Chapter Twenty-Eight

One man walked in front of them, holding a taser as he led them through the hallways. The walls held no decorations—no pictures, no displays. It reminded her of the blank, cold blueprints Trace had shown her.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, the hardwood floors sending back a hollow sound, reminding her of a tomb—like the one her fallen sister had lain in.

She wondered how many others had walked this same route, falling victim to the Blanco family’s evil deeds.

Trace kept a firm grasp on her fingers, despite the pain he had to be in. He strode forward, standing tall as the man behind them stayed close on their heels.

The labyrinth spat them out into the same room Blanco had confronted them in before—the furniture had been cleared away, the sofa and chairs pushed against the walls. In the center of the room now sat the coffee table and the steel cane, on display and waiting for them.

For her.

In one corner, Jacob Blanco lay in his hospital bed, the oxygen tank letting out a hiss as it fed the dying man through the tubes tucked into his nostrils. An IV drip stood nearby, along with a blue box of some sort, helping to pump a clear liquid into the man’s veins—likely a painkiller. The thin hospital gown hung off his frail form, loose around his shoulders.

The hairless man glared at her, his lips turning upward into a sneer as she followed Trace into the room.

A candidate for Helheim like no other—she could smell his corrupted soul from across the room, begging for release from the rotted human body where it resided. He’d started this entire thing, set off the course of events that had brought her here, on the verge of starting Ragnarök.

Freyja willing, she’d see him off before her own death.

The two male nurses positioned by the elder Blanco’s bed stood silently, waiting for instructions.

Trace and Laila moved into the center of the room, their feet sinking into the dark red carpet. Lines crisscrossed the scarlet floor, showing where the furniture had previously sat.

Daniel Blanco came out from a side hallway, now wearing a black dress shirt and matching slacks. His dark hair was slicked back, and she caught a whiff of cologne.

The son of a bitch was dressed up like he was going on a date.

She turned to Trace, locking eyes with him.

No retreat, no surrender.

He gave her a slow nod—warrior to warrior.

She gave Trace’s hand one final squeeze before letting it go.

The men who had escorted them into the room moved to each side, one to her left and the other to Trace’s right—waiting to carry out whatever Blanco ordered.

Blanco moved to stand between them. “I offered Trace a deal. I assume he told you about it—your life and his for activating the spear.”

“You can’t speak for the Wolf.” She looked around the room. “None of you can. He won’t fulfill any of the promises he’s made.”

She flipped her ponytail back, glaring at each of them in turn. “Your lives mean nothing to him. He won’t spare you or any of your families after he gets what he wants. He will wreak death and destruction on this world and all the worlds, giving you and the ones you love only pain before you die. There will be no immortality, no surviving past Ragnarök. He is the Master of Lies.”

One of the attendants blinked, the only sign they heard her.

“Save your breath. These men are loyal to me and my family.” Blanco crossed his arms. “Which is why they won’t hesitate in making you bend to my will.” He cocked his head and looked at Trace. “Given her tone, I’m assuming you weren’t able to convince her to accept my offer.”

Trace turned his head to one side and spat a gob of blood on the carpet.

Blanco shrugged. “I didn’t really expect you to take it. I made the offer out of mere charity.” His eyes narrowed. “You understand, I take no pleasure in torturing a woman.”

“No,” Laila replied. “But I expect he does.” She glared at the elderly man. “Is that what turns you on? Is that how you kept your women in line, the ones stupid enough to marry you?” She narrowed her gaze, twisting her lips into a sneer. “Can any of the Blanco men get it up without beating on a helpless victim?”

The insults were juvenile, but enough to get a response from the angry elderly man—as she intended.

A guttural growl escaped the old man’s throat, and he struggled to sit upright, fingers clutching at the sheets in his rage. One hand pulled at the plastic tubing supplying oxygen to his nose, tugging as he thrashed and kicked, throwing the blankets to the floor in a vain attempt to reach her.

Blanco twisted to stare at his grandfather, cursing as he waved at the attendants, his eyes wide with anger and impatience. “What are you standing there for! Give him something to make him relax, calm him down! Stop him before he hurts himself!”

A song rang in Leila’s head, the fighting chant charging her up even as it calmed her nerves.

It was now or never.

She twirled to her left, kicking out at the thug’s knee. He buckled under the unexpected strike, yelling as he clutched his leg.

An inhuman roar filled the room, striking dread into her heart.

The Wolf.

He was coming to claim his prize, whether or not she complied with Blanco’s command.

His impatience might be his undoing.

Trace launched himself at the man to his right, landing a hard-right punch and sending the thug to the floor. As he sprawled face down on the plastic, eyes rolling back into his head, Trace was on him—snatching up the taser.

