Page 42 of Dark Reunion

Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him, his footsteps vanishing into the commotion outside.

Yasmine sagged against the wall, knees trembling. She pressed a fist to her mouth, swallowing bile, swallowing fury.

Next time, I’ll be ready. Next time, I’ll put those scissors in his throat.

DEAN

The alarm ripped through the compound. Dean leaped from the desk and was on the run, as instinct took over. The training never left him, reflexes burned too deep. He stopped at the weapons room that guards were rushing out of and shrugged out of his suit jacket. He kicked off the useless dress shoes and yanked on a pair of shitkickers before loading up on weapons. He grabbed everything from knives, a handgun and an AR-15 from the wall rack, shoving extra mags into his belt. By the time the second alarm blared, he was in the corridor, boots hammering stone.

Gunfire echoed outside, sharp bursts, and answering volleys. Shouts tangled with screams. The gates had been breached, and the courtyard was under attack.

Dean burst through the doors, into chaos outside, and assessed everything in a single glance.

Two SUVs smoldered near the gates, riddled with holes. Bodies sprawled in the dust, blood seeping dark into the sand. Muzzle flashes, bullets pinging off walls as intruders surged through the gate.

Who the fuck were these guys?

Forty men, maybe more, guns raised, faces masked, rode in the back of pickup trucks and fired at the guards defending the property.

The colors of a cartel he didn’t recognize flew on flags attached to the vehicles. Carlos’s greed had finally backfired. He’d pissed off more than the Alvarez family.

Carlos himself stood high on his balcony, barking orders down like a general too cowardly to taste his own war. Dean didn’t hesitate. He plunged straight into the fight.

The first man came at him with a machete. Dean stepped inside the arc, slammed his elbow into the man’s throat, and shoved a knife under his ribcage before the body hit the dirt. He rolled, pivoted, dropped to one knee and fired a controlled burst that cut down two more rushing his left flank.

“A la izquierda, cover!” he shouted, the Spanish snapping out as a commanding order. The guards nearest him obeyed without thinking, swinging rifles to where Dean pointed. He’d given them order in the chaos.

Another intruder charged. Dean pivoted, sidearm out, two precise shots. Center mass. Down he went.

A truck raced through the far gate, spraying bullets from a mounted gun. Dean ducked behind a decorative stone half-wall, then sprinted low across the open courtyard. He slid under the spray, popped up beside the truck, and fired an entire mag into the gunner. The man toppled. Dean yanked open the driver’s door before he had time to react. He hauled him out, slammed his head against the frame until he went limp, then used the vehicle itself as a barricade, laying down covering fire.

He was everywhere at once, brutal efficiency cutting a path. Rifle to pistol, pistol to knife, knife to fists. Every move was clean, merciless, unstoppable. He was the walking embodiment of death. And in that moment, he remembered just how formidable he really was. From the time Carlos took Dean and his family from their home, Dean had been holding back, just as he had when he was a child and Carlos beat him into submission. Carlos couldn’t do that anymore, not if he didn’t let him.

Dean glanced up at Carlos on the balcony, growled, and shook his head in disgust as bullets rained down and Carlos ran inside for cover.

Men saw it. Guards who had followed Carlos out of fear now glanced at Dean with something different. Respect.

Ricco fought nearby, gun barking. Dean caught him freeze for a fraction of a second over a wounded attacker, his finger hovering over the trigger. A hesitation that would’ve been deadly if he hadn’t been watching. Lifting the rifle, Dean took aim, and as the injured man reached for a secondary weapon, Dean shot him in the head. Clean. One bullet and he was done.

Ricco looked over and nodded a thanks before they each took on more intruders.

Dean took a running start and vaulted the truck hood, tackling another man to the ground, and slammed the butt of his rifle into his jaw until bone crunched and he lay limp. Dean ripped the man’s own knife free and sent it spinning into the next attacker’s thigh. The scream was short-lived, Dean’s finishing shot silenced the wail.

Minutes stretched into an eternity of loud bangs and smoke. Finally, the surviving attackers broke, dragging their wounded, and retreating into the darkened skies beyond the walls. The courtyard reeked of blood and sweat. Bodies littered the ground.

Dean stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, dirt streaking his destroyed shirt. Two knives in his hands, both coated and dripping with blood. His eyes swept the men still standing…Ricco, Orozco, Matteo and a few others he recognized. They were staring at him, not at the balcony.

Not at Carlos.

Dean pointed to the damaged gates. “We need ten men to man the gate. They could be back. The rest of you gather the dead and lock up the wounded,” he ordered.

Before they could move, Carlos walked out the front doors. He was composed as though he hadn’t been hiding behind stone while others bled. He clapped his hands once, in mock applause.

“My son,” he drawled, voice thick with smugness. “Efficient. Ruthless. Just like I dreamed. A true Ramírez built for battle.”

Dean wiped blood from his knife. “I think you mean that I’m great at cleaning up your messes.”

Carlos smirked, but his eyes flicked to the men and then back to Dean’s face, annoyed that he’d called him out in front of his soldiers.