“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know this—you’re not going to surprise us with those guns again. Hunting is big in Texas, Alex. Did you really think we’d be impressed by a couple of stupid pistols?”

I made myself inhale steadily, afraid that if I held my breath, he’d see how important his answer was. That the entire argument had been a lead-in to the gun issue.

Fortunately, Alex was too mad to question the hopefully subtle change in subject. “A couple of stupid pistols?” His face was turning red again. “It’s not just a couple. It’s twenty—more than enough to protect and defend. And they weren’t easy to get ahold of, without all the background checks and paperwork.”

A sick feeling twisted in my gut and my smug satisfaction began to fade. Malone had twenty guns? Shit. How long had he been planning this? How on earth were we supposed to get rid of that many before the fight? And what the hell were we supposed to do with them?

“Twenty? Talk about overkill… Or does your dad have twenty enforcers now? With that overinflated ego, he probably thinks he needs that kind of entourage.”

Alex frowned. He didn’t like it when I insulted his father, which made that my new favorite hobby. “The guns are for the new task force.”

“And you’re on this task force?”

“Handpicked a month ago.”

Before there even was a task force. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, noting that conversation had resumed in the living room. They were no longer listening. “Are there actually twenty members?” That feeling of dread grew darker. This task force was a very bad idea.

“Not yet, but there will be. My dad has his eye on several toms from other Prides, to keep things fair.”

Or at least to keep things looking fair.

“Are you telling me that your dad is passing out handguns to a bunch of power-hungry rookies who’ve never even held one before?”

Alex frowned. “That would be stupid. We’ve been training for weeks now, and most of us are pretty good shots.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m better than Dean.”

I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to hit him or hold his hand and walk him back to preschool. Alex was just a kid. He was an impressionable teenager whose sense of right and wrong had been forever warped by a power-hungry father. Unfortunately, he was also an armed teenager who could throw a full-grown man into the next room.

“You guys didn’t bring all those guns here, did you?” I said, when a more subtle way to ask the question didn’t present itself.

His eyes narrowed. “What, you thinkin’ of grabbing one, now that you know what you’re up against?” I started to deny it, then decided to let him think whatever he wanted. “Not gonna happen. We only brought half, and half of those are locked up safe and sound. You’ll never get your hands on any of them.”

I shrugged, trying to look casual. “I wouldn’t even try. I don’t even know how to hold one.”

“That’s just one more reason you should rethink this whole ‘ice bitch’ routine. Your mouth isn’t going to protect you from a 9 mm slug, and it won’t save your claws, either. The best thing you can do for yourself now is to shut up and start playing nice, because burning bridges is only going to leave you stranded all alone.”

Better alone than with Alex. Or Dean. And what kind of bullshit metaphor was that, anyway?

Alex mistook my silence for capitulation—or at least serious contemplation—and for several minutes, neither of us spoke. Then, finally, he sighed. “Are you gonna eat that?” He gestured toward the half-empty bowl of now-cold stew on the nightstand.

“No. Go for it.”

Instead of getting up and walking around the bed, he leaned over me with one hand on the mattress, careful to make sure his chest brushed mine as he reached for the bowl. The arrogant prick.

As he stretched, the tail of his shirt came up, exposing the butt of the gun sticking out of his waistband.

I hesitated less than a second. It wasn’t in the plan. I was supposed to wait for the jailbreak, not execute it myself. But life rarely dangles opportunity quite so close to my grasping hands, and I wasn’t going to pass this one up.

I snatched the gun. Alex sat up, grabbing for it. I clicked off the safety, as I’d seen him do earlier. Alex froze.

“Faythe…”

I swung the gun, hard. The grip slammed into his temple. Alex collapsed on top of me, out cold, a lump already forming on the side of his head.

“I only said you could try to stop me.”

Twelve

I rolled Alex off of me and onto the edge of the bed, then pulled his handcuffs from his pocket and secured his arms behind his back. The cuff key went into my front pocket, as I glanced around the room for something with which to tie his ankles. The dresser, chest of drawers, and the closet were all empty, except for a few bent metal hangers on the floor of the closet. The only thing even remotely ropelike was the telephone wire.

Kneeling between the twin beds, I pulled the nightstand away from the wall and disconnected the wire from the jack, then from the phone, and used it to tie Alex’s ankles together.

With no duct tape and nothing to use as a gag, I tore the sleeve off his black winter T-shirt, then cursed myself for already having cuffed him. Marc made ripping material look easy, and I’d popped the shoulder stitches just fine, but it took me two tries to get the sleeve torn open along the length of his arm.