11. Blade
Chapter 11
Blade
My knuckles crack as I flex my fingers, studying the blueprints of the Whitmore mansion Cipher managed to acquire.
"Security system is Harrington-Tech," Cipher points out. "Not top-of-the-line, but decent. I can bypass it remotely, loop the cameras on a fifteen-second delay." His fingers move across the tablet, tracing virtual circuits only he can see. "Blind spots here, here, and here."
Ghost nods, his dark eyes calculating as he traces potential entry points. "Guards?"
"Rent-a-cop service. Two men, rotating patrols every forty minutes. They stick to the perimeter." Cipher points to the guard routes he's marked in red. "Window here between 2:15 and 2:25 when the east side is completely clear."
I barely hear them, my attention fixed on Sophie, who sits quietly beside me chewing her lower lip as she studies the mansion layout—the place she called home for twelve years. Her prison. Her personal hell. The urge to burn the entire place to the ground with Margaret inside it pulses through me with each heartbeat.
"Where exactly is Max kept?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
Sophie leans forward, her golden hair falling like a curtain as she points to a section near the back of the house. “If she’s got him confined to a crate, it’ll be in the mudroom off the kitchen." Her finger trembles slightly.
“What about an office or a study, a place where she keeps important documents?” I take her delicate hand in mine and give it a squeeze for support. I know she feels guilty, like her aunt’s cruelty to the creature is somehow her fault.
She points to another area on the blueprint. "Aunt Margaret's office is here. That's where she keeps all her financial records, charity documents, everything." She hesitates. "The file cabinet is probably locked, but the key is taped under her desk drawer."
Ghost catches my eye, reading my thoughts as he always does. "We're going for the dog, Blade. In and out." His tone carries a warning.
"I know." But I don't. The need to hurt this woman—to make her pay for every bruise on Sophie's skin, every meal withheld, every cruel word—burns in my gut like acid. "But if there's evidence of some other wrongdoing…”
"It's a bonus objective," Ghost concedes after a moment. "But the dog is priority one.”
Since the police visit, she's been constantly on edge, flinching at sudden movements, looking toward the gate as if expecting Margaret to show up with reinforcements at any moment. Getting Max will give her peace of mind. And peace of mind for Sophie has become my top fucking goal.
"We move at 0200," I decide, standing up. The others nod in agreement.
Sophie reaches for me as the brothers disperse to prepare. Her touch is light, almost hesitant, her skin soft against my calloused palm. “Please be careful. Aunt Margaret has friends in high places. The police chief plays golf with her. The mayor attends her Christmas parties."
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. My thumbs stroke the pulse points on the underside of her wrists. “Don't worry, princess. We’re no strangers to doing risky shit."
Her smile is shaky but genuine. "Max...doesn't like strangers. He might growl or snap. But he’ll remember your scent from your shirt I was wearing."
"I'll keep that in mind." I cup her face, my thumb stroking across her cheekbone where a faint yellow shadow of a bruise still lingers. The sight of it makes my jaw clench so tight my teeth ache. "Stay with Angel until we get back. Don't leave the clubhouse for any reason."
"I won't." She leans into my touch, trusting and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tighten painfully. "Blade? If something goes wrong?—"
"It won't." I cut her off, not willing to entertain the possibility. I seal my promise with a kiss that's too brief for my liking.
I find the brothers loading up in the garage. Ghost has opted for a panel van instead of bikes—less conspicuous, easier to transport a dog. I pull on black tactical pants, a black thermal, and lace my boots tight. Old habits from my military days kicking in as I prepare for the mission.
I check my weapons out of habit: my KA-BAR knife strapped to my ankle, a smaller blade concealed inside my clothing, and a 9mm tucked into my waistband at the small of my back. I don't plan on using any of them. This is a stealth mission in a residential area. But old habits die hard, and the weight of steel against my skin is comforting.
We’re going in without our colors. Without the patches identifying us as Shadow Reapers, we're just shadows in black clothes. Anonymous.
Hawk checks his lock-picking tools, Saint verifies our comms, and Cipher makes final adjustments to his tech. We move with the choreographed precision of men who've done this dance before. Different contexts, same moves.
"If anyone gets pinched,” Ghost gives us a reminder none of us needs, "keep your mouth shut. Club lawyer will be there within the hour."
The drive to Whitmore's mansion is silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I run through the plan in my head, visualizing each step, anticipating potential problems. It's the same mental preparation I used before combat operations, a routine that's kept me alive through situations far more dangerous than this.
But tonight my princess’s happiness hangs in the balance, her trust in me and in my club. I won't fail her.
I’d rather burn down the world than see disappointment in those sea-green eyes.