The man she’d just injured took advantage of her sideways glance. He grabbed Laila’s arm, yanking her down toward the ground as he swung at her face with his other hand.

She easily deflected the blow, delivering a debilitating strike to the man’s nose. The bone shattered, blood gushing everywhere.

He screamed as he covered his face, all thoughts of fighting gone.

Blanco roared orders in Spanish, commands she recognized as calls for more men. He gestured wildly, taking a step toward his frantic grandfather who continued to fight his attendants in a vain attempt to rise off the bed and get to her.

Heavy footsteps shook the floor under her, signaling reinforcements had arrived. Victory was short-lived as strong hands grabbed at her, pulling Laila off her assailant. The medical assistants yanked her to her feet as more armed men charged into the room, flanking her and Trace. A swift kick into the nearest man’s stomach sent him flying, another one stepping up to take his place.

This…wasn’t going to be easy.

Trace roared as he went at the nearest man, yanking the weapon out of the criminal’s hands as he stabbed the taser into the attacker’s torso and pulled the trigger. The swift move was rewarded as Trace spun around, now armed with more than a stun gun. Bullets spat from the rifle, finding easy targets.

“Don’t hurt the woman!” Daniel Blanco’s voice rose over the noise. “I need her alive.” He snatched up the cane and advanced on her, raising the rod over his head as if to strike her.

She let her body sag for a second, pulling the men holding her in closer. A second later she struck, smashing her fist into one man’s face with a vicious backhand before dropping and sweeping her leg, sending the other attacker falling to the floor.

The noise overhead increased, sounding a thousand times louder than the storm they’d suffered through yesterday.

As she shook free of both men, Laila spotted Trace, his back to her. He fired on the new arrivals, taking advantage of their hesitation to use lethal force. Two of the men went down, another throwing himself to the side to survive.

The elder Blanco growled and snarled from his hospital bed, glaring at them as he raised one weak hand and curled it into a fist. One of the plastic tubes pulled out of his withered arm, blood dribbling out onto the sheets and staining them a dark scarlet.

Blanco moved in front of her, bringing the rod down hard with both hands. She instinctively blocked with her forearm, the sudden pain reverberating through her bones and pulling the air from her lungs.

She struck out with her good right hand, slamming it hard into Blanco’s chest as she took hold of the cane in a reflexive move.

He stumbled back, a smirk spreading across his face.

No.

Catching on to his plan, Laila kept her hand clear of the small indentation that would activate the lance.

“Trace,” she shouted, throwing it away from her.

The risk of a mistake was too great, the temptation to hold a familiar weapon nearly overpowering. A slip of the hand and she might trigger Ragnarök…

“No!” Blanco yelled as he stepped forward, trying to block her toss.

Trace turned and lowered the assault rifle as he stepped back, his left hand reaching out for the cane.

The steel rod flew end over end, too late for the arms dealer to intercept it.

Thwarted, Blanco swung at her—an open-handed slap she easily sidestepped, then followed up with a punch to the gut that doubled the man over.

The rod landed in Trace’s hand. He swung around, leveling the semi-automatic rifle at the men pouring in at them. He swept the room again with the weapon against his hip, forcing their attackers to take cover behind the furniture stacked against the walls.

The roar grew even louder, matched by a shimmering to her left—a part of the wall faded to black, the dark circle appearing with a sudden drop in temperature. The two men closest to the portal screamed as they were sucked into the darkness, vanishing into the hole.

Laila’s heart skipped a beat. Something was coming, something she doubted either Blanco had made plans for.

The senior gripped the metal bars on each side of his hospital bed, mouth moving as he stared at the phenomenon. His attendants were long gone, fleeing the scene—or possibly cut down by Trace’s deadly fire.

Blanco hesitated, his attention diverted to the chaos erupting near his grandfather. A cold chill snaked through Laila’s veins as she snapped her elbow up into Blanco’s face, sending the weapons dealer reeling back.

She paused, hearing no more gunfire.

Laila turned to see Trace tossing the rifle down, its ammunition spent. The thugs rose from behind their barricades, snarling as they realized the shift in their position.

“Get them!” Blanco screamed as he covered his face with one hand, blood spurting out from his broken nose.

The men advanced on her and Trace, glancing back and forth between the portal and their intended targets as if unsure which one presented more danger.

She stepped away from Trace and settled into a fighting stance, ready for hand-to-hand combat. She wouldn’t be complicit in igniting Ragnarök, not now…

A sound filled the air, holding them all in place. A roar came through the portal, not totally animal, not totally human…

The men stared past her, at Trace.

She spun to see him holding the cane.

Except there was no cane now.

Only the mighty lance of a Valkyrie, fully extended—the metal point catching the light and reflecting it back at them.

Oh, shit.