It took nothing short of a small war to get to the younger Shaw, and what they found served to piss the elder off infinitely more than he already was. Owen was laid up in a bed unconscious with scarring—it'd taken a couple weeks to actually find him—from burns covering his neck. Shade wasn't sure she wanted to know what was still hidden by those bandages. The cowering nurses informed them that it was unlikely he would ever wake. Even if he did, he would be paralyzed from the waist down.
"Rest, little brother, while I settle your one last score," Deckard promised before walking to the door where Shade was waiting. "We're going to find the bastards that did this," he vowed to her.
"I know, Deck. We'll make this right," Shade replied, kissing him on the cheek.
"Then let's go."
Their exit was fittingly dramatic with him giving a guy a grenade and Shade kicking him back into a chair so that he fell backwards behind a desk before it exploded. They casually left the building to climb into a Maserati he'd had stashed away somewhere. Shade gently rested her hand on his while he shifted gears.
"I still love you, Deck," Shade muttered. She was unsure if she actually wanted him to hear that at the present moment.
He glanced over to her and sighed. His hand turned over to hold hers. "I know, and I love you. Always have."
She only nodded.