My heart sinks at the realization that he's dressed up not just to show off how much of a fancy-ass motherfucker he is, but it must be because today is the day that he'll be forcing Madison to marry him.

  Shit.

  "Yes, Jackson. Today's the day," he gloats. "You know, she's not excited to marry me. You should see the way she squirms when I kiss her, or even when I touch her. But she knows about you. Knows that I'll have your skin peeled off your body while you're still alive if she does anything to cross me. So she's doing a rather admirable job of playing the enthusiastic bride today, even though she's also found out about me and her friend Ashley."

  He laughs.

  I wish I had my hands free. Oh, what I would do then.

  "I can see you are enjoying your time here. That's good. I am, too," he continues. "Victor, you are doing excellent work with these two, but I'm afraid I have to tell you that Jackson and Marcus are to have things easier today. They have something very important to watch: my wedding. And what I do to Madison later tonight."

  With a snap of his fingers, he directs one of his men to set up the monitor in front of us. After a minute, it flickers to life and I have a view of some fancy event space, where rich people in rich clothes circulate and do rich people things, like chit-chat, talk about their stock portfolios, or their last trip to the Hamptons—I don’t fucking know.

  "Enjoy," he says with a malicious cackle. Then he turns to Victor, his face serious. "The ceremony begins in four hours. I'll be fucking her just hours after that. Both of them must watch everything, so staple their eyes open if you have to."

  "With pleasure, boss," Victor says, in a tone that tells me he'll definitely get pleasure out of it. Again, I'm glad for him that he enjoys his job, but I fucking hate that I'm on the receiving end of his joy.

  Without another word, just a disdainful glance, Alexander and his men leave Marcus and me alone with Victor Stone.

  Victor grins. “It’s almost showtime, boys.”

  Time is slipping away. I have only hours to prevent the tragic union and rescue the woman I love from the man who makes the devil look like Mister fucking Rogers.

  I lock eyes with Marcus, our unspoken bond conveying our shared understanding and determination. He knows what we need to do, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to help me save Madison.

  But how?

  In the depths of our silent exchange, a plan takes shape. I nod, and it begins.

  Marcus lets out a bellow of pain, his body doubling over. "Oh my fucking god, my insides hurt so much. It feels like I ate week-old Taco Bell," he gasps just seconds before he vomits a mixture of puke and blood all over the front of his shirt, his pants, and into a projectile stream that pools at his feet.

  "What the fuck?" Victor snaps. "Stop that."

  "Ain't like I want to do this," Marcus says, before unleashing another monsoon of puke. After a heavy gasp once the spray settles, he gives Victor a forlorn look. "Something's wrong, man. Something's really wrong. There are bubbles inside me, man. Fucking bubbles. Oh fuck, something's ready to come out the other end, too."

  "Don't you fucking dare, or I will beat the living Christ out of you."

  "You think I—a grown fucking man—want to shit myself with liquid poop and blood? Do you think I'm having a good time here? I know you hate me, Victor, but nothing about this is even close to my idea of a good time. I’d rather you stomp on my face than go through this, because it feels like my fucking asshole is on fire and my body's about to unleash a stream of liquid shit to put out the blaze. Oh, no… Get ready, Victor—the shit train's a-coming."

  "No, don't—" Victor shouts.

  "If you don't want me to make a lake, you better get me to a toilet," Marcus screams. “Now.”

  "Fine, but don't you fucking try anything." Victor cautiously stalks to Marcus, handcuff keys out in his hand.

  "The only thing I'm trying to do is contain the boiling river of shit in my rectum," Marcus retorts.

  When Victor gets to Marcus' chair, I seize on the distraction and brace my wrists against the handcuffs, recalling knowledge gained from 1980s action movies and confirmed by YouTube—which I know are not the best sources to risk your life on, but they're all I've got right now—if you dislocate your thumb, you can slip out of handcuffs.

  After a sharp inhale, I brace my left thumb joint against the steel of the handcuffs and wrench it.

  Hard.

