Page 112 of Direct Action

Before I could ask, Pete was no longer cautious or alert. Instead, his tone was wary when he continued. “Muriel was found dead in her office at the Vault.”

I pushed to my feet. “Call me when you’ve got that signal back up. But right now text me the last known location.”

Aiden was quick to stand. “I’m with Ryan.”

I didn’t wait for Pete to confirm he’d heard me.

I ran as fast as I could the mile back to where we left the SUV. Not even the lead weight in my gut or the burn in my chest slowed me down.

Shit.

Fuck.

Shit.

Beckett Yates took in the woman secured to the Saint Andrew’s cross. Her back was torn to shit. With his expression carefully set to bland, he looked over at the bare-chested man. Sweat dotted his skin, his eyes hungry as he looked at what he’d created—welts, slashes, broken, bloodied skin. The tenting in the crotch area of his black slacks was a clear indication he’d gotten off inflicting the pain.

His gaze went back to the woman. Blonde hair that reminded Ryan of Poppy’s was in a braid, the tail tucked over her shoulder, not giving away the length. Head bent forward. Likely unconscious from the pain she’d endured. The edge of her pale-pink panties was stained red from the blood dripping, then soaking into the material.

Beck’s attention went back to the man, memorizing every detail. Vowing when this was over, he’d hunt him down. The piece of shit would feel every second of pain he’d caused this woman. Every goddamn second before Beck sliced his throat and watched him bleed out.

“I’m in guest house one,” the man said. “My room’s already set up. Deliver her there. I’ll want her available after dinner.”

Fuck, yeah, Beck was going bleed this fucker dry.

“Name?”

The man looked back at Beck.

“For the room. I won’t know which one to deliver her to without a name.”

“Gamble.”

Gamble.

Right.

Beck filed that away and watched the man leave the room, tagging his shirt off the bureau as he went.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Not much surprised Beck after years of undercover work living and breathing filth. He’d seen a lot, experienced a lot, done a lot. The lawman and the felon—the two sides that made the whole of who he’d become.

But the one thing that never failed to shock him, the one thing he could never reconcile, was the cruelty one human could inflict on another. The malice behind the act.

Fuck.

Months he’d been living on the ranch. Months and months, and he still didn’t feel clean. Months of breathing fresh air, and he still smelled the stench of his life.

Staring at the woman in front of him, he understood Ryan, why he wanted his woman and Poppy far away from this shit.

Once the stench permeated, once it seeped in and coated your insides, there was no washing it away.

There’s no unseeing this kind of brutality.