Chapter 21
BELLA
San Francisco, California
Nate is halfway in my personal space, threading the mic wire through my jacket collar with his usual laser focus, steady hands and no small talk. Across from us Knox taps through the camera feeds, eyes flicking from screen to screen like he’s already ten steps into the mission.
Laing sits near the back, adjusting his comm in silence, calm and unreadable.
Six-foot-five and carved like a myth. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, and long fingers that have made me moan his name more times than I care to admit.
Jet-black hair tousled just enough to look effortless and warm golden-brown skin that catches the low light like brushed bronze.
And then there’s that fucking dragon tattoo curling up the left side of his neck and disappearing beneath his shirt collar like it’s got a secret to keep.
Focus, bitch.
It was the Red Silk Triad’s intel that led us to these kids. Laing Wei took over when he was only twenty-four after his father was shot and killed by a rival gang in broad daylight on the streets of downtown Hong Kong.
Laing is lethal, brutal, and fucking brilliant. Since taking over, he’s gutted and rebuilt the entire RST from the inside out. Some of his encryption techniques make even Knox do a double take.
With Zeke gone, Laing’s been running more missions with us.
Honestly, a lot of the Black Book families have.
Whether it’s guilt, strategy, or straight-up leverage, I don’t care.
They’re useful and that’s enough. I’ve even built actual relationships with a few of them.
Strange twisted bonds forged through shared blood and secrets.
I still own their asses so they’ll do anything for me. For access to their Black Book. For the hope of getting into my pants. Sometimes both. Either way, I always get what I want.
Laing and I? We’ve been shacking up sometimes after ops. Nothing emotional. No promises. Just pain burned off in the fastest way I know how.
It’s not love.
It’s release.
Dr. Monroe calls it, avoidant coping behavior wrapped in dissociative intimacy. I call it a damn good night’s sleep.
Tex is outside with Kenji—Laing’s lean, silent, and precise sniper. The two of them move like ghosts, checking their weapons with the kind of coordination that only comes from years of high-body-count ops.
“Alright, let’s do a comm check,” Knox says, eyes on his tablet. He goes through the team, everyone’s seemed to be in working order.
“Boss?”
“It’s good Knox. I can hear you loud and clear,” I reply.
He doesn’t budge. Just gives me that fucking look.
I sigh. “Really?”
“Magic word, please, Blackwood.”
I roll my eyes. “Jackass, fine… Problem Child present.”
That earns me a quiet little grin. Not mocking, just Knox. He’s been calling me that since Zeke died. Not because he’s a dick. I mean he is a dick, but that’s not why he does it.
He says if I’m going to act like a problem child, he’s going to call me one. Just like Zeke would have. When Zeke died, I couldn’t process it. I shut down. Like full-on shell-of-myself-lights-on-nobody-home shut down.
For weeks.
Tex and Nate tried to fix me. So did the girls. They all looked at me like I was some fragile little glass vase about to shatter at any minute.
But not Knox. Knox made me focus. Pulled me out of the fog. He made me face it. Zeke’s death. Head-on. No hiding from it. He made me break. Really break. Hysterical-screaming-nothing-left-inside kind of break. He made me relive it, every second, over and over until I eventually stopped crying.
Haley called it cruel punishment. But somehow, it worked. Knox got through and he’s been a rock for me ever since.
Dr. Monroe doesn’t approve of Knox’s methods. He can shove it up his Stanford University ass for all I care.
The doc means well, he did wonders with Nate during his recovery. And he’s completely bought and paid for by Project Dylan so he keeps his mouth shut when we talk about missions. I’m just not a fan.
God though, if I have to sit through one more group therapy session with him, me, Tex, and Nate, I might just throw myself off a building.
Nate glances up from his screens. “Comms are clean. Cameras are good. We’re a go.” His tone clipped and calm. Always so fucking calm. The man could literally be standing on a landmine and still sound like he’s reading the stock reports.
I lean back slightly, letting the tension slip from my shoulders. “Alright, boys. What’s the word of the day?” I say, cracking my knuckles. “We going with sports, colors, or horoscopes today? Laing, your turn to choose.”
“Let’s do sports.”
