Chapter 17
Hell’s Eight Compound, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia.
The blast reverberated in Blair’s ears and bones, the pressure wave slamming into her chest and shoving hot air into her face.
The door bucked inward, crashing to the filthy floor in a splintered collapse.
Smoke and dust surged past her, the bitter tang of burnt wood and explosive residue burning her nose.
Ice flowed through first, rifle up, already cutting angles.
Boomer split off with him, fanning left to clear the immediate lane.
Blair flowed in next, Beef tight on her shoulder, muzzle up and tracking.
Breakneck stayed tucked behind her, rifle aimed and ready, covering her blind side as they moved.
Kodiak sealed the rear, weapon tracking the space they left behind.
The interior erupted into chaos, sound, light, movement. Music blared from a jukebox in the corner, some hard rock anthem strangled mid-chorus when a biker lunged for the cord. Tables and chairs lay scattered, beer bottles rolling across a sticky floor, cards half-played and forgotten.
For one stunned second, three bikers at the nearest table just stared at them.
They died before they could finish the thought.
Ice’s weapon coughed in short, precise bursts. Boomer’s roared once, twice, his fire cutting down the man reaching under the counter. Breakneck pivoted with the motion, tracking secondary movement before it could materialize, taking out the guy that burst out of the bathroom.
Blair moved on instinct, rifle snapping to a chest packed with leather, patches, ink. She squeezed.
The man jerked back as the round hit center mass.
Her brain logged it clinically. First kill at this range with Tier 1 beside her. No time for anything else.
“Left clear,” Ice called.
Kodiak slid on the slick floor as he pivoted. “Right side clear.”
Voices shouted deeper inside. Doors slammed. Footsteps pounded against old wood.
“Copy,” Ice said.
They pushed as a unit, Breakneck shifting fluidly between lanes, covering blind angles as the stack compressed and expanded around him. He wasn’t overwatch anymore. He was in it, moving with them, breathing the same air, riding the violence forward.
Blair felt him before she saw him at her back, close enough that his presence registered as heat and certainty.
His movement was economical, hips turning with his steps, feet placing him exactly where he needed to be.
Nothing wasted. Nothing rushed. The rifle stayed aligned with his body as if it were an extension of him, his balance low and controlled, every pivot smooth and deliberate.
It shouldn’t have been distracting. They all moved with precision, but his kind of control promised consequences she didn’t have time to want.
The contained, precise way he moved did something to her that had nothing to do with tactics.
She had a sudden, vivid awareness of how that control would translate elsewhere.
How he’d move against her. Over her. Slow where it mattered.
Steady where it counted. The thought slid in uninvited, dangerous as a live wire, and she crushed it just as quickly.
She kept her muzzle up, eyes forward, but her body registered him anyway, the quiet power of his proximity, the way he adjusted to her without crowding her space, covering her blind side as if it were instinct, as if she were something worth protecting without question.
Her pulse kicked harder. She forced it down, leaned into the discipline that had kept her alive this long. Later, she told herself. If there was a later.
For now, there was only the hallway narrowing, the pressure building, and the man who moved like control made flesh, and made it damn hard to remember why she shouldn’t want to test what would happen if he ever pushed him to lose it.
Blair shut it out, tracked the interior as they advanced.
The clubhouse stank of stale beer, sweat, gasoline, and beneath it all the sour-copper tang of old blood.
Skulls, flags, and biker patches lined the walls.
A neon sign flickered above the long bar, casting washed-out light over overturned stools.
She’d been in dangerous rooms before. She’d seen men die. Seen blood on walls. Heard screams.
Something in her spine straightened. This was what it looked like when the very best pushed into danger. It awed her. Steadied her. Terrified her in a way that somehow made sense.
The main hall narrowed into a corridor. A stairway climbed along one wall. A door at the far end led down.
“Boomer,” Ice said, jerking his chin upward.
“On it,” Boomer replied, already pounding up the stairs, Beef tight behind him.
Ice shifted toward the basement door.
Breakneck peeled off just long enough to cover the hall behind them, then flowed back in as Blair stepped up, muzzle trained where the door would swing open.
Oh, God, was there no end to this man’s distractions?
His forearms flexed as he worked the rifle, bare, powerful, and her focus slipped for half a heartbeat.
