Chapter 40 – ARCHER
Chapter
Forty
ARCHER
T he box seats give me a perfect vantage point over the auction floor, but they're doing fuck all for my nerves. I've been in combat zones that felt safer than this.
At least there, the enemy wore uniforms and you knew where the bullets were coming from. Here, surrounded by marble and crystal and the stench of entitlement, every rich fuck in a designer suit could be the one who hired assassins to kill us.
My earpiece crackles to life. "Viper in position," I mutter into my comm.
"Copy that," Bane's voice rumbles through the comm. "I've got eyes on the main entrance. No sign of our omegas yet."
No sign of them. The words make my chest tighten like someone's got their fist around my heart.
Felix and Juniper are somewhere in this building, about to walk into a nest of vipers—real ones, not the sanitized military version I used to be.
The kind that buy and sell people like they're picking out fucking furniture.
I force myself to breathe. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Felix's technique works pretty good, actually.
I remind myself he and Juniper aren't helpless. They're two of the most dangerous people in this building, omega status be damned. But that doesn't stop the protective instinct that's been riding me hard since we went in separate cars and watched them walk into the building.
Movement catches my eye. The backstage door opening.
My whole body goes rigid as I watch two figures being ushered through by some asshole in a cheap suit who's definitely compensating for something with that much hair gel.
But then I catch a glimpse of pink silk, of silver eyes that could cut glass even from this distance, and the knot in my chest loosens fractionally.
There they are.
"Visual confirmation," I report, trying to keep the relief out of my voice. "Our packages have been delivered backstage."
"About fucking time," Carlisle drawls through the comm. "I was starting to think they'd gotten lost. Or murdered someone in the lobby Both equally likely."
He's not wrong. Juniper's impulse control on a good day is questionable at best. Add in the stress of being back in this kind of environment, and we're lucky she hasn't already started decorating the walls with arterial spray.
I settle deeper into the plush seat in the otherwise empty box, watching the auction floor fill with human garbage.
They file in like they own the world, which, financially speaking, they probably do.
Men in suits that cost more than I made in a year in the military, women dripping with jewels that could feed entire villages, all of them here for the same sick fucking purpose.
To buy people.
The bile rises in my throat as I watch them mingle, champagne flutes in hand, laughing like they're at a fucking garden party instead of a slave auction.
That one there, the greasy creep with the comb-over?
He's already eyeing the backstage area like a kid looking at presents under the Christmas tree.
The woman in red beside him isn't any better, her predatory smile making my trigger finger itch.
This has to work. Tonight. We end the threat, we get our omegas safe, and then maybe we can start building something that doesn't involve constantly looking over our shoulders.
A life. A pack. A future where Juniper can nest without having panic attacks about locked closets, where Felix doesn't have to hide behind chemical masks, where we can all just... be.
The thought seems almost laughable in this place, surrounded by everything wrong with the world. But I hold onto it anyway, like a talisman against the rage building in my chest.
The house lights dim, and some smug piece of shit in a tuxedo that's trying too hard takes the stage. His smile is all teeth and no soul, the kind of expression that makes you want to check your wallet and your pulse.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he croons into the microphone, his voice oil-slick and nauseating. "Welcome to tonight's exclusive event. We have quite the selection for your discerning tastes."
Discerning tastes. That's what they're calling human trafficking now. I make a mental note to personally introduce this fucker to some enhanced interrogation techniques before the night's over.
"As always," he continues, practically salivating over his own words, "we guarantee the quality and authenticity of our merchandise. Each omega has been thoroughly evaluated for health, fertility, and... compliance."
Yeah. Checked over by the guy Carlisle blackmailed into vetting Juniper ahead of time so no one would touch her. By the end of the night, he'll be dead, too. No trace of us left in this cesspit that's destined to become a pile of ash and rubble before sunrise.
The curtain rises, and the first omega is brought out.
A young man, maybe twenty, with the kind of hollow expression that says he's already checked out mentally.
The auctioneer starts rattling off his "qualities" like he's describing a fucking car.
Age, designation, previous training, whatever the fuck that means.
The bidding starts at a number that makes me sick.
"First offering's on stage," I report quietly. "Young male omega. He looks..." Broken. Destroyed. Like every other omega we've pulled out of these hellholes. "He needs extraction."
"Soon," Bane promises through the comm. "They all go free tonight."
The poor guy sells for an obscene amount to some corporate-looking asshole who's already loosening his tie like he can't wait to get started. I memorize his face. He's not walking out of here tonight. None of them are.
More omegas are paraded out like cattle.
Each one makes my chest ache, makes that familiar rage build higher.
A girl who can't be old enough to drink, trembling so hard she can barely stand.
Twins who've clearly been kept together as a "matched set" for some sick fuck's fantasy.
An older omega who's probably been through this so many times he's gone completely dead behind the eyes.
Each sale is another name on my kill list. Every smug smile, every casual bid on a human life, every fucking champagne toast, they're all signing their death warrants.
"Get ready," Felix's voice cuts through the comm, tense but controlled. "Juniper's up next."
My entire body goes rigid. I lean forward, hands gripping the balcony rail so hard the wood creaks. The backstage door opens, and my breath catches in my throat.
She looks nothing like herself.
The pink silk dress makes her look merely fragile, instead of the force of nature who dropped a chandelier on Bane's head without breaking a sweat, and somehow simultaneously manages to be delicate.