Cipher directs Saint to park the van two blocks away in the shadow of a large oak tree. From here, we move on foot, keeping to the darkness between streetlights. The night is clear and cold, our breath creating small clouds that dissipate quickly in the autumn air.
The neighborhood is quiet, expensive homes set back from the road behind manicured lawns and ornamental gates. The kind of place where neighbors don't ask questions, where privacy is respected, where abuse can happen behind beautiful facades and no one hears the screams.
Whitmore's mansion rises before us, a sprawling structure of stone and glass that reeks of money and privilege. Floodlights illuminate artfully arranged topiaries, a circular driveway with a fountain at its center.
This opulent monstrosity is where Sophie was mistreated while her cousins and aunt lived in luxury.
"Guards are on the west side," Cipher murmurs, checking his tablet. "We've got eight minutes before they circle back. Security cameras on loop... now."
Ghost gives the signal, and we move across the lawn like shadows, years of practice making our movements silent despite our size.
We reach a side door—a service entrance that Sophie said is rarely used, leading directly to the kitchen area. Hawk crouches, his lock picks in his nimble fingers.
In less than fifteen seconds, the lock clicks open and we slip inside, finding ourselves in a dimly lit hallway lined with expensive artwork. My hand twitches toward my knife, imagining Margaret Whitmore's throat beneath the blade.
"Focus," Ghost murmurs, reading my tension.
I nod, forcing the red haze back. The house is silent except for the distant hum of a refrigerator and the soft tick of an antique clock somewhere nearby.
Ghost and I head for the kitchen while Hawk and Saint secure our exit path. Cipher is in the van, monitoring security feeds on his tablet, ready to warn us if anyone wakes up or if the guards change their pattern.
The kitchen is a showcase—all gleaming marble and stainless steel, spotless and perfect. Sophie mentioned spending hours here, on her hands and knees. I run my fingers along the counter, imagining her small hands working frantically to polish it.
I move to the refrigerator, opening it silently. It's packed with gourmet food, expensive wine, fresh produce—a stark contrast to the meager meals Sophie was allowed. The casual cruelty of it hits me like a physical blow. My jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in my cheek.
A small door off the kitchen leads to the mudroom. Inside, as Sophie described, is a large metal crate. And in that crate, curled into a pitiful ball, is Max.
The German Shepherd lifts his head weakly as we approach, a low growl forming in his throat. He's a shadow of what he should be—ribs clearly visible beneath his dull, patchy coat, eyes sunken and wary. His once-proud frame is diminished, haunches trembling with the effort of standing. The crate is too small for his size, forcing him to hunch uncomfortably. A water bowl is nearly empty and cloudy with slime. Dried feces cakes one corner of the crate—he's been locked in too long to maintain his dignity.
"Jesus," Ghost mutters, disgust evident in his voice. "This is straight-up abuse."
Rage burns through my veins, a white-hot fury that momentarily blinds me. If Margaret Whitmore were in front of me right now, I'd gut her without hesitation or remorse. This—this deliberate cruelty toward a helpless creature—this is the monster who raised Sophie.
I approach slowly, crouching down to the dog's level. "Hey, Max," I say softly, keeping my voice calm despite the fury churning inside me. "Sophie sent me to get you. Remember me? My shirt?"
At Sophie's name, his ears perk up slightly. I extend my hand carefully, letting him sniff me. The dog's nose twitches, and after a moment, the growl subsides to a whimper.
"That's it, good boy." I work the latch on the crate, opening the door slowly. "We're getting you out of here. Taking you to Sophie."
Max stays put, wary. I don't blame him. Trust doesn't come easy after betrayal—a lesson I learned long ago myself.
"Time check?" I ask Ghost without taking my eyes off the dog.
"Four minutes till guards are back at the east corner," he replies, voice low. "Hawk says the house is still quiet, but there’s possible movement in the master bedroom."
I make a decision. "Get Max to the van. I'm going to check the office."
Ghost's expression hardens. "Blade?—"
"Two minutes," I promise. "I'll be right behind you. I need to see what else we can dig up on this bitch.” Hopefully, I’ll find something we can use.
He doesn't like it, but he nods. "Fine. But you need to be in the van in seven minutes."
I watch as Ghost coaxes Max out of the crate with gentle words and slow movements. The dog follows reluctantly, his legs shaky from confinement. Once they're heading for the exit, I move quickly through the kitchen toward Margaret's office.
The hallway is lined with framed photographs—Margaret at charity galas, shaking hands with the mayor, smiling alongside other bigwigs. Her perfect public mask. I resist the urge to smash each one as I pass.
The office is as polished and perfect as the rest of the house—a large desk of dark wood, walls lined with bookshelves, framed certificates, and awards for various charitable contributions. "Humanitarian of the Year," one plaque reads. Jesus fucking Christ. The hypocrisy makes me want to puke.
