Chapter 11 Prowl #2
The flashlight beam came up a second later, the white cone sweeping across the trailer wall and finding the window.
Finding me. His eyes locked with mine through the glass—half a second of recognition, the instant where training kicks in and tells a man that the shape behind the window is a threat.
His mouth opened to shout. His hand dropped to his hip.
Declan's rifle split the night.
The guard's leg buckled. The round took him in the thigh, exactly where Declan had promised.
He went down screaming, his weapon clattering across the hard-packed ground.
The second guard broke into a run toward his fallen partner, pistol already up, swinging in erratic arcs as he tried to locate the shooter.
He was looking for the sniper. He wasn't looking at our window.
I needed two seconds.
My hand dropped to my hip—not the tranquilizer pistol on my left side, the one we'd brought for clean evidence, but the Beretta on my right. The plan had been tranquilizers. No killing.
But the plan had died the moment those headlights appeared, and the man swinging a pistol in our sniper's direction wasn't interested in clean evidence.
I saw the vest beneath his shirt as he ran. Bulletproof. Center mass would stop him without killing him.
I threw myself through the window. Rolled over my right shoulder, the grass and packed dirt slamming against my back. Came up on one foot and one knee, Beretta already leveled. The second guard heard the thud. Pivoted toward me. His pistol swinging around—
Too late.
I fired twice. The muzzle flash threw orange light across the dirt between us.
Both rounds hit center torso. The vest caught them.
The guard staggered back, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs, his body folding around the force before his legs gave out.
He went down stunned, gasping, his pistol falling from fingers that had forgotten how to grip.
Before I'd fully come up from the roll, Ghost was already past me.
He moved with the silence that had earned him his name—no wasted motion, no wasted sound. Kicked the guard's pistol away. Dropped to one knee. Drew his tranquilizer pistol and pressed it against the Wolf's neck. A single sharp hiss. The guard's eyes rolled back. Out. Clean.
Ghost scooped up the Wolf's sidearm and tossed it underhand in my direction without looking. I caught it. Sig Sauer. Heavier than my Beretta.
Ghost was already moving toward the first guard—the one Declan had dropped.
The man was still down, clutching his thigh, his pistol forgotten on the ground three feet from his hand.
Ghost reached him in five steps. Reloaded a fresh dart.
Fired once into the guard's neck. The cursing stopped mid-syllable.
Ghost collected the second pistol, holstered the tranquilizer gun, and drew his Glock.
Two pistols. One in each hand. The restless kid from the compound gone, replaced by something precise and lethal that I was glad was on my side.
"Run!" Ghost shouted, already sprinting. "Water tank, now!"
We moved together. Sprinted the forty feet to the steel water tank near the office trailer, diving behind its bulk just as the first vehicle slid to a stop in front of the building.
The tank was old, its paint oxidized to dull gray, its rivets thick with rust. Big enough to stop small arms. Thick enough to buy us seconds.
Seconds we were going to need.
The vehicles were closer, headlights turning the basin white, and figures were pouring from the worker housing—some moving toward the extraction point guided by shapes I recognized as Diego and Irish, others scattering in panic, their silhouettes small and terrified against the glare.
More figures emerged from the main barn.
Reinforcements. Four. Five. All armed. All moving with coordination.
The vehicles reached the compound.
The first—a black SUV—slid to a stop near the office trailer.
Doors flew open before it had fully stopped.
Men poured out with rifles, their movements sharp and professional.
The second vehicle followed. The third. Each one disgorging more bodies into the chaos.
The fourth—a large panel van—hung back near the entrance, engine idling. Waiting.
And then I saw him.
He stepped out of the lead SUV with the unhurried confidence of a man who owned every piece of ground he walked on.
Massive. Six-five at least, built the way Tank was built except meaner—all of it muscle packed onto a frame that looked designed for one purpose.
His head was shaved on the sides with a strip of hair running front to back.
A full beard covered the lower half of a face that looked like it had been assembled from bad decisions and worse intentions.
Piercings glinted in his ears—multiple rings catching the headlight glare. His eyes swept the compound.
