“Damn,” Emerson mutters, turning one over. “We should have grabbed a name first, so when their team calls for… I don’t know… Carl or Jerry we know which stiff they mean.”
I glance at him. “Add it to the list of things we’ll yell at Berk about for being here.”
Rowan snorts. “She’d say we should’ve cut their throats first and worried about names later.”
He’s not wrong.
We move deeper. Everything down here screams industry—conveyor belts, steel hooks, hydraulic platforms. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was an ordinary warehouse. But Idoknow better. I see the drag marks on the floor. The dark stains they didn’t clean. The heavy locks that reinforced every door.
The likelihood is that people were being held here.
Sold here.
Broken here.
My fists clench so hard the bones grind.
Rowan stops at one of the covered pallets, lifts the edge of a tarp. Inside are long crates packed with military-grade rifles, fresh from shipment.
“This is where they run the show,” he murmurs. “Right under everyone’s nose.”
“Not for much longer,” I growl.
We sweep the basement corner to corner. No movement. No guards left breathing. But upstairs is another story. Multiple stairwells. Multiple entry points. And we know Dean is smart enough to keep heavy protection between him and anyone trying to reach him.
We fall into silence, crouched behind a stack of shipping crates, waiting for the next scheduled radio check-in. If the guards don’t respond, alarms go off. We lose the advantage.
Emerson watches the stolen walkie like it holds his pulse. “Should be any minute.”
The warehouse hums around us. Distant footsteps echo on the ceiling above. Something metallic clatters far off in another area. My nerves are steel wires stretched too tight.
Rowan leans in, voice barely a breath. “She’s here. I feel it.”
He doesn’t mean it in some psychic sense. He means he knows her—because we all do. Her fury. Her brilliance. Her recklessness. Her love.
If she’s planning, we’ll find blood.
If she’s fighting, we’ll find bodies.
And if she’s losing time… she’ll leave a trail of hell behind her until we reach her.
My jaw aches from clenching. “We’re getting them both out,” I whisper. “No matter what’s waiting upstairs.”
The walkie crackles.
“Checkpoint Six, report.”
When there’s too much of a delay without a response, Emerson doesn’t hesitate. He pitches his voice flat and bored. “Six, all clear.”
A beat.
Silence.
Then the radio clicks again.
“Copy.”
We exchange one look—one shared breath—and rise together.