Chapter 3 – ARCHER
Chapter
Three
ARCHER
T he Blackhawk's rotors slice through mountain air so thin it makes my lungs work for every breath.
My hands move over the controls with muscle memory earned through too many missions in too many shitholes, but this bird handles different than the military issue ones.
Smoother. Quieter. Amazing what money can buy when you're not bound by government contracts and bureaucratic bullshit.
"Five minutes to drop," I announce through the comms, banking left to follow the ridge line.
The moon's just a sliver tonight, perfect for what we're about to do.
Below us, the compound squats like a cancer in the valley—concrete walls, razor wire, and enough armed guards to make it clear they're not running a fucking summer camp down there.
My jaw clenches as I think about what's happening behind those walls.
What's been happening for God knows how long while the world looked the other way.
The familiar burn of rage ignites in my chest, but I breathe through it.
Can't afford to lose control. Not when there are innocents counting on us.
"Copy that, Viper." Bane's voice crackles through my headset, using my callsign like we're still playing soldier. Old habits die hard, I guess. "Team's prepped and ready."
I glance back at my cargo. Three alphas who've become the closest thing to family I've got left, each one a weapon in their own right. They're checking gear, faces still uncovered for these last few minutes before we become ghosts.
Bane sits closest to the door, and even seated he dominates the space.
He’s a titan with broad shoulders and coiled power in his lumberjack frame that makes other alphas step aside without thinking.
So does the forked scar carved down the left side of his face, one branch cutting through his lip and the other stretching toward the broken nose from his police days that makes him resemble a giant Roman statue that got in a huge bar fight and won.
His hazel eyes scan the approach vectors on his tablet, that perpetual five o'clock shadow making him look like he just rolled out of bed ready to fuck someone up. He catches me looking and gives a curt nod.
No words needed. We've done this dance enough times to know our parts.
Beside him, Elias—or "Doctor" as we call him in the field—methodically checks his medical kit for the third time.
Where Bane is all brute force, the Doc is precision incarnate.
That silver hair of his catches what little moonlight filters through the windows, making him look older than his thirty-one years.
But those blue eyes? Sharp as scalpels and twice as cold when he's working.
The lean muscle under his tactical gear speaks to his military background, though, every movement economical and purposeful.
He's muttering under his breath, probably running through triage protocols. The man's seen more trauma than any person should, but it never stops him from trying to save everyone. Even when it's impossible. Even when it breaks something inside him each time he fails.
"You good, Doc?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Always." His voice stays conversational, like we're discussing the weather instead of preparing to rain hell on human traffickers. That's his thing, supernatural calm in the face of chaos. Sometimes I wonder what it cost him. That's not the kind of thing you just come by.
And then there's Carlisle. Carlisle sprawls in his seat, long legs stretched out carelessly, head bobbing to whatever's playing through his AirPods.
His fingers tap an erratic rhythm against his knees, and occasionally he hums snatches of what sounds like classical music, because of course the psychopath listens to Mozart before a kill.
The dim cabin light catches on his golden hair and those deceptively gentle blue eyes, making him look almost angelic.
But I know better.
That easy smile playing at his lips isn't anticipation for saving lives.
It's bloodlust, pure and simple. His custom blade collection gleams against his tactical gear, each weapon worth more than my monthly salary back when I was a far more legitimate brand of pilot for the Army.
The juxtaposition between his carefree demeanor and what we're about to do is jarring, but that's Carlisle for you.
To him, this is just another pleasant evening out, like he's heading to dinner instead of what's sure to be a bloodbath.
"Two minutes," I update, starting our descent. The compound grows larger in the windshield, and my enhanced vision picks out details that make my trigger finger itch. Guards walking predictable patterns. Security cameras with obvious blind spots. Amateurs playing at being hard men.
They have no idea what's coming.
"Masks up," Bane orders, his voice shifting into command mode. "Remember, no survivors except the victims and no one sees our faces. Clean and quick."
