Raven's POV
I shouldn't be breaking into the house of the most untouchable man in the underground racing world. But here I was, about to do it anyway.
The bastard, Jake Flanagan, left me no damn choice.
My fingers tightened on the bike's handles as I rode down the street.
It's been four months since my only brother and family, Jace Cruz, went missing. Since then, Jake Flanagan, the crook who runs the biggest underground racing outfit in New York City, and the one man who should know where Jace was, had continued to evade all my attempts to corner him at the tracks.
I knew the fat crook enough to know that was evidence of guilt. Something had happened to Jace, and I damn well was going to find out.
The tires screeched to a halt a street away from Jake's estate as I cut down the engine. Jake Flanagan had guards on the property. The last thing I wanted was for any of them to pick up on the bike's engine.
Helmet off, I breathed, slow and steady. Heart hammering, adrenaline kicking into my veins like it does when I am behind the wheel. Let's do this.
Jake's property was outside the city, one of those gated estates meant to keep people like me out. But gates don't stop a girl who spent half her teenage years learning how to slip past security.
I moved carefully and strategically, my sneakers silent against the asphalt. The fence was high and protected with sharp barbed wires, glinting under the silver moon. Even that wouldn't stop me from getting my answers. I crouched low around the walls, checking, until I spotted a red maple tree just by the fence.
Perfect. I cracked my knuckles while I sized it up. It wasn't an ideal entry, but it'll do. I jumped and reached for one of its branches.
Jace's dog tags that I wore jingled against my chest but it wasn't enough noise to be worried about.
I climbed until I saw into the massive property. I searched around, no guard. Good. In one quick jump, I threw myself into the estate.
The mansion was dark except for one weak light in the east wing. There were no guards outside. "Strange," I thought, brows narrowed, whilst I continued my visual sweep of the place. Jake always had muscles around, but somehow tonight even the driveway was too quiet.
I tried not to think about all that. Perhaps it was just my luck tonight. I might need to get a bit rough with Jake tonight, and if the guards weren't around to stop me, then all the best.
I crouched low, moving along the wall, keeping to the shadows. Gravel shifted under my boots, loud as thunder to my ears.
I stopped before the side entrance, which was all glass. I slipped on my gloves. Like most mechanics' gloves, it was thin and durable, the kind that won't leave fingerprints. My fingers moved automatically.
A slide tool, a little pressure, an extra tiny twist, and pop. The lock clicked open. A soft breath left my lips, relief.
I pushed the door open an inch at a time, letting it breathe as I entered. No alarms. No laser sensors. Could the night go any better?
The room was dark. I saw nothing but darkness. The floor was polished marble. The air smelled faintly of expensive whiskey. I moved through the hall in slow, deliberate steps.
I reached the living room corridor, and the lights flickered on. Just once. Then it flicked off again and then on. Now, this was beginning to get on my nerves, the hairs on my arm snapped erect. I turned gently, throwing my gaze around. Just where was Jake? Where are his guards? And why was the whole place so silent?
Tranquility was poison to the Jake I know?
Something in my chest tightened as I kept on. But I quickly shook off any trace of fear in my veins. The last thing I wanted to be afraid. It makes one weak, and I hated to be weak.
I followed the faint glow toward his office. That was the only room lit, the weak lamp bleed warm light under the doorframe. I approached carefully, my hands curled into fists, as I readied myself for whatever would happen next.
I straightened for attack as I pushed open the door. Everything inside me screeched to a stop instantly.
The room was trashed. Papers were strewn everywhere, drawers ripped out, and a whiskey bottle shattered on the floor. Behind the desk, slumped in the leather chair, was Jake Flanagan. His head was tilted back, eyes opened to the ceiling, empty, seeing nothing. His neck was slit, cut clean. It would have been impossible to spot the cut if not for the fresh blood pooling in a straight, thin horizontal line on his neck, leaking down his shirt.
Every sound in the house suddenly sharpened in my ears the longer I took in the carnage around me—the ticking clock, the hum of the air conditioner, my own pulse crashing like a spinning tire about to blow. The strong metallic scent of blood stung my nostrils.
Someone had killed Jake. The blood was still fresh enough to tell he had died just minutes before I got here. But who? Who would hate him so much as to murder him in cold blood like this?
I heard the footsteps behind me, low and silent. My heartbeat spiked, thudding fast against my ears. That led to perhaps my biggest mistake ever. I spun around, not calculating, not strategizing, but just letting my instincts control me completely.
The killer whipped a gun fast in the air for me. The butt slammed hard against my head, and I went down fast like a felled tree, crashing roughly to the floor.
The only thing I saw before an abyss of nothing claimed me, sealing my eyes shut, was the blurry mash of a face, marked heavily by a large burn scar around the right eye.