulder, and he glanced up to see that Fox had a two-handed grip on his sleeve.
All three of them were there, their goggles pushed up onto the helmets, no sign of any guards behind them. Devin leaned over the rail, joined Fox in holding onto him, and together they hauled him roughly back up and over the rail.
Tenny got his feet under him as he crested it, and landed upright, breathing hard through his mouth. A quick scan proved that all the guards were down, the floor a Pollock painting of blood.
He slipped his dirty knife back into the sheath at his hip, and reached to probe at his bad shoulder. The pads of his fingers felt like the stab of needles through his jacket.
"I heard your shoulder go," Fox said, as his flat, assessing gaze skipped over him, searching for damage. "Anything else?"
Tenny shook his head. "Put it back in."
Abe stepped up, gripped his wrist, and his shoulder, and with a fast wrench reset it. The pain blazed, so sharp it left his stomach cramping. But he could flex his elbow and wiggle his fingers after that.
Fox was in his face, suddenly, centimeters away. Beneath the battle-ready calm of his expression, his gaze burned. "Look at me."
"I'm looking."
Fox rapped lightly on the side of his helmet. "You still in there?"
Tenny tensed his arm, and the pain was so fresh, and so acute where the nerves had been wrenched and bruised, that it threatened, for one awful moment, to burn through his necessary haze of detachment. For one second of weakness, it was too easy to feel his own pain, and wonder how much worse it was for Reese right now.
Reese. That dopey blank look on his face, and his hesitant, barely-there smiles, and the way his hands gripped him sure and steady, no hesitation, no doubt –
NO. He clamped down on it. Clamped down hard.
He took a slow breath and pushed it back out. "No."
Fox dropped his hand to his shoulder and squeezed. It felt approving.
Somewhere below them, a door banged open, and a symphony of running feet floated up.
Fox turned him and pushed him toward the next bend in the stairs. "Go. Keep going."
Devin ran point this time, and Tenny went hot on his heels, shoulder throbbing slow and painful in time with his pulse.