  A groan forces my mouth open as a monumental pop erupts from my left hand. My vision wobbles. I feel close to vomiting, just like Marcus, but then the cuffs slip free.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Victor snaps, reaching for his gun.

  "Kicking your ass, that's what," I scream as I charge. "It's time for some fucking payback."

  As I move, the pain in my hand intensifies, but I push past it. Adrenaline courses through me, dulling my pain; all I can think about is Madison and how I need to get to her, I must get to her.

  Victor fires, but I'm already on him.

  The bullet rips by my head, kissing my ear with a gentle breeze before hitting the far wall.

  I unleash.

  Fists, elbows, knees, a torrent of retribution on his ugly mug. Skin lacerates, ruptures, bleeds.

  But Victor’s not a fucking rookie—he’s done this shit before; hell, he gets paid for it. He hits back. Hard. Pain flares, blooms, boils through my right side, and as my vision dims, I feel my legs give out.

  We circle each other, fists up, hearts on fire.

  Victor and I are equally matched—we're both trained well, we're both willing to kill, but I'm fighting to save the woman I love, while he's fighting to take her away and hurt her.

  Nothing’s going to stop me from getting to Madison.

  Not even Victor Stone.

  "Fuck you, Victor," I scream, my words colored by a surge of blood and spit. I charge.

  He swings, a heavy blow forcing a halt to my attack. "Fuck you, Jackson. You're fucking dead." The barrel of his gun comes up, and knowing my fucking luck with guns, I lash out hurriedly, smacking the barrel as a blinding flash sends me staggering.

  The bullet hits the ceiling, sending dust everywhere.

  He closes in for the kill.

  I swing again, blasting his jaw with my dislocated hand and making the both of us roar in pain.

  My knees shake as agony floods me, but I fight on.

  So does he.

  Our fight carries us through the room, battering into busted tool benches, into abandoned storage crates, and finally, I lock my hands around his throat just as we crash into the abandoned Kia Rio on the lift. We smack into it with a heavy thud and then tumble to the ground, entwined in a deadly struggle.

  After a series of blows, Victor stuns me enough that he’s able to get a steady grip on his gun. He aims the weapon, intent on murdering me.

  I hit him once and then, with all my strength, maneuver him into position with one hand, while my free hand wrestles with his gun hand. It's a subtle shift to get him where I want him, but he's so intent on shooting me he doesn't notice.

  Not until I suddenly release my grip on him, and with one quick movement, pull the release lever on the car lift, sending more than a ton of steel crashing down on Victor Stone’s head so quickly he doesn’t even have time to scream.

  There's a sharp, wet snapping noise; blood, bone, brain matter sprays out from beneath the automobile in a wide, flat arc, dousing my legs in viscera.

  Victor's legs go stiff, sticking out straight, rigid. His arms, too.

  Gradually, a pool of blood grows beneath his broken body.

  "Serves that asshole right," Marcus says. "Now, can you get me out of here so we can go save your girl? Cause I sure as shit don't want to stay here and watch her have sex with that rat-bastard Alexander. No, I'm not even tempted at all. At. All. Even though she’s got a great ass." Then he winks at me.

  After I roll my eyes at him, I find the handcuff keys in Victor Stone’s blood-drenched pockets. Jingling them, I hold them out to Marcus and head toward him slowly.

  “I’ll let you out, but you need to promise me one thing.”

  “Jackson, I puked blood on myself and you want more from me?”

  “Promise me you’ll never mention Madison and Alexander fucking ever again.”

  “Deal,” he says. I let him free and he stands up, stretches, and grins. “So, Bullet, you want to go crash a wedding with me?”

  Grinning, I gesture for him to follow and start toward the door.

  “Thunder, I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Madison

  My dressing room is an opulent, gilded cage of misery. Mirrors cover the walls and reflect my blush-tinged face and the existential fear that lurks underneath the makeup; the sconces draw luminous patterns on the gold and red fabrics that cover them. Adorned with silk flowers, frills, and lace, a table stands by my vanity holding an array of powders, perfumes, paints, eye shadows, and rouges.

