Page 4 of Dreadful

Malcolm gestures with his gun to the right with a few, quick flick of his wrists. “I’ve waited a long fucking time for this vengeance, sweetheart. Don’t make me put one through you to get it.”

Something hot and sharp flashes through me then, burning straight through the panic.

God, I am so fucking tired of men talking down to me.

“Eat shit, sweetheart.” The trigger phrase leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

TWO

BELLAMY

Two sharp cracks explode through the warehouse almost on top of each other, followed immediately by grunts of pain as two Devil’s Hands jerk backward, blood spraying across the concrete. I pull the trigger, clipping Malcolm in the shoulder, and he jerks back, falling into the guy behind him.

Chaos detonates instantly.

Something moves against my lower back—a brief, focused pressure, the quiet rasp of metal on leather—and then Rafe's hand closes around the grip of my gun and tears it free. He steps around me in one fluid motion, already firing. I catch a glimpse of a knife disappearing back into his boot as he surges forward, and I realize, distantly, that his hands were never going to stay zip-tied for long.

Men shout over each other as bodies lunge for cover, boots screeching against concrete while gunfire erupts hard enough to rattle through my ribcage. One of the Widowmakers crashes sideways into a support beam clutching his shoulder while another drops to one knee with a strangled grunt, blood pouring between his fingers.

Above us, gunfire erupts from the catwalk shadows in rapid succession. Fuck, my sister is a goddamn menace. I love her all the more for it.

“You’re fucking dead, motherfuckers,” Abel curses sharply from somewhere. “You hear me, Calloway?”

Widowmakers and Devil's Hand scramble for cover behind forgotten machinery and rusted support beams. Our time is up.

Beckett slams into me hard enough to almost knock me sideways before shoving me behind a stack of old shipping pallets. “Jesus Christ, Bellamy. What the fuck is going on?”

“Time to go, baby,” Rafe shouts over his shoulder, walking both of us backward as he continues to shoot. “We can’t stay here. Lead us out the back, Beck. I’ll cover.”

A bullet catches a nearby Widowmaker in the leg, and the man drops with a howl, his gun skidding across the concrete floor.

The world narrows to the percussive rhythm of gunfire and the solid wall of Rafe’s back. My own blood roars in my ears, a frantic counterbeat to the shots tearing through the dark. I pivot, my free hand finding his belt loop, anchoring myself to him. My gun stays up, trained on the shifting shadows to our right, every muscle coiled for a threat that could emerge from anywhere. Ahead, Beck moves with purpose, leading us deeper into the warehouse’s cluttered belly.

“You know, I was worried today was gonna be boring,” Rafe says over his shoulder with a flash of teeth. “What's the plan here, baby?”

Another shot rings out from above. Sparks explode from an electrical conduit near the ceiling, briefly flooding the warehouse in flickering white light. But it's enough for me to see Malcolm storming toward us, bleeding and gun aimed at Rafe, and murder in his eyes.

No.

My body moves before thought catches up. I shove hard into Rafe’s side, throwing us both off-balance. We stumble sideways into a leaning tower of rotted, splintered pallets. Something hot and sharp tears across my bicep—a white-hot rip that steals my breath. My foot catches on a broken board and I pitch forward, face smashing into the solid wall of Rafe’s chest.

He fires twice—deafening cracks right beside my ear—as his arm locks around my ribs, hauling me upright against him. Something wet and warm soaks through my sleeve. I glance down. Dark red blooms rapidly across the fabric. “Oh, fuck.”

“Beck!” Rafe’s shout is rough, urgent.

My brother materializes beside us, his eyes widening as they land on my arm. “Bells,” he exhales, voice thin.

I try to wave him off, but my arm won’t lift properly. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.” The words come out tight, strained.

“Cover us,” Rafe orders my brother.

“Thirty seconds,” Beck says with a nod, giving us his back.

Something shifts in Rafe’s face the moment his eyes drop to my arm. Gunfire still tears through the warehouse around us, bullets punching into rusted metal and old machinery while men shout over each other somewhere beyond the stack of pallets shielding us. None of it seems to register.

For a few dizzying seconds, the chaos blurs at the edges. Gunfire, shouting, the acrid bite of gunpowder thickening the air—none of it reaches me. Not when he’s looking at me like that.

“What the fuck did you just do?” The words come out stripped down, almost careful.