I grin. “Excellent choice. Since we’re in San Fran, let’s go with… Niners.”
Tex’s voice cuts through the comms, dry as ever. “Figures. Leave it to you to pick the most disappointing franchise in California.”
“You heard her,” Nate says without missing a beat. “Word of the day is Niners. Everyone move out.”
I turn to Laing and tilt my head to the SUV waiting at the curb. He pushes off the wall without a word and follows me in.
Laing found the op. Intel came from a Triad source buried deep in a Hong Kong-linked cargo chain. He got us in the door.
Knox got us the rest of the way. Fake IDs, burner phones, and wire transfers that vanish like smoke. He’s good at that part, setting the stage, making it all look real.
This time, I’m going in as a rep from a private child wellness foundation. Which is a fancy way of saying that I’m posing as a corrupt social worker who pulls kids from bad homes and funnels them into worse ones.
Carlos-style homes. Ones with locks on the outside of the bedroom doors.
Laing drives silently next to me, all coiled tension and shadow. In today’s production of To Catch a Pedo, he’s just the muscle. Quiet, intimidating, and on my leash.
For a second his hand reaches across the center console, fingers brushing toward mine. I pull back without looking.
“Hey Tex, you in place?” I say through the comms.
His voice comes through a beat later, low and steady. “Eyes on the prize. One container. He only brought one muscle. Must think a little girl like yourself isn’t a threat.”
I hear Knox snicker in my ear. Fucking assholes.
“Dr. Monroe wouldn’t approve of that comment, Tex.” I say sweetly over the comms. “Or you laughing Knox.”
Tex laughs, “Sorry Bells. You’re clear to approach. Be safe.”
“Always am.” I reply.
Laing kills the engine and we step out into the cold metal maze of the docks.
The air smells like rust and salt. The container’s already there.
Positioned as if it was waiting for us. So is the seller.
Slick suit, ugly face, and a bodyguard who’s built like a refrigerator. He’s staring at me like I don’t belong.
I stare right back. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to start charging rent.”
He looks away first.
The seller steps forward, aiming straight for Laing. “Mr. Wei,” he says, reaching out like I’m not even here. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Laing just smiles and nods toward me. “Nice to meet you too, Andre. However, I just brought the bitch here. You’re gonna have to deal with her.”
“Rude,” I mutter, then flash Andre a too-sweet smile. “But he’s right. Now, can I see my merchandise? I’ve got some loving families lined up and ready to meet these cuties.” I about gag on my own words.
He laughs, sharp and ugly, and jerks his chin toward his muscle. The guy moves to unlock the container.
I motion to Laing with a tilt of my head. “Go on, handsome. Make sure the merchandise matches the invoice.”
He walks over, unhurried but careful, and steps up to the container. The muscle unlocks it, swings the door open just enough for him to peek inside. Laing scans it, then glances back at me, shuts the door, and nods.
“Everything looks to be in order,” he says. “You want me to start the transfer?”
I nod. “Go ahead.”
Laing pulls out his phone, thumb tapping across the screen in an impressively convincing performance of wire fraud.
I turn back to Andre, keeping my voice light, almost flirtatious. “You know this is my first real time in the Bay Area.”
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, smiling. “Too bad it isn’t football season. I would have loved to catch a Niners game.”
The second Niners leaves my lips, both Andre and his muscle drop in sync, blood spraying the container walls behind them.
“Nice shootin’, Tex,” I say through the comms. “Although Kenji, I think you were a half of a second slow this time.”
“Don’t be a bitch, Iz,” Laing smirks as he walks back toward the container.
Eleven kids. Seven girls and four boys huddled together in the dark. Thin arms. Haunted faces. Most of them don’t even move.
But the smallest one in the back corner stops me cold. He can’t be more than four, five at the most.
“Dylan,” I whisper.
Or… he looks like he could be a Dylan clone.
If I hadn’t seen Dylan die in front of me.
If I hadn’t seen the blood on Zeke’s shirt and hands as he calmed me down that night, I’d swear this was him.
Curly hair. Wide, terrified eyes. Exactly like the first time I saw Dylan in Mariela’s arms the day I arrived in Miami.
I step into the container, boots echoing off the steel. I walk past the older children, my eyes locked on him.
