“Copy that.”

The door across the hall creaks open. The decoy steps into the dim light—a woman, same build as Blythe, same hair, standing just inside the small kitchenette that has old burnt coffee and stealth. Just enough for Winston to believe his lie a little longer.

The SUV doors slam. Footsteps.

I move into the corner, staying out of sight.

Then I hear him.

“Stay here,” Winston tells his men, his voice smooth, practiced. Dripping with control. Arrogance. He actually thinks this is going to end with him walking away.

Wrong.

The moment he steps inside the motel, my body locks up. Instinct takes over. My pulse evens out. Everything slows.

There’s only one thing left to do.

I wait for him to pass the threshold. The decoy flinches—just enough for him to smirk. He loves that shit. Fear.

Then, I see it.

The moment he realizes something is wrong.

His head tilts. His spine stiffens.

Too late.

I step out of my hiding spot, gun raised, pressing the barrel to the back of his skull.

“Hi, Winston.”

His body goes rigid.

Slowly, he turns.

His lips curl, an amused little smirk—but his eyes give him away. He’s afraid. Not that he’ll admit it.

“And you are?” he drawls.

“Your worst nightmare,” I say.

His expression barely flickers. “Where the fuck is my wife?”

“You’ve been served with divorce papers,” I remind him. “She’s nothing to you.”

His jaw flexes. Then he lifts his hands mockingly like this is all beneath him.

“She’s my wife. You think you or those fucking papers can keep her from me?” His voice drops, eyes narrowing. “I own her.”

I press the gun harder against his forehead.

“She was never yours.”

His lips part, but I don’t let him speak.

Gunfire explodes outside.

Sanford’s voice cuts through the comms, tense. “We’ve got company—three more, moving fast.”

Motherfucker.

Winston lunges.

I pivot, but he’s faster than I expect, his hand catching my wrist. The gun fires wild, slamming into the wall. I shove him back, but he’s already swinging.

His fist connects with my ribs.

Pain burns through me, but I don’t stop. I drive an elbow into his jaw, sending him staggering into the side table. He shakes it off, eyes flashing wildly.

“You think you’re some kind of hero?” he sneers, wiping blood from his mouth. “She’ll never be free of me. I bought her.”

I lunge.

His back slams against the wall, my forearm pinning him by the throat.

“She’s a person, not an item to be bought,” I grit out. “Not your punching bag or someone you can hurt because you’re a fucking monster.”

His hand scrambles for something. A knife. Small but deadly. He jerks it upward, aiming for my side.

I catch his wrist.