“This is it,” I say, tightening my grip on my gun. “Once we hit the ground floor, it’s all noise and blood.”
Rowan cracks his neck, eyes burning. “Good. I’m tired of being quiet.”
Emerson shifts his stance; face carved from stone. “We clear everything between us and our girls. No hesitation.”
I nod once, lethal calm settling in my bones.
“From this point on,” I say, “anything that moves dies.”
Rowan grins, a mirror of my darkness.
Emerson inhales, slow and steady.
We move as one, ghosts in the dim stairwell, and together we climb toward hell. My boots barely make a sound on the metal steps, and every muscle in my body vibrates with the need to tear through anyone standing between us, Kimber, and our girl. Rowan’s ahead of me by half a step, Emerson at my back, all of us breathing in perfect sync. When we reach the landing, Rowan holds up two fingers, then sweeps them forward.
Time to clear the bottom floor.
The moment we round the corner, the warehouse spreads out into a maze of crates, machinery, and shadows dense enough to swallow an army. The air reeks of oil and sweat, with a metallic bite beneath it—blood, most likely. The stench of their operation clings to every surface.
Rowan spots the first guard patrolling between two stacks of pallets. He doesn’t hesitate. One hand clamps over the guy’s mouth while the other drives a blade up under his ribs. The guard jerks once, then goes limp. Rowan lowers him silently, face expressionless, but I see the storm brewing in his eyes.
Four more are visible moving through the stacks, though that doesn’t mean they’re the only ones.
Emerson catches movement to our left and taps my arm. I nod and peel off, circling behind a conveyor belt. Two guards lean against a table, joking around, completely oblivious. Perfect. I fire twice with the suppressor, quick taps. Both drop instantly, dead before they hit the floor.
Behind me, Emerson whispers, “Two more. North wall.”
We converge there, Rowan sweeping wide while Em and I take the direct approach. One guard hears us, turns, and barely gets out a muttered “What the—” before Rowan is behind him, snapping his neck clean with a twist that echoes lightly off the concrete.
The last guard bolts for the stairwell door.
“No, you don’t,” I growl, sprinting after him.
I catch him by the collar just as his fingers brush the handle. He swings his elbow back and hits my ribs hard, but adrenaline eats the pain. I slam him into the wall and put a bullet through his temple. He slides down in a heap.
Silence floods the room again.
Five down.
We’re regrouping near the center of the floor when it happens.
A scream cuts through the air, shrill and raw and unmistakable.
Berk.
My blood freezes—then lights up all at once. The sound lands deep, feral, setting every instinct on fire. Rowan’s head snaps toward the stairs, his eyes blown wide as fear and fury fuse into a lethal rage.
Then it comes again. Pleas. Choked. Desperate.
“Please! Please stop!”
“No, don’t! I’ll do anything!”
“Please don’t kill me!”
Rowan surges forward immediately. I’m right behind him, and Emerson clamps a hand on my arm hard enough to bruise.
“Stop,” he hisses. “If you two charge in blind, you’ll get yourselves killed. Then she’s alone.”