I kneel slowly until I’m eye-level. “Hey,” I say gently. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”
He doesn’t speak. Just stares, frozen. His little arm is twisted at a wrong angle, bruised and swollen. Shipping container. No straps. God knows how far they moved him. Probably broken.
I reach out slowly. “I’ve got you now, buddy. You’re gonna be okay.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. Just stares with hollow eyes like he already left his body behind. I slide my arms under him carefully, mindful of the arm. He winces and tears start to well in his eyes.
“I know, buddy,” I whisper. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
I carry him out of the container just as headlights cut through the dock haze. Nate and Knox roll up in the van, doors already open. Tex and Kenji materialize from the shadows, rifles slung, faces unreadable.
“Ambulance is about five minutes out,” Nate says.
Knox tosses him a med kit. “Let’s start pulling them out. Waters are in the back. Trauma blankets too.”
Tex is beside me in seconds. “You good?”
I nod, holding the boy tighter. “He needs to be seen first. His little arm is definitely broken.”
Tex doesn’t ask questions. Just turns and starts helping Kenji and Laing guide the other kids out. Nate pops the side door open wider and lays out a blanket.
He still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t let go.
“I guess we’re just going to sit together then,” I say quietly.
He stays quiet. Doesn’t flinch when the ambulance pulls up, sirens fading into the dock noise like static in the background. He just clings to me like I’m the only solid thing left in the world.
I sit with him in my lap while the medics examine him. They shine lights in his eyes, check vitals, whisper things like “clean break” and “dehydration.” I just keep holding him.
Outside it’s chaos. Controlled, but chaos all the same.
The feds are here now. So is Child Services.
Though, not the usual CPS vultures. These are our people.
Project Dylan has vetted and placed child service agents in every region of the U.S.
They’ll track down the real families if they exist. And if not, they’ll place the kids somewhere safe.
Somewhere good. Where they’ll actually get help. Therapy. Healing.
I spot Laing and Kenji slipping into the shadows the second badges start flashing. They can’t be here. Not officially. Not legally. They can’t risk the wrong person seeing them here.
I don’t blame them.
A guy in a Bureau windbreaker approaches me like he owns the oxygen around us. Clipboard. Mirrored sunglasses. Government-grade attitude.
“I’m gonna need to ask you a few questions,” he says. “What’s your name, who authorized this op, and why we weren’t notified in advan—”
“Back the fuck off.”
He blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“She’s with me,” Nate says, stepping in like he was summoned by sheer rage. He flashes a badge with the confidence of a man who’s used it to walk into hell and back. “Homeland Security.”
The agent mutters something but walks off, clearly pissed. Nate gives me a quick nod and then heads straight toward Mr. Official.
The medics finish bandaging the little boy’s arm. One of them murmurs something about transport options, but I barely hear them.
The boy’s still in my lap, still clinging, still silent. I shift slightly, brush the hair off his forehead.
“Hey,” I whisper, soft and steady. “Can you tell me your name baby?”
His lips part, barely a breath. “Ollie.”
“Hi, Ollie,” I whisper. “You did so good, okay? You were so brave.”
He just blinks at me, lip trembling.
A familiar voice approaches from the open doors. “Bella”
I look up. It’s Alyssa Park, dark blazer, soft voice, and blue eyes that don’t miss anything. She’s one of ours. Embedded. Trusted. She’s pulled more kids out of hell than most people even know exist.
“I’ve got him from here,” she says gently. “He’s on a missing persons list, taken from a park in Santa Monica three weeks ago. We’ve already contacted his parents.”
She smiles. “He’s going home.”
“Did you hear that, buddy? They’re going to take you to your mommy and daddy. You’re going to be safe now, I promise.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just looks up at me like he’s trying to decide if I mean it.
I nod. “It’s okay. You can go. Alyssa’s going to keep you safe. She’s nice, you can trust her. And you want to know a secret? She always finds the best ice cream shops.”
Ollie hesitates, and then finally lets go. Tiny fingers slide off my jacket as he reaches for Alyssa’s hand.
She wraps her arm around him and lifts him off of the ground. “I’ll stay with him all the way home,” she says over her shoulder.
And just like that, he’s gone.