Page 60 of Gunnar

As the sun bleeds out over the Pacific and the sky turns beautiful shades of plum and orange, Jagger, Hawk, and I prepare to move. We gather in the kitchen, checking weapons and gathering gear with the silent efficiency of men who’ve done this too many times before. All of us veterans of slipping into the night to deliver violence and not once looking back.

When we finish, I find Devyn on the terrace. She is standing at the rail overlooking the crashing surf, wearing a shirt that’s too large—mine, I quickly realize—and leggings that hug her toned body. Her arms are wrapped around her chest, hugging herself. Devyn turns to face me, and I instantly notice the fear in her eyes, the worry she’s been trying so hard to hide for the past twenty-four hours.

I cross to her without speaking, pulling her into my arms and kissing her with a passion that borders on desperation. I pour everything into it—love, fear, and my determination to keep her safe—and she responds with equal fervor, her fingers gripping my shirt and holding her body to mine like she’s trying to merge us into one being.

“Be careful,” she whispers when we finally break apart, her lips lingering against mine.

“I always am,” I lie. What we’re about to do is the opposite of careful. It’s fucking reckless.

She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. “Gunnar, if something happens to you⁠—”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I interrupt, my hands framing her face. “But you need to listen to me. You stay with Damon. You do what he says, when he says it. Do you understand?”

She nods, her lower lip trembling. “I understand.”

“Promise me,” I insist, my voice rough with worry. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

“I promise,” she whispers. “But you have to promise me, too. Promise you’ll come back.”

I kiss her again, hard and brief, tasting the salt of a few rogue tears. “I promise,” I vow, hoping with every ounce of my being that I can uphold it. Though in this line of work, I know it’s one I might not be able to keep.

I leave her, standing over the ocean in my stolen shirt, and head inside without looking back. If I do, I might not be able to walk away.

The drive to the Hollywood Hills takes a little over an hour, the city lights giving way to winding roads and gated mansions perched on the cliffs. Colton’s home is a modern monstrosity of glass and steel.

We park the SUV a quarter of a mile away, in the shadow of a construction site for yet another vanity project, and we move on foot from there. The three of us are dressed all in black—tactical pants, long-sleeved shirts, and boots that make no sound. We wear masks that cover everything but our eyes, and gloves that ensure we leave no prints behind.

Hawk takes point, his bulk surprisingly silent as he navigates the terrain. Jagger follows, his knife already in his hand, his movements loose and predatory. I bring up the rear, my gun a comforting weight against my thigh, my heart hammering a steady rhythm of anticipation and rage.

Colton’s security is a joke. It consists of cameras that Mattis disabled remotely ten minutes ago, a gate that’s easily climbed, and a guard dog that’s far more interested in the steak Jagger brought than in alerting anyone to our presence. We scale the wall surrounding the property, drop onto the manicured lawn, and move toward the house with the confidence of men who own the night.

Finding the back door locked, Jagger produces a set of picks from his pocket and has it open in a few seconds. We slip inside, the air conditioning hitting us like a wall of cold, sterile air. The house is dark and silent.

Mattis’s intel had already confirmed that Colton would be home alone tonight. We move through the ground floor, clearing rooms with practiced efficiency, until we reach the staircase that leads to the second floor and the master suite. Hawk goes up first, treading lightly and making no sound on the polished steps. Jagger and I follow, our weapons drawn, our breathing controlled. At the top of the stairs, Hawk pauses, listening for a moment before he signals toward a door at the end of the hall.

The door is slightly ajar, the sound of snoring drifting through the gap. We move as one, bursting through the door with the violence of a storm. Colton is in bed, alone, the sheets tangled around his waist, his face relaxed with sleep. Hawk has him by the throat before he’s fully awake, dragging him from the bed and slamming him against the wall with a force that shakes the picture frame beside him.

A choked gasp scrapes up Colton’s throat as I press my gun against his forehead, my finger on the trigger, and eyes locked on his through the mask. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice thick with sleep and terror. “Please, don’t. I have money. I can pay whatever you want⁠—”

I flip on the light with my free hand, the sudden brightness making him squint. When his eyes adjust, I reach up and pull off my mask, letting him see my face. I want him to know exactly who has come for him in the middle of the night. My voice is flat and cold, I ask, “Do you know who I am?”

Colton stares at me, confusion warring with fear in his expression. “No… Wait…” His eyes widen, recognition dawning slowly through the panic. “You’re…”

“There ya go, little buddy,” Jagger goads from behind me. “You can do it. Use your words.”

“You’re the guy from the other day,” Colton says, his voice gaining a desperate edge. “Devyn’s… You’re her⁠—”

“I’m her everything,” I finish for him. “And you’re the piece of shit who’s been stalking her. Who’s been photographing her and fantasizing about hurting her.”

Colton’s face pales, the blood draining so fast I almost see it happen. “I got the message loud and clear,” he stammers, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. “I was just fucking around the other day, okay? I didn’t really mean anything by it. I was just… I was being an asshole. I know I was, but I wasn’t serious⁠—”

“And the women back in New York?” Hawk asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates with barely suppressed rage. He tightens his hold on Colton’s throat as his enormous frame casts a shadow over Colton’s trembling form. “Did you not really mean anything by that, either? The restraining orders? The assault charges? The women you paid off to keep quiet?”

Colton’s mouth opens and closes with no sound coming out. He’s shaking, his naked body pressed against the wall as if he could melt through it if he just tried hard enough.

The three of us share a disgust for men who treat women poorly. Hell, it’s what truly bonded us all together in the first place—the night we almost lost Mattis over a decade ago, where we gifted Abby the vengeance she deserved. It’s also one of the few things that ever truly causes Hawk to unravel, stripping back his careful control and revealing the predator beneath. And watching him now, the way his hands clench and unclench, and his jaw works with the effort of restraint, I know this task will be easier than I thought. Hawk wants to break him as badly as I do.

We rough him up, methodically and efficiently. Compliments of the training provided by our government, we deliver pain that leaves marks but no evidence of systematic torture. Jagger works his ribs with short, brutal punches that drive the air from his lungs. Hawk holds him up, his hands vise-like on Colton’s shoulders, his thumbs digging into nerve clusters that make him scream. I use my gun, not to shoot, but to strike, opening gashes on his cheek and brow, helping him understand that his pretty face means nothing to us.