I don’t think it matters how bad Luther is or how many deaths he’s responsible for. I’m struggling. Vigilante justice is one thing, but Everett being excited over dismantling him is … unsettling. Does he deserve that? Probably, but I can’t bring myself to give it a definite yes.

People aren’t cars. We can’t be taken apart and put back together. As soon as we’re apart, we’re dead, and there’s no coming back from that.

And I thought I could be a hitman.

“For the love of Judge Judy, Perry Nikov. You are a dumbass.”

“Ah … what?” Lars’s voice in my ear asks.

Shit. I forgot about the whole comms thing. “Nothing. I’m good.”

He chuckles, and it’s the warm kind of laugh I’ve heard him give St. Clare. “Don’t forget that luck is on your side today, Aries. You don’t need intelligence.”

“Well, thank fuck for that because I’m usually in short supply.”

That same laugh comes again, and it makes my chest all puffy. I’m slowly breaking him down.

“Anything on your end, Tommy?” Everett asks through the earpiece.

“Still quiet.”

“And we’re sure he’s in there?” I check for the twentieth time.

“Yes. I watched people leave after the mass brawl you set in motion to see if Arlie got out. No sight of her or Luther, just two guys entering and the bar being locked up tight.”

Yep. Not feeling any better about leaving Arlie.

I don’t know what exactly they’re waiting for, and I’m starting to get itchy feet. It’s okay for the others. Tommy and St. Clare are holed up watching surveillance, and Lars and Ever are on rooftops, whereas I’m right here. Lethal Poison is right there.

And Arlie has who the fuck knows what going on, and our so-called plans might be the very thing that has her wind up dead.

I’d also selfishly prefer for the last time I saw her to not be as I was tackling her to the ground and telling her to play dead. Besides, she has plenty more scathing remarks to send my way. Lethal Poison doesn’t exist without Arlie and her endearing forced disdain for me.

The longer I’m expected to wait, the harder it is to stay still. They’re so close and Arlie’s in trouble and Luther’s injured, and I have no clue who the hell these other guys are, but I like my chances. I’m nervous as fuck, but I still like my chances.

I grab my wrist, the usual need for comfort taking over as I seek out my bracelet. The beads are as familiar as breathing by this point, and having that smooth plastic under my fingertips always helps settle me.

Or at least it would.

If it was there.