I watch in the mirror as they transform. Tactical masks slide into place, turning them from men into nightmares. Black gear, skull balaclavas, no identifying marks, just death walking on two legs. Even knowing they're on my side, the sight sends a primal warning through my hindbrain.
Predators, all of them. And I'm about to become one of them.
"Thirty seconds to rope deployment," I announce, hovering just outside their sensor range. The mountains provide perfect cover, and I've killed the running lights. We're just another shadow in a world full of them.
The cargo door slides open, and cold air floods the cabin. Bane goes first, fast-roping down like gravity's his bitch. Elias follows, medical pack secured tight against his back. Carlisle brings up the rear, dropping down like he doesn't give a fuck if he lives or dies.
I watch them hit the ground and immediately spread out, moving toward the compound like wolves closing on sheep. My job now is to wait, to be ready for extraction, to trust they'll handle their part.
The hardest fucking part.
I set the bird down on a narrow ledge halfway up the mountain, kill the engines, and grab my rifle. Can't go in with them, someone needs to guard our exit, but I can provide overwatch. The scope finds them easily as they breach the perimeter, and I settle in to do what I do best.
Protect my pack.
The first guard doesn't even see Bane coming. One second he's lighting a cigarette, the next he's face-down with a knife between his ribs. Clean. Professional. The body gets dragged into shadows before anyone notices.
Elias takes the next one, some kind of nerve strike that drops the guy like a puppet with cut strings. No blood, no sound, just sudden absence of life. Sometimes I forget the good doctor knows more ways to end a life than save one.
Carlisle simply walks up to his target and snaps the man's neck like a twig. Note to self: never piss off the psycho.
They flow through the compound like a plague, leaving bodies in their wake. I track their progress through the scope, calling out positions when needed. "Two tangos, northwest corner. Moving your way."
"Copy," Bane whispers back. Then those two are down too, added to the growing body count.
The main building looms ahead, and that's where things get complicated. Can't use explosives, too much risk to the victims inside. Has to be close work, the kind that leaves marks on your soul.
"Breaching now," Bane announces.
The next few minutes are a symphony of violence broadcast through my earpiece. Gunfire, screams cut short, the wet sound of blades finding flesh. I want to be down there, want to help, but my job is to watch the perimeter and?—
Movement. Eastern approach.
"You've got company," I warn, tracking two guards running toward the building. "Two hundred meters and closing."
I breathe out, find that still place between heartbeats, and squeeze the trigger. The first guard's head snaps back in a pink mist. His partner barely has time to process what happened before the second round finds him center mass.
"Clear," I report, already scanning for more threats.
"Found them." Elias's voice comes through tight with controlled fury. "Twelve omegas. Condition varies. Beginning assessment."
Twelve. Twelve souls locked away like livestock, waiting for buyers who see them as property instead of people. The rage burns hotter, but I channel it into focus. Can't help them if I lose my shit.
"Archer, we need you down here." That's Bane, and something in his tone makes my blood run cold. "Doc needs another set of hands, and the victims... they need to see a friendly face."
I'm moving before he finishes talking, rappelling down the cliff face like my ass is on fire. My boots hit dirt, and I'm sprinting toward the building, rifle up and ready. The courtyard is a charnel house, bodies scattered like broken dolls, blood painting abstract art on concrete.
Inside is worse.
The omegas are huddled in what can only be described as cages. Fucking cages, like animals. Some look like they've been here days, others maybe weeks. The smell hits me first. Terror, pheromones, desperation all mingled into something that makes my alpha instincts scream.
"Hey there," I say softly, approaching the nearest cage. The omega inside, a young woman who can't be more than twenty, flinches back. "I'm Viper. We're here to get you out."
Not the most comforting name, but it's left over from my days in the Army and it stuck.
Elias is already working on unlocking another cage, his hands steady as he checks vitals on an unconscious omega.
"Dehydration, malnutrition, signs of sedation," he reports clinically, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
"Nothing immediately life-threatening, they'll make transport, but they'll need proper medical attention as soon as we hit the ground. "