As my brothers spread out, a shadow moves where no shadow should be. A figure slipping between containers heading toward Ice Pick's position. I click my tongue twice against my teeth, our signal for imminent danger.
The man steps from the shadows, weapon raised toward Ice Pick's back. I don't hesitate. One shot, the suppressor muffling the sound to something no louder than a hand clap. He drops like a puppet with cut strings.
"Should always have eyes in the back of your head with us around," I mutter, moving to check the body. No ID, just a burner phone and a wad of cash. Hired muscle.
The burner phone vibrates in my hand, a text message lighting up the screen: Status?
My blood runs cold. Whoever's running this operation is checking in. Soon they'll know something's wrong.
"We're blown," I say into my comm. "Ice Pick, get that container open now. Vulture, we need immediate extract. Clock's ticking."
"Clear the area," I order, my voice low and hard. "Anyone who isn't us is a threat. Anyone with a weapon goes down. No witnesses, no complications."
My brothers move like shadows, spreading out across the dock. Three more guards fall before we reach the container. No alarms, no sirens, but I know we're on borrowed time. Word will get back to whoever's running this operation, and they'll send reinforcements.
"Hustler, bring the truck closer," I say into my comm. "Vulture, you and Ghost watch our six. The rest of you, with me."
I approach the container, pressing my ear against the cold metal. What I hear makes my stomach clench—soft sobbing, whispered prayers in various languages, the shuffle of too many bodies packed into too small a space. The sounds Katie must have made in those final days.
"Stand back," I order as Ice Pick steps forward with the bolt cutters. One hard snap and the lock falls away. I take a deep breath and pull the doors open.
The stench hits me first—human waste, sweat, and desperation so thick I can taste it. Then my eyes adjust to the darkness inside.
They're huddled together like frightened animals, shielding their eyes from even the dim dock lights. Women and children, too many to count at first glance. Some are little more than shadows, pressed against the far wall. Others stare back with hollow eyes that have seen too much. A few children cling to what must be their mothers, their small faces pinched with hunger and fear.
Bile rises in my throat as I imagine what these sick bastards had planned for them. What they might have already endured. The children—Christ, some can't be older than six or seven.
"Saints Outlaws MC," I announce, my voice gentler than it's been all night. "We're here to help you. You're safe now."
They don't move at first. Can't blame them. Men with guns probably haven't meant safety for a long time.
I holster my weapon slowly, deliberately, making sure they all see me do it. Then I hold up empty hands.
"Nobody's going to hurt you anymore. We're taking you somewhere safe."
A woman near the front whispers something to those behind her, translating my words. Slowly, cautiously, they begin to move forward.
Hustler brings the truck around, backing it up to the container doors. We help them out one by one. Some can barely walk. All are dehydrated, starving. I hand a little girl my water bottle, and the way she gulps it down makes my chest ache just like it did with Katie.
"We need to move," Zip says, checking his phone. "Just got word from our contact at the port authority. Security does rounds every thirty minutes. We've got ten left, max."
We get most of them into the truck, but it's clear we can't fit everyone. Ice Pick climbs in with Hustler.
"Take this group to the clubhouse," I tell them. "We'll follow with the rest once you bring the van back. Move fast, brother."
As the truck pulls away, I turn to the remaining women. Their eyes track my every movement, wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hits me then, they've been lied to before. Promised freedom, only to find themselves in another kind of prison.
"This is real," I say, looking each woman in the eye. "We are going to take care of you and help you find your families. You really are free."
Something breaks in their expressions—hope, terrible and fragile. A few begin sobbing, and one rushes forward to hug me, her thin arms wrapping around my waist.
"Thank you," she whispers against my cut, her tears soaking through my shirt. "Thank you."
That's when I hear Vulture shout from the back of the container. "Falcon! Get over here. Now!"
There's something in his voice I've never heard before. Urgency mixed with shock.
I move past the women to where Vulture is pointing. In the darkest corner crouches a figure, pressed so tightly against the metal wall she might be trying to disappear into it. Every time someone moves near her, she flinches violently, a wounded animal expecting another blow.