“Are you positive?” he asks, his tone itching with doubt. “I know you’re a computer whiz, but you gotta be sure. This is our fucking lives, bro.”
I spin, fury hardening my jaw. “Yeah. I know this is our lives. I remembered that minor detail the second we stepped foot into this motherfucker. You’re the asshole who let that slip your mind. Not me.” A showdown of glares ensues between us before I start for the door again. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted too much time. There’s no reason to clean up anything because—as you pointed out—the cops couldn’t trace shit back to us if they tried. We’ve got everything we need, so now the only thing we have left to do is get the fuck outta here. Fast.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. No. Instead, I step out into the chilled night air, my nerves rocked as I open the van, tossing everything inside it. Mentally wasted, I turn and Brock’s standing behind me, his expression depleted of emotion as he pitches the duffel bag into the back of the van and closes the doors.
“I’m gonna be honest with you, bro, and you might not like it.” Brock wets his lips, any compassion he owned before tonight vaporizing as he shakes his head. “They were dying the second Dom pulled his gun on me.” Demeanor unnervingly calm, he slips around the vehicle and into the driver’s seat. “And for no one will I ever apologize for that. Not a goddamn fucking soul.”
Frozen, I stare at him, my brain knocking around his admission.
Dead the second Dom pulled his gun on me . . .
Dead the second . . .
Dead . . .
Christ. No matter what I did or said to get us the hell outta there without anyone getting hurt—the two assholes included—was all in vain. Brock knew he was taking the fuckers out the minute this nightmare began. I suck in a disturbed breath, aware this night will haunt me down to my bones, every sick detail played out in slow motion, terrorizing the rest of my life.
Brock fires the engine, his eyes vacant of the nervousness, fear, and regret feasting on each cell in my body. “Get in, Ryder.”
Jaw clenched and head fucked sideways, I hop in, my spirit beaten to shreds as I spark up a cigarette.
Brock kicks the van into drive, gunning it down the dark, graveled driveway. He cuts a hard right out of the property, a blaze of dust surrounding the vehicle as guilt returns, wrapping its lethal fingers around my neck.
Brock glances at me, his tone remaining calm. “I had to drop them. There was no way in hell—”
“Fuck!” I punch the dashboard, my knuckles splitting on impact. Sanity officially cracked wide open, I punch the dash again, blood seeping down my wrist as I try to catch a full breath. “Are you fucking nuts? We killed two people!”
“Am I nuts?” he growls, navigating the back roads of bumble-fuck nowhere. “No, my brother. You’re nuts. You need to wake up. If you thought for one goddamn second Dom was letting us walk outta there alive, then I don’t give a shit if you’re a genius on paper. You’re a moron if you thought he wasn’t killing us first.”
“You don’t know if—”
“If what?” He slams on the brakes, the van screeching to a stop. “If Dom was gonna spare our lives? Gonna invite us over for a bar-b-que next weekend? You know what? Maybe it is me who’s nuts. Maybe I confused him shoving his gun in my face with him wanting to ask me to be the godfather of his newborn.”
Silence reigns, nothing but our heavy breathing shrouding the space as Brock sinks a nervous hand through his hair. “Goddamnit, Ryder, think about what you’re saying,” he whispers, the first sign of morality swamping his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, think about how it went down. You know we weren’t getting outta there without him putting a bullet in our skulls. If I hadn’t done it, done deal—right about now—he’d be dumping our bodies into a shallow grave somewhere on his property. It’d be our families grieving, not his. It’d be my girlfriend, not his wife, losing her goddamn mind when we never came back. Fuck no. Amber’s been through too much shit. And did you honestly think I was gonna let him threaten her life the way he did? You think I’d be able to sleep, knowing the psycho knew what she looked like? I didn’t wanna kill him. Jesus Christ, I wasn’t born a murderer, bro, but I had to fucking do it. I had to because if I didn’t—whether you wanna admit it or not—Dom knew he was taking us out the second I opened my mouth to him.”
He hauls in a slow breath and punches the gas, the van speeding down the road as he stares straight ahead. “Again, I’ll never apologize for what I did. For what I had to do to keep you, me, and Amber alive. If I had to, I’d do it again.” Another breath as he swings his attention to me, a flash of fear jumping across his face. “I just pray my judge and jury remember what happened tonight when my time’s up.”
The remainder of the ride is spent in silence as I mull over what happened in the warehouse. I take a drag from my cigarette, feeling sick that I actually agree with Brock’s actions. He’s right. We were never walking outta there alive, and even if by some miracle we had gotten away without killing them, the fucker did threaten Amber’s life. Does this make me as warped as Brock? As shut down and cold as he’s become? I flick my cigarette out the window, unsure of any of the twisted emotions speeding through my head except for one thing . . .
The evilness of the night has forever stained who we are, stripping us bare of anything resembling a normal future.
The worst part?