  A large window overlooks the grand event hall, allowing me a glimpse of the luxurious festivities below and, like a queen observing her subjects, I can survey the grandeur that awaits at my wedding to the most horrible man I've ever known.

  My trembling hands fidget with the delicate lace of my wedding dress, which fits perfectly, as the Covingtons spared no expense in literally flying in tailors from Milan in order to have my dress made. My heart pounds with terror and anxiety, though I force down any urge to vomit—as much as I hate everything happening, this dress is such a lovely creation that, even though it was a gift from the worst man in the world, I'd hate to even dirty it. It'd feel wrong. Deeply wrong. Like scribbling on the Mona Lisa or smashing the head off the Venus de Milo. It even has pockets. Pockets. In a wedding dress. That alone makes me cherish it.

  Still, the suffocating weight of my impending wedding sits on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs and drowning out all hope. I can see my future stretched out before me—a cruel, loveless marriage, full of slights, full of disrespect, full of spousal transgressions, full of threats, a marriage that feels more like a death sentence than a union of love, followed by, probably, an execution once I’ve outlived my usefulness.

  "You look radiant," Ashley says the second she opens the door to my dressing room. I frown at her. She looks stunning in her bridesmaid's dress and triumphant in her manipulations and machinations. "Alexander is going to absolutely love how you look in that dress. I'm jealous, Maddy."

  "Don't call me that," I snap. "You have no right to use that name with me. Only my friends can call me that."

  "Don't think you have a choice, Maddy.”

  "Bitch," I mutter beneath my breath and I turn away from her and walk to the window, looking down at the festivities below. Momentarily, I debate hurling myself through the glass. Would I die? Would the fall free me? The distance is enough that it just might. But then I shudder at the alternative—survival—and I imagine what would happen to me if the fall simply wounded me, or left me partially paralyzed; I'd be even more at Alexander's mercy than I am already.

  No, I can't. As much as I want to, I can't.

  "I thought I told you to wait outside. I don't want anyone with me while I get ready," I say. "That's what Alexander said, too. So why are you disobeying him, Ashley?"

  "They asked me to check on you. To make sure you're still following along with the plan."

  "Asked by who?" I say. There are few people in this city who could get Ashley to go against Alexander Covington. At one point, I thought I was one of them.

  "By Mr. Covington," Ashley says, her voice going hushed. No matter how old, how distinguished, how powerful Alexander Covington becomes, whenever he is in his father's presence, there will only be one 'Mr. Covington.'

  My eyes seek him out in the crowd below. He isn't hard to find. I just look for the spot where the most people are doing the most groveling. And there he is, holding court. Holding court amongst the crowd that, even as I leave this room and step into their midst, I'll still be completely alone within. I have no friends here. No family, either, at least not in the way it counts.

  It's just me. Alone. Trapped in this impending death sentence with no one to save me.

  Suddenly, something catches my eye. Alexander makes his way through the crowd to exchange a few words with his father, who replies with a simple shake of his head and a raising of his eyebrow that sends Alexander, my husband-to-be, scampering away like a six-year-old.

  I smile as a spark of something ignites within my mind. I'd love to call that spark hope, but it'd feel too naïve. Too much has taught me that hope is nothing more than a fool's gamble, something that people who don't make plans, don't make calculations, don't make preparations, trust in to cover their lack of intellect.

  What I see is an opportunity.

  "Go, Ashley. Tell Mr. Covington and whoever else that I'm nearly done getting ready. I won't make the ceremony late, they can be assured of that."

  Ashley leaves, and the second she is gone, I fish my cellphone out of my bag and my fingers dance across the screen with a flurry of determination.

  A quick search confirms my suspicions.

  Then, still on my phone, I compile a spreadsheet. A storm of numbers, of calculations, of citations—from news articles, from financial magazines, even from several YouTube clips of financial reports—get added to my spreadsheet.

  I have never worked so fast, so thoroughly.

  But then, I've never had such stakes; not even my thesis paper has so wholly commanded my attention.

  When it's done, a triumphant smile curls my lips.

  I have a plan.

  Excitement surges through me and my eyes scan the crowd below, searching for my next target, the next stage of my plan.