Bent but never broken. Her head is down, shoulders curved inward in submission, every line of her body screaming “victim” instead of “predator.”
It's an act. I know it's an act. She's probably got at least three weapons hidden under that dress and a mental catalog of thirty-seven ways to kill everyone in this room. But seeing her like this, seeing her play the part of everything she fought to escape...
My chest fucking aches.
Because she wasn't always acting. Once upon a time, this was her reality.
Some piece of shit put her on a stage like this, or in a room, or in a cage, and treated her like property.
Made her feel like she was nothing more than her designation, nothing more than what she could provide to whatever alpha had enough money.
The auctioneer starts his spiel, and I want to jump down there and rip his tongue out through his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, a truly special offering. Beautiful, unmated, excellent breeding potential..."
Breeding potential. Like she's fucking livestock.
"—docile temperament, trained in domestic services..."
Docile. Juniper. The same woman who threatened to use someone's intestines as a jump rope is being described as docile.
"—starting bid at two million."
I'll tear his fucking windpipe out and shove it?—
The numbers start flying immediately. These sick fucks recognize perfection when they see it, even if they have no fucking clue what they're really looking at.
They see the perfect omega. Beautiful, seemingly broken, everything their twisted fantasies demand.
They don't see the killer underneath. They don't see the woman who survived hell and came out the other side with her middle fingers raised.
"Status report," I manage through gritted teeth.
"I'm fine," Felix says immediately, and there's something protective in his tone that makes me believe him. "She's playing her part perfectly. No signs of distress except the ones she wants the crowd to buy."
Of course she is. Juniper's a better actor than any of us give her credit for. She had to be, to survive what she survived. But that doesn't make it easier to watch.
"In position at the north entrance," Elias reports. "No suspicious movement."
"South entrance secure," Bane adds. "Crowd seems focused on the... merchandise."
"Charming," Carlisle's voice drips sarcasm through the comm. "I'm mingling with our esteemed guests. You'd be amazed how much these people will say when they think you're one of them. Apparently, there's an after-party where the 'real' business happens just begging to be burned down."
"Copy that," I acknowledge, scanning the crowd for threats even as my eyes keep drifting back to Juniper on stage.
The bidding has hit five million. Then seven. Then ten.
"Carlisle," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "You better fucking win this."
"Oh right," he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "I almost forgot why I'm here. How silly of me."
"Carlisle—"
"Relax, Viper. Our girl isn't going home with anyone but us."
The auctioneer is practically orgasming over the bidding war. "Fifteen million! Do I hear sixteen?"
Carlisle raises his paddle with the kind of casual arrogance that only comes from having more money than a prince and the morals of a particularly creative serial killer. "Twenty million."
The room goes quiet for a second, then buzzes with speculation. Who's the new player dropping that kind of money? Carlisle plays it perfectly, looking bored already, like twenty million for a human being is pocket change he found in his couch cushions.
Then again, considering how much he's spent on our operations, he might actually have that much lying around.
"Twenty million going once... going twice..."
Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
There's a man near the back exit who doesn't fit.
Everyone else is watching the stage with varying degrees of hunger, but this guy's scanning the room.
His suit's expensive but it doesn't sit right, like he's not used to wearing it.
And there's a bulge under his left armpit that's definitely not a wallet.
"Possible tango," I mutter into the comm. "Southeast corner, moving toward the hallway. I'm going to check it out."
"Copy," Bane responds. "Maintain visual if possible."
I slip out of the box, moving through the hallway with the kind of silence that comes from years of training and too many missions in hostile territory. The carpet muffles my footsteps, and I keep to the shadows cast by the ornate light fixtures.
The guy's ahead of me, moving with purpose now. He's definitely security of some kind, but not the standard hired muscle for the auction. This is someone else's player.
"SOLD!" The auctioneer's voice echoes through the building. "To bidder number forty-two for twenty million dollars!"
It probably is pocket change for Carlisle, but any price would be insulting. Juniper's priceless. You can't put a number on someone who survived hell and came out laughing, who can make you feel like the most important person in the world just by curling up in your lap at three in the morning.
The suspicious guy pushes through an exit door, and I follow at a safe distance. The door leads to a loading dock area of concrete and industrial lighting that's a harsh contrast to the opulence inside. He pulls out a cigarette, and I almost laugh at the anticlimax.
"False alarm," I report, watching him light up with hands that shake slightly from the adrenaline of the hunt. "Target just needed a smoke break. Heading back inside."
"Copy that," Bane says. "Stay sharp. Something still feels off about tonight."
"That's the idea, isn't it?" Elias finally chimes in from wherever he's hiding. Probably gathering more intel from the other attendees for our next bust. The doctor is nothing but thorough.
I turn to head back inside, already thinking about the next phase of the plan. Carlisle has Juniper or soon will, which means they'll be heading to the "collection" area. Felix will be with them, playing the handler delivering the merchandise. Then we just have to wait for?—
Pain explodes across the back of my skull.
The world tilts sideways, darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision like the living shadows Juniper sees. I try to turn, try to fight, but my legs won't cooperate. They've turned to water, to nothing, to?—
A second hit, and everything goes soft and hazy. I'm vaguely aware of hands grabbing me, of being dragged, but it's all happening to someone else. Someone far away.
The last coherent thought I have before the darkness takes me is that Bane was right.
Something was definitely off about tonight.
Then nothing.