Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy #2)

I stride into the room, drawing the attention of the three other players and the dealer as soon as I close the door behind me with a decisive click.

The dealer will never speak of what he sees in this room because he owes me his life. I stopped him from being murdered execution-style on a street corner by a crack dealer when he was sixteen. He also knows that breathing a word of what happens here would be a betrayal resulting in the same fate he escaped. Besides, he makes a healthy living, has a pregnant girlfriend that he’s planning to marry next month, and wouldn’t dare put her and the baby in jeopardy.

The other players are a dirty city councilman, a megachurch preacher, and an oil baron who has ruthlessly driven people out of their homes to expand his territory. With the dirt I have on each of them, they wouldn’t dare talk either.

As I cross the room, I don’t speak. Actions carry more power than words, and power is what I know. I stop a foot behind the lieutenant’s chair and grab him by the black braid at the base of his skull. I wrap it around my hand and, with a yank, jerk his head backward until his neck is overextended. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

When he drops his hold on the girl’s hair, I rip him out of his chair and drag him over the back of it. Using his braid as a rope, I lift him off his feet, watching them dangle inches above the floor as his expression morphs into shock.

I may be over forty, but I push my workouts to the max every day. I learned firsthand too damn young that sometimes brute strength is all that stands between you and your worst nightmare.

The skin of his scalp stretches until a chunk of his braid rips free, leaving a bloody patch of skin attached to the hair in my hand. His feet hit the floor first, but his legs give out and he drops to his knees in front of me.

Exactly where he belongs.

A stream of unintelligible Spanish follows, but it doesn’t matter what he says. No one crosses the line here, no exceptions.

He puts both palms on the floor, ready to jump up. Not happening. Before he can move, I slam a heel down on the hand that he used to touch her, crushing the bones beneath my handmade Italian shoes.

His pathetic scream won’t leave the room because of the soundproof walls and door.

I look at the girl, taking in the red marks that circle her throat from where he must have grabbed her before I arrived. Disgusted, I toss the braid on the floor in front of him.

I believe in street justice. Not only an eye for an eye, but that retribution comes threefold. When I grab him the second time, it’s by the throat, and I drag him toward the wall and lift again until his spine slams into it.

He tries to speak, but the pressure on his windpipe makes it impossible. His eyes bulge, finally showing a hint of fear, and I’m taken back to that night. The night that ultimately forged the man I am today. The call girl on the floor becomes Hope, and this piece of shit is the sick fuck who tried to rape her.

I release my hold for a moment, ignoring the constant buzzing of my phone in my left pocket as I reach into the right and slip my fingers into an accessory I’m rarely without.

He catches his breath, his hand cradled in front of him, and the begging in Spanish comes again. He should save his breath. He’s not walking out of here tonight, and everyone in this room knows it.

When I remove my hand from my pocket, my fingers curl into a fist around my 24K-gold-plated brass knuckles. I pull back and deliver a single punch to his throat, crushing his windpipe and snapping his neck. The raised letters on the brass knuckles leave an impression: Mount.

His body slides to the floor as I step back and return my knuckles to my pocket, flexing my hand.

“Have someone take out the trash,” I tell J before I reach for the door handle and pause.

I turn, meeting the horrified stares of each person in the room. I have no doubt they feel the brutality emanating from me, and I will have no problems resulting from this night. If anything, my legend and their fear will grow.

Satisfied, I open the door to the main room and shut it behind me before finally reaching into my pocket to pull out my phone.

I have eight texts from V, and six missed calls from the control center.





Mount





“Where the fuck is she?”

“Her apartment. She got out, and somehow we missed it because . . . well . . . we were watching what was happening in the blackjack room. But we started trying to reach you as soon as we realized it,” L, one of the control-room staff explains over the phone. “V is on his way there already. He wouldn’t wait.”

V’s getting a motherfucking raise.

“What the fuck happened? How did she get out without you seeing?”

L doesn’t dance around the issue; he knows I accept no excuses. “We fucked up, boss. Didn’t have her tracker up on-screen because she hasn’t tried to run. Didn’t expect her to try.”

“I’ll deal with you later,” I grind out, and disconnect the call.

Nothing matters right now but Keira.

I don’t read the eight texts from V, but I guarantee between those and the missed calls from the control room, I would have known she was gone a lot fucking sooner if I hadn’t been finding an outlet for my frustration that didn’t include fucking her into submission.

I head to the garage where a few of my cars are kept and grab the keys to the Porsche 918 Spyder. I’m not fucking around, and it’s the fastest car I own at the moment.

The engine is already revving when I press a button on the steering wheel, accessing a private camera feed only I have access to. When it flickers to life on the small dashboard screen, I press the button again, toggling through various feeds until it shows Keira in her apartment’s bedroom. I wait for a few minutes and watch as she finds the box and flings it against the wall, cursing me. And then curses me again when she realizes what’s inside.

I knew a day would come when she’d escape or I’d let her return to her apartment. I’ve wanted to tell her a hundred times that it was me that night at the masquerade, but I knew it wouldn’t make her hate me any less. So, why did I leave the evidence? Because part of me has always wanted her to know the truth.

The fact that I thought she was waiting for me and not that fuckwad Brett still burns.

The engine roars and the tires of the Spyder roast as I tear out of the garage and onto the empty street. I know the fastest route to her apartment easily, because I’ve driven it more times than I would ever admit over the last several months.

I may be a brutal man, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that patience is its own reward. Obtaining Keira has been the ultimate exercise in that lesson.