Page 43 of Lucky
Images flash up on the screen—gruesome, bloody. The aftermath of the ambush. Bodies sprawled on the ground, lifeless. Jacklyn’s right hand man, Marco, caught in the carnage, his face contorted in shock, a familiar look of defiance even in death. A grainy photo of Jacklyn herself. Her determined gaze, the sharp lines of her jaw, still unmistakable even in the poor-quality image.
“Do we have any idea who’s behind this?” I ask, my voice barely more than a rasp as I try to focus, to make sense of the madness unfolding.
The Jekyll flicks the clicker, and another image appears—Daniel Russo’s face. Dark brown hair neatly combed to the side, almond-shaped eyes, and the kind of face that belongs to a banker, not someone capable of the brutality we’ve seen. The calm in his expression only makes him more dangerous.
“Reports say Russo’s been causing trouble for Jacklyn lately,” The Jekyll says, his voice cool, measured. “One of the survivors swears he recognized the limp of one of the attackers as belonging to someone who defected from the Vicci family and joined up with Russo. That tells us everything we need to know.”
I narrow my eyes at The Jekyll, unable to mask my skepticism. “How the hell do you have all this information so quickly?”
He flashes a sly grin, tipping his head as if to acknowledge the compliment. “Information is my currency,” he says with a shrug, and I hate that I’m impressed. “Most of this I knew before I even set foot in the city.”
I stare at him for a moment, unable to keep the awe from creeping into my expression. The Jekyll isn’t just a part of Seattle’s intelligence network—he is the network. His ability to gather and process information is unparalelled. For a moment, I feel a flicker of something that resembles respect for the man.
“We need to move fast,” Caleph’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and clear. “Our objective is simple: retrieve Jacklyn. Alive. And make sure anyone who thinks they can cross us pays a price they’ll never forget. This city belongs to us, and we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”
His words are simple, but they land with the force of a thunderclap.
Dante, now sitting at the head of the table, glances at Caleph. His eyes are cold, calculating. “I want this operation clean. No mistakes. No room for error. If Jacklyn’s alive, we get her back. If she’s not... then we turn their world upside down.”
I take a steadying breath, the anger bubbling in my chest threatening to spill over. My fists clench, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand. This isn’t about guilt. This isn’t about my own failings. This is about Jacklyn. This is about family.
And whoever took her—whoever thought they could pull off a stunt like this—will regret it. I’ll make sure of it.
The war room hums with tension as the planning begins, the quiet voices of our strategists filling the room with maps, coordinates, and contingencies. But all I can think about isJacklyn—her face, her defiant refusal to bow to anyone. And how the world just shifted beneath our feet.
The men are masked,a silent swarm closing in. Jacklyn’s convoy is hopelessly outmatched—outgunned, outnumbered—as their SUVs groan to a halt a few blocks from their destination.
We watch the CCTV footage, breaths caught in our throats. Dante stands unmoving, finger pressed to his lips, his gaze a gathering storm. Caleph and The Jekyll are side by side, their eyes flicking to each other in a steady rhythm, exchanging quiet, sharp glances that speak volumes. Rafi is a shadow in the corner, his face unreadable, while Scar’s eyes blaze, restless, like flames searching for something to burn.
The first shots ring out before Jacklyn’s soldiers even have a chance to step out of their vehicles. Those who do manage to escape the metal shells of their SUVs fight valiantly, but it’s no contest. The attackers are armed to the teeth, prepared for this moment.
A surge of emotions churns through the room, but none are as fierce as mine. Anger, pride, fear—my chest tightens as I watch Jacklyn slip from her car. Two guns in hand, she opens fire, her movements fluid, almost graceful. The attackers hesitate, their weapons aimed at her but never pulling the trigger—as if her life holds some unspoken value.
She’s stunning, even in this madness. Fearless. Her eyes burn with resolve as she lifts her arms, not a flicker of hesitation as she fires round after round. She’s not the type to sit in the back and let others fight her battles. Sheisthe battle. And, God, does she give it to them. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause—just gunfire, steady and relentless. Then, in a split second, somethingcatches her attention and her gaze shifts toward Marco. I see the moment before the world falls apart for her.
Marco, her right-hand man, drops to the ground, a red bloom spreading across his chest. The look on Jacklyn’s face shifts from steely resolve to pure horror as she watches him crumple. She rushes to him, her hands trembling as she cradles his head, brushing his hair back, whispering to him even as the fight rages on around her. She smooths his blood-soaked shirt, her voice a soft murmur, a final goodbye. His life slips away in her arms. I watch in awe as she throws her head back and lets out a thunderous scream. There’s no sound, but the raw intensity of her movement is enough. It slices through the silence, vibrating deep within me. I feel her pain in my bones, a visceral ache that’s all too real, and I can fee her pain, her anguish.
The chaos doesn’t stop and wait for her to grieve. The fight goes on, but Jacklyn’s world is shattered. She’s dragged away, pulled toward a van that screeches to a halt in the middle of the street. She fights, thrashing against her captors, but they’re too many. They force her inside, and as the van jerks away, I catch a glimpse of her determined struggle, her body fighting even as the van swerves and disappears from sight.
"Run us through it," Scar demands, his voice sharp as he turns to Ryder, who’d hacked into the local cameras. We’ve been piecing this together for hours—scrambling for anything solid amidst the fog of unreliable witness accounts.
Ryder’s fingers fly over the keyboard. "Van was found twenty miles out, set on fire. Stolen, obviously. My guess? They swapped vehicles and went in the opposite direction."
I lean in, eyes glued to the frozen frame of Jacklyn being thrown into the van. "Anything else?"
Ryder taps a few more keys, then brings up another screen. A stocky figure in the crowd of attackers. His limp is unmistakable.Ryder zooms in, focusing on the man’s forearm. A tattoo. A Scorpion.
"Morty Lewis," Ryder mutters, voice laced with a touch of distaste. "Recently defected from the Vicci family, went off with Daniel Russo. The limp gave him away, but the tattoo confirmed it. He’s the only lead we’ve got."
"You have a location?" I ask, my voice tight with impatience.
“Sending it to you now.” We all get the alert with the address at the same time, but our eyes are still focused on the screen in front of us.
Ryder taps his screen again, and the image changes. A face fills the screen—cold, calculating, and familiar. Daniel Russo. Hatred flares in my chest. I almost lunge at the screen, ready to tear him apart with my bare hands.
“It’s safe to say Daniel Russo has Jacklyn,” Caleph says, his voice calm but his eyes hard. “He hit her arms deal, and now he’s taken her.”
“But why?" Dante’s voice is laced with confusion. “What he’s done—it’s professional suicide.”