I'd never seen him before. Tyler hadn't mentioned him by name. Whoever this man was, he was new to our intelligence. And the authority he carried said enforcer. Said command. Said the Iron Wolves had acquired someone the Phoenixes didn't know about.
He was barking orders before his boots settled.
"Housing first! Lock the perimeter—nothing gets out!
" His voice was a deep, raw bark that cut through the chaos like a blade through rope.
He pointed at two Wolves near the barn. "You two, west door.
Move!" Then to three more near the vehicles: "Flank the north side. Anyone who is not ours gets put down."
The Wolves responded. Their scatter became formation. Their panic became purpose. Within seconds the compound had transformed from chaos to coordinated assault.
From the direction of the housing units—the direction the second and third vehicles had gone—I heard gunfire. Sustained shots. A firefight.
I keyed my comms. "Diego, status."
"Pinned." His breathing ragged, the shots audible behind his words. "Irish has four workers behind the north housing unit. I've got three more near the fence line. We need cover."
"Tank, Axel—where are you?"
"Thirty seconds." Tank's engine roared through the channel. "Coming in hot."
The rifle near the lead SUV pivoted. Two Wolves had spotted us behind the water tank—a shout, an arm pointing, then the first rifle came up.
A round snapped past my head, close enough that I felt the displaced air against my cheek.
The metal of the tank rang as another shot punched into the far side.
I returned fire with the Beretta, two controlled bursts that sent a Wolf diving for cover.
But there were too many. More than a dozen against our four inside the compound, and Diego and Irish were pinned with workers on the other side.
Then came the sound of an engine at full throttle—heavy and close, the deep growl of a large vehicle moving fast.
Tank's SUV came through the western fence at speed, chain-link parting around it like paper.
A Wolf broke toward the vehicle at a dead sprint, rifle already up.
The driver's window came down as the SUV was still moving.
Tank's shotgun barked from inside the cab.
The blast caught the Wolf center chest and sent him flying back, his body going limp before it hit the dirt.
Tank pulled the SUV sideways, sliding it to a stop broadside to the fight, the bulk of the vehicle forming a steel wall of cover. He was out before the engine fully died, shotgun already aimed.
"Get behind us!" Tank's voice boomed across the compound. Tyler emerged from the passenger side, Glock in a two-handed grip. Four more Phoenixes deployed from the rear doors, spreading out in practiced formation.
Axel came from the north two seconds later.
"Blade, get your people clear!" Axel's voice through the comms, sharp and fast.
His SUV hit harder because of the angle—the Wolves advancing on Diego's position had their backs to the approach.
Axel rammed three of them before they heard him coming.
Two went under the wheels. The third was flung sideways into the dirt.
Axel braked hard and spun the SUV ninety degrees, broadside facing the fight.
His team poured out, guns already discharging, muzzle flashes strobing the scene in orange bursts.
From the far hillside, Declan's rifle cracked. Again. Once more. The no-kill rule had burned off with the first vehicle through the fence. Each crack of the long rifle meant one less Wolf still standing.
The Wolves were caught between three forces. Their coordination fractured. Their formation bent.
I tried to spot the bearded man through the chaos. Couldn't. He was behind the lead SUV, using it for cover, his voice still audible through the gunfire.
"Push the north side! Pin them against the fence!" A pause. Then, louder: "Get the van to the housing—load everyone you can!"
Hand signals followed the shouted orders—practiced, tactical.
Three of his Wolves broke from formation and sprinted toward the housing units. They weren't flanking. They weren't covering a retreat. They were going for the workers.
"They're going for the housing," I said into the comms. Already moving. "I've got the three breakers. Declan, on me."
"Tracking," Declan's voice came back.
I broke from behind the water tank and ran parallel to the Wolves' path, angling to cut off the first one before he reached the housing door.
He didn't see me coming—his focus on the building, his weapon raised. I closed the distance in a hurried sprint, planted my left foot on the last stride, and jumped as I swung my elbow to the front. The bone slammed into the first Wolf’s temple mid-stride with a hollow thud.
The impact took him off his feet. He went down hard, the rifle flying from his hands. Out before he hit the ground.