  I have to do this just right. Flawlessly.

  Or else I may as well call myself Mrs. Covington and go drown myself in the bay, because my life will be over.

  I see him. My target.

  Adjusting my hair, checking myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath—as deep as I can considering how tightly this dress fits my chest; it's tailored so well it feels almost like a second skin—and then I slip my cellphone into one of the subtle pockets sewn into my wedding dress, an elegant feature that makes me smile because it exists, and then I step out into the hallway. Melodic strains of a string quartet float through the air, calling me forward.

  I advance. Until the scent of gourmet delicacies hits my nose, appetizers provided by the caterers for the revelers, so tantalizing to my senses with the aroma of seared filet mignon, truffle-infused risotto, and champagne-soaked strawberries, that I almost regain my appetite.

  I continue down the hall in pursuit of my target.

  But no sooner do I round the bend and descend the stairs toward the event hall than I see that things have shifted and my intended is nowhere near where I need him.

  Quickly, I grab the first guest I see: an older man with a gigantic paunch and a beard that strains to cover his bulbous neck and six chins. His name is Howard. He runs a mining company, and we met the night before at the celebratory dinner.

  "Excuse me, Howard, have you seen my future husband?"

  He sputters for a moment. His cheeks are red, and not just from the heat of the assembled crowd and the effort of keeping his bulk in the suit he's wearing, a suit that looks like it was made for him two chins ago. He's drunk.

  "Alexander? You want to see Alexander? Madison, it's bad luck for a bride to see her groom before the wedding."

  "Then I'll keep my eyes closed," I retort. "Howard, it's important that he and I talk."

  "Cold feet?" He says, knowingly, cupping his hands around his prodigious gut and nodding with a smug look on his face. "It's only natural that you feel that way. You know, back when I was about to get married for the first time, I felt that way, too. See, what you need to do is..."

  Sensing that he's about to start on a man-needlessly-explains-the-world-to-me tangent, I clear my throat. "Whatever. Yes. I just really need to talk to Alexander. It is about the wedding and it is important. So, you can either tell me where he is or, when I find him, I can tell him and everyone else in his family that you weren't very helpful. Do you want Jonathan Covington to hear that about you?"

  That shuts him up. His eyes bulge at me in a way that is incredibly satisfying.

  "He went to his dressing room. His father told him that his tie wasn't tied to an appropriate standard. Which means he'll probably be in there for a good twenty minutes before it's fixed. Maybe half an hour."

  "Thank you, Howard, you've been most helpful," I say, patting his arm and smiling at him. He's been nothing close to helpful, but people like him need to feel like they're the most useful, sagacious people in existence or else they'll make problems for you later.

  Then I race down the hallway toward Alexander's dressing room, pushing my way past guests, relentlessly ignoring everyone, thankful for the formidable shield that my elegant wedding dress and my potent angry bride face provide.

  Finally, I'm outside Alexander's door.

  My heart is wild, like it wants to rip open my ribcage and make a run for the exit. My stomach is twisting itself into some new form of knot that would befuddle a boy scout.

  But my will is firm.

  Set.

  Determined.

  This is it. The next phase of my plan.

  I tap my phone for reassurance and then reach for the doorknob.

  It all depends on this moment: confronting my husband.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jackson

  Bloody, battered, but not broken, we step outside into an overgrown parking lot, filled with weeds, oil stains, and shrapnel from long-wrecked cars. Facing the sea, with mountains lined with dry scrub at our backs. A stretch of road runs parallel to the sea, stretching off as a straight line into the horizon. This is one of the many middle-of-nowheres that stretch along the beautiful Pacific coast, a place perfect for riding, yet impossible for figuring out where the fuck you are aside from the fact that you're somewhere along the western edge of the continent of North America. The ruined old mechanic shop behind me is someone's dream, their aspiration that the surrounding nowhere might grow up to support their business, or their hope that enough unlucky souls would find themselves broken down nearby to sustain their dreams. Either way, they failed, and now their old shop is nothing but a lonely grave for the terrible Victor Stone.