Episode 22
Tracy's POV
For a second, no one moved.
Zane and Jake just stood there, facing each other in the hollow warehouse like two sides of the same blade. The air between them was electric—so heavy it made my throat ache.
Jake smiled first, a slow, crooked thing that didn't reach his eyes. "You look just like him when you're angry," he said. "Same glare. Same stupid hero complex."
Zane didn't blink. "Don't talk about him."
"Oh, come on. You don't get to erase the old man that easily." Jake's voice dropped, soft but venomous. "Especially when you're still cleaning up his mess."
My pulse quickened. Father? What mess?
Zane shifted his weight, his jaw flexing. "You've said enough."
But Jake wasn't finished. "No, I've barely started. You think hiding her will fix anything?" He nodded toward me, and my stomach turned. "You think the organization will stop coming because you play guard dog for a pretty face?"
Something in Zane snapped.
He moved so fast I barely saw it—one second he was beside me, the next he had Jake by the collar, slamming him against a steel beam. The sound echoed like thunder.
"Say her name again," Zane growled, his voice low, shaking. "And you won't finish the sentence."
Jake's grin didn't falter. "That's the thing about you, brother. You always think you can protect what you love. But you never could."
Before Zane could react, a sharp click echoed through the shadows.
Guns.
I froze as red laser dots appeared on Zane's back, on mine, on the walls around us. Jake's men had stepped out from the dark—silent, efficient, rifles raised.
"Drop him," one of them ordered.
Zane didn't.
Jake chuckled, straightening slightly under his brother's grip. "You brought six men, I brought twenty. You never did learn how to count odds, did you?"
Phil's voice cut in over the comm. "Sir! We're surrounded!"
"I noticed," Zane muttered. He released Jake, pushing him back roughly, and drew his gun in one fluid motion. "Trace—get down!"
I dropped behind a stack of crates just as the first shot rang out.
The warehouse erupted into chaos—gunfire cracking, metal shrieking as bullets tore through the old machinery. Sparks flew where ricochets struck the floor.
I covered my head, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
Through the noise, I could still hear him. Zane. His voice—sharp, controlled, commanding. "Flank left! Keep your aim high!"
Every time he fired, he moved closer to me. Protecting me.
A man rushed my way, gun drawn. Before I could even scream, Zane was there—grabbing the attacker by the arm, twisting, disarming, and firing in one seamless blur. The body dropped beside me.
He looked at me once. "You okay?"
I nodded, breathless.
"Stay low."
He turned away again, covering Phil as they moved toward the far exit.
Jake's laughter rose above the gunfire, wild and sharp. "You never change, brother. Always bleeding for someone else!"
Zane fired at the sound of his voice, but Jake was already gone—melting back into the smoke.
Then, silence.
Not complete—just that horrible, ringing aftermath of battle.
The smell of gunpowder stung my nose as I crawled out from behind the crate. My hands trembled. "Zane?"
He was standing a few feet away, chest heaving, eyes scanning the room. His men were regrouping, dragging the wounded out.
Then I saw it—the dark patch spreading down his side.
"Zane," I whispered, stepping forward. "You're hit."
He looked down like he'd only just noticed. "It's fine."
"It's not fine," I snapped, closing the distance between us. His hand was pressed to his ribs, blood seeping between his fingers.
"Trace," he said, warningly, but I ignored it.
"Sit. Down." My voice shook, not from fear but from sheer frustration. "For once in your life, just—listen to someone."
Something in my tone must've reached him, because he sat against a crate, exhaling slowly.
I tore a strip from my jacket and knelt beside him. "Lift your shirt."
He smirked despite the pain. "Careful, Trace. You'll give me the wrong idea."
I shot him a glare. "Lift. It."
He obeyed, revealing a deep graze along his ribs, the bullet having barely missed tearing through. Blood glistened in the dim light.
I pressed the fabric against it. He didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened.
"Doesn't hurt?" I asked.
He gave a small, pained smile. "Only when you're watching."
I hated that he could still joke, still make my heart twist even now.
As I tied the makeshift bandage, our hands brushed—warm, slick with blood. His gaze caught mine, steady and unreadable.
"You shouldn't be here," he murmured. "You should've run when you had the chance."
"I did," I said softly. "And you found me anyway."
The corner of his mouth lifted, a small, tired smile. "Guess I did."
We stayed like that—too close, too aware—until Phil's voice interrupted again. "Sir, Jake's gone. Left a message."
Zane's eyes flicked up. "What message?"
Phil handed him a small recorder. When Zane pressed play, Jake's voice filled the air.
"Big brother, always chasing ghosts. You can't protect her forever. You couldn't even protect the last one."
The device clicked off.
I stared at Zane. His expression had gone blank—dangerously blank.
"The last one?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
Just stood, gripping his side, and walked toward the exit. "We're leaving."
"Zane—"
"Now, Trace."
I followed, heart heavy, mind spinning. The last one. What did Jake mean? Who had come before me?
Behind us, the warehouse burned.
And ahead of us, I could feel a truth neither of us was ready to face.