I head straight for the file cabinet behind the desk, finding it locked, and reach under the desk drawer. The key is exactly where Sophie said it would be. Inside the cabinet are neatly labeled folders, everything in perfect order. I scan quickly, looking for—I don’t know what exactly. Anything with Sophie's name on it for a start.
Near the back, I find a thick folder labeled "Bennett Trust." I pull it out, flipping it open to see documents, bank statements, legal papers with Sophie's parents' names. I don't have time to read through everything, because my phone vibrates—the warning signal from Cipher. I need to move.
I stuff the folder into the back of my waistband, making sure my shirt covers it. As I close the file cabinet, my text alert buzzes again.
"Max secured. Movement on second floor," Ghost's voice comes through my earpiece, terse and urgent. "Lights on. Get out now."
I slip out of the office, keeping to the shadows as I make my way back to the exit route we planned. As I pass through the foyer, footsteps sound on the upper landing. I freeze, pressing myself against the wall.
"Hello? Is someone there?" A female voice calls out, young and entitled—one of Sophie's cousins. "I swear to God, if that's you trying to scare me again, Brittany, I'm telling Mom!"
I don't answer, don't breathe, my body completely still as the footsteps move to the top of the stairs. If she comes down, I'll have nowhere to hide. My hand moves to my knife instinctively.
"Hello?" she calls again, more uncertain this time. A long pause, then a dramatic sigh. "Whatever."
The footsteps retreat, but I wait until I hear a door close before moving again. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air. Too close.
Moving quickly now, I exit through the side door, making sure it latches behind me. The lawn is clear, the guards still on their prescribed route on the far side of the property. I keep to the shadows, making my way back to where the van waits, engine idling softly.
The side door slides open as I approach, and I slip inside to find Max huddled in the back, Ghost's thermal spread beneath him as a makeshift bed. The dog looks at me warily, but there's no growl, just exhausted acceptance.
I reach out carefully, letting him sniff my hand again before gently stroking his head. He allows it, leaning into the touch after a moment. "We got you, boy," I murmur. “You’re safe now.”
By the time we arrive at the clubhouse, it's close to 4 AM. The compound is quiet, most of the brothers asleep except for those on security detail. As we pull up to the main building, the front door opens, spilling warm light onto the gravel.
Sophie stands in the doorway, Angel beside her, both women wrapped in oversized hoodies against the night chill. Sophie's face is pale with worry, her hands clutched tightly together. She hasn't slept—I can see it in the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her slender frame.
When she spots the van, she rushes forward, bare feet on cold gravel, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort in her desperation to see Max.
"Did you find him? Is he okay?" Her voice breaks with fear and hope.
I step out of the van, moving to intercept her before she can see Max's condition without warning. "We got him.” I wrap my arms around her trembling body.
“Did she hurt him?” Her voice is frantic.
“That bitch—” I swallow a curse, not wanting to upset her further. “She didn’t beat him. He needs food and water, but he’s otherwise unharmed.”
Sophie nods against my chest, her fingers digging into my arms. "Let me see him. Please."
I guide her to the side of the van where Ghost is lifting Max out to set him gently on the ground. The moment Sophie sees the dog, a sound breaks from her throat—half sob, half cry of joy. Max's reaction is instant and transformative. His ears perk up, his tail begins to wag weakly, and a high whine escapes him as he struggles to move faster toward her.
Sophie drops to her knees on the gravel, arms outstretched. "Max! Oh, Max. That’s my good boy!” Tears stream unchecked down her face as the German Shepherd limps quickly to her, his whole body trembling with emotion.
I watch as Sophie buries her face in Max's neck, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The dog licks her cheeks, her forehead, her hands—anywhere he can reach—his tail now wagging furiously despite his weakened state.
Angel appears at my side, her eyes soft as she watches the reunion. "You did good," she says quietly.
I nod, unable to speak past the unexpected tightness in my throat. I've never been one for sentimentality, but seeing Sophie with Max hits me in places I thought were long dead.
“C’mon princess," I finally manage, my voice rougher than usual. “Let’s get him food and fresh water.”
Sophie looks up at me, her face streaked with tears but radiant with joy. "Thank you," she whispers, the words heavy with meaning. "Thank you for bringing him to me."
We get Max settled in our room on a bed of thick blankets. Sophie sits beside him on the floor, while I bring water and some leftover meat from dinner then watch as she carefully helps Max eat small bites.
I crouch down beside her, reaching out to stroke Max's head. The dog allows it, even pressing into my touch.
"No one's going to hurt you again.” The promise applies to both Max and Sophie—a vow I intend to keep by any and all means.