The feed streams across the screen, fragmented audio that slowly sharpens into recognizable voices—Dean and Bryce. I adjust the volume, and the room falls silent.
Bryce’s voice comes through first, hoarse and angry. “They’ve frozen everything. All of it. The banks, the suppliers—hell, even the drivers won’t touch us now.”
Dean’s response is calmer but carries the same edge of desperation. “We’ll find another way. We always do.”
“Another way?” Bryce snaps. “With what money, Dean? Everyone’s pulling out. The accounts are locked. We’ve got no product, no leverage, and no one willing to take our calls. They’ve gutted us.”
The sound of his frustration grates on my nerves. I exchange a glance with Ronan, who gives me that look that sayshe’d be dead already if we were there.
Dean’s voice drops lower. “Then we focus on containment. Find whoever’s left, get them in line. We can’t let this spread.”
I glance at the signal trace, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. “They’re panicking,” I murmur. “Exactly what we want.”
Ronan smirks, dark satisfaction curling his lips. “Good. Let them sweat.”
But even as the others exchange small nods, something about the call unsettles me. The tone in Dean’s voice isn’t just anger—it’s calculation. He’s cornered, but he’s still thinking, still moving pieces we can’t see.
Emerson notices my silence. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know yet. Just… something feels off.”
Rowan leans forward, studying the live warehouse feed. “Maybe it’s because the warehouse looks too calm,” he says. “If I were them, I’d have half that place emptied by now.”
On screen, workers move in and out, forklifts humming, boxes being loaded like any other day. It looks normal. Too normal.
“That’s what’s bothering me,” I admit. “They’re acting like nothing’s happening. Like they’re waiting for something.”
Ronan’s expression hardens. “Then we make sure they don’t get what they’re waiting for.”
We spent the next hour mapping out the warehouse. I pull up blueprints and surveillance, tracing entry points and camera angles while the guys argue about charge placement and timing. Rowan’s efficient, Ronan’s methodical, and Emerson balances them both with surgical precision. Together, they’re unstoppable.
When we finish, I lean back and rub my temples. “All right. We’ll hit the main floor first, plant the charges near the central loadout. That’ll take out most of the structure. Once it’s set, we move out and trigger remotely.”
“And Kimber?” Emerson asks quietly.
“She stays here,” I answer without hesitation. “No exceptions. We can’t risk her getting caught in the crossfire.”
Emerson frowns but doesn’t argue. Rowan and Ronan nod, understanding. We all know what’s at stake if we make one wrong move.
The room goes quiet again as we turn back to the screens. I watch the feed from the warehouse, the workers still moving with mechanical rhythm, completely unaware of the storm about to hit. My gut twists, an unease I can’t shake crawling just under my skin.
Everything looks right—too right—and I can’t tell if it’s the calm before the storm or a trap waiting to spring.
Still, I force myself to steady my breathing and focus. We’ve come too far to lose our nerve now.
“Let’s finish this,” I whisper, mostly to myself, as my fingers fly across the keyboard again.
But deep down, under the hum of machinery and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat, something cold curls in my chest. It’s instinct. A warning.
Something isn’t right—and I know it.
I move through the war room like it’s part of me, fingers grazing keyboards and maps as the others assemble. The air tastes like metal and adrenaline, a thin electric buzz that keeps me sharp.Ronan straps a pistol to his thigh with the practiced ease of somebody who’s been doing this far too long; Rowan checks his gun like he’s making sure the world will come into focus. Emerson stands in the doorway, folding his arms, jaw working as he runs numbers in his head. We don’t say much—there’s no need. The silence is dense with intent, layered with plans and unspoken vows, the kind of calm that settles in just before everything breaks loose.
I save Kimber’s room for last, stopping in before I gear up. The thought of her seeing us armed twists something tight in my chest—a weight I refuse to hand to her. She’s perched on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up, hair mussed from a nap. When I crouch down to her level, she looks older than her years, like a lifetime of weight sits on her small shoulders and she carries it with the stubborn dignity of somebody who’s already learned too much. I smooth a hand through her hair and force a smile.
“We’re going out tonight,” I tell her, softening my voice so it sounds less like a warning and more like a promise. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
She meets my eyes, blunt and steady. “Kick their asses,” she says, and the little grin she gives me has the look of someone daring fate. She isn’t naive. She’s been terrified and brave in equal measure, and the fact she can still joke like that makes something ache and swell in my chest.