He was a damn disconcerting problem. She had a feeling she wasn’t done cataloging every nuance about him, and not just his body.
Her heart hammered, vision razor sharp, the team breathing and moving around her like a single organism.
A biker burst from a side room, yelling. His shotgun came up too slow.
Blair fired twice.
The man jerked as the rounds hit center mass, slammed into the wall, then slid down, leaving a dark smear behind him.
Breakneck clocked the threat the instant it appeared, tracked it through her shot, then checked past her for secondary movement. He didn’t crowd her. Didn’t correct. Didn’t step in.
“Nice,” he said quietly from behind her shoulder.
She didn’t answer. There would be time later to feel the weight of it. The mission was foremost, and the man below them who was bleeding for a choice he’d made to help Breakneck do his job.
She hadn’t been able to see him when they were outside, but the sense of him had been just as strong then. In here, surrounded by noise and movement, it hit even harder, a breathless distraction layered on top of everything else she’d already clocked.
She couldn’t shut him out, but she had to manage it. Blair shifted her focus, centered her eyes on Iceman, and locked back onto the op before she got someone killed. Including him. Including herself.
Ice yanked the basement door open.
Cold, damp air rolled up the stairwell, thick with the smell of concrete, mold, and something metallic and dark that could only be blood.
Ice led them down, boots striking the steps in a rapid, controlled rhythm. Blair followed close, shoulder nearly brushing his back, rifle steady, breath measured around the hammering of her heart.
At the bottom of the stairs, a short hallway stretched toward a single metal door. Light leaked around the edges. Voices on the other side. One man, angry, talking too fast. Another sound, softer, rough with pain. A third voice drifted in and out, low, watchful.
Ice nodded once. “Stack.”
Blair slid into position. Kodiak behind her. Break on the other side of the door jamb, tight and coiled.
Ice didn’t bother with a charge. Too much concussive force. Too close to whoever was inside.
He raised his boot and kicked hard.
The door slammed inward, and the room snapped into horrific focus. Concrete floor. A drain stained dark. Hooks bolted into the ceiling. A chair turned over.
Marques knelt near the center of the room, hands bound, face swollen and slick with blood, chest heaving, eyes glassy but conscious.
Three men with him.
One stood too close, dark jacket, dead eyes. Cartel.
Two others wore cuts, tattoos crawling up their necks. One near the wall. One closer to the door. They were ready. Pistols barked, shots going wild.
Ice fired and dropped the biker near the wall.
The cartel handler swung toward Blair. She was there, then she wasn’t.
Breakneck slammed into her from the side, hard and controlled, shoving her clear as rounds tore past the space she’d occupied. She collided with the wall, air punching from her lungs.
The second biker went down in a hail of fire.
The cartel handler was already moving. He grabbed Marques, hauling him upright, dragging the guard in front of him like a shield.
“Drop him!” Blair shouted, moving left, searching for an angle.
“Don’t shoot,” Marques choked. “He’ll—”
The handler didn’t hesitate. He locked his arm under Marques’s chin and reached for the knife at his hip, eyes cold, intent absolute.
Everything narrowed for Blair. The noise receded. The air thickened. It was just angles and distances and threats. She shifted again, boots finding purchase on the damp concrete.
Ice held his line steady, waiting. The handler’s head was tucked tight, impossible.
It was Blair who saw the sliver.
She dropped her aim, sight lining up with the handler’s thigh, just below where Marques’s leg blocked the rest. She squeezed. The round punched through muscle. The man screamed, buckling. His grip broke.
Marques tore free with a surge of panicked strength, collapsing forward.
Ice put two rounds into the handler’s chest, center mass.
Breakneck fired once.
The handler’s head snapped back as he fell.
He hit the floor and didn’t move.
“Clear,” Ice said, voice flat. “Kodiak, see to Marques.”
Kodiak was already moving, sliding his rifle behind him and dropping to his knees beside the man. He cut through the bindings with a quick, practiced slice of his knife, then guided Marques carefully onto his side.
Marques wheezed, eyes rolling, breath ragged. “I…wouldn’t talk,” he rasped, words sticking. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
Blair crouched, heart squeezing. “We know. You did good. We’ve got you now.”
He gave something like a nod before closing his eyes, face going slack as the adrenaline crashed and whatever strength he had left drained away.
After a few minutes, Kodiak said, “Stable for now. We need to move him.”