Chapter 26
Coop
The warehouse stank of gun oil and anticipation.
I moved between crates of military-grade hardware, running my hands over rifle stocks and checking serial numbers that had been ground off with professional precision.
Playing my role. Doing exactly what Oliver had brought me here to do—evaluate product for the buyers milling around the concrete floor like sharks circling chum.
None of them was familiar. The Gathering had drawn international heavyweights—yakuza representatives, Russian oligarch contacts, men with tailored suits and cold eyes who moved billions in illegal arms.
These buyers were different. Lower tier. The kind of guys who bought in small quantities and asked too many questions. One of them had spent ten minutes haggling over a crate of Glocks like he was at a flea market.
Definitely the B-list. Maybe the A-list were still gun-shy after what had happened.
“The M4s are solid,” I said to the Russian who’d been shadowing me for the past twenty minutes. “Clean. Well-maintained. Your people won’t have complaints.”
He grunted, making notes on his phone in Cyrillic.
I moved to the next crate, but my attention kept drifting to Oliver.
Something was off.
Diesel and Tommy were here—stationed near the south wall, supposedly watching the perimeter. Neither had said a word to me since I’d arrived. Every time I glanced their way, I caught them staring. Hard looks. The kind that promised violence when the opportunity came.
Probably because I’d killed Snake, and men like them held grudges. I didn’t give a shit. Let them glare. I had bigger concerns.
Oliver stood near the main entrance, greeting arriving buyers with that cultured, Manhattan-boardroom smile. Same pressed khakis, same bespoke button-down. But something was different in the way he carried himself today. Too relaxed. Too confident.
He caught me looking and held my gaze for a beat too long. That pale gray stare held something I couldn’t quite read. Amusement, maybe. Like he was enjoying a joke I wasn’t in on.
My instincts prickled.
I scanned the warehouse again, cataloging positions.
Fifteen of Oliver’s militia men visible, stationed at strategic points around the floor.
Armed, alert, professional. The buyers had their own security—Russians with thick necks, a Japanese contingent with careful eyes, others I couldn’t immediately place.
But Bishop wasn’t here.
Oliver’s shadow. His most trusted man. For someone as paranoid as Oliver, having Bishop absent during a buy—even a small one—didn’t track. The man didn’t take a piss without Bishop watching the door.
I worked my way toward Oliver, keeping my movements casual.
“Hell of a turnout,” I said when I reached him. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Word travels in certain circles.” Oliver’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Quality product, reliable delivery, discretion. The trifecta that keeps buyers coming back.”
“Speaking of your people—where’s Bishop? Figured he’d be glued to your side for something like this.”
Oliver’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind those colorless eyes. “Handling something for me. A loose end that needed attention.”
A loose end.
The phrase landed wrong in my gut.
I kept my face neutral. “Anything I should know about? Does it affect sales?”
“Nothing that concerns you. At least, not for right now.” Oliver turned to greet another arriving buyer, dismissing me.
I moved back to the weapons crates, but my mind was racing. Bishop gone. Oliver too calm. The militia men around the warehouse seemed different too—on edge, but not the nervous energy of a high-stakes sale. More like anticipation. Like they were waiting for something to happen.
Every instinct I’d honed—eight years in Marine special ops, three more with Warrior Security—was screaming.
Movement at the warehouse entrance caught my eye. New buyers arriving—a man in an expensive suit flanked by two bodyguards, creating the usual commotion of greetings and security protocols.
But that wasn’t what had my attention.
Someone else was using the distraction. A figure slipping through in the shuffle of bodies, moving with the kind of deliberate invisibility that came from years of training.
Not militia—wrong build, wrong posture. Not one of the buyers’ security teams either.
This was someone who knew how to infiltrate a hostile space without being seen.
Nobody noticed him but me. My hand drifted toward my Glock. Whoever this was, they were good. Too good to be here by accident. This was someone dangerous.
Then he turned just enough for me to catch his profile.
Beckett.
Fuck. There were zero circumstances that would have Beckett skulking through that door right now that didn’t involve the shit hitting the fan.
This was supposed to be a simple op. In and out. Plant the trackers, get out, let the feds handle the rest later. There were a few agents the next town over waiting for my signal that the trackers had been successfully planted.
Beckett wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this warehouse. Which meant something had gone catastrophically wrong.
In an instant, every instinct I had was on high alert. Whatever the plan had been, it had just changed.
Our eyes met for half a second across the warehouse floor. Beckett’s hand moved—fingers spreading, then closing into a fist. Tapping twice against his thigh.
A signal we’d developed years ago. One that meant only one thing.
Extraction. Now.
I didn’t react. Kept my expression bored, my body language loose. The exact opposite of what was going on in my head.
I picked up a rifle and pretended to examine it. I let my gaze drift casually around the warehouse, trying to gather all the intel I could to figure out what was going on.
Hunter. Near the east exit, wearing coveralls and a trucker cap, looking like he belonged with the delivery crews. His position gave him a clear line to the main floor.
Aiden. Somehow he materialized among the militia guards near the north wall, his massive frame blending with the hired muscle. Close enough to act. Close enough to kill.
This wasn’t a check-in. This wasn’t backup arriving for a scheduled extraction.
This was a rescue.
I didn’t know what the team’s plan was. Didn’t know how they’d gotten here or what had gone so badly wrong to bring them. But I knew one thing for certain: you won a hundred percent of the firefights you didn’t have.
If I could walk out of here before Oliver made his move—whatever that move was—we all went home breathing. Lived to fight another day.
I set down the rifle I’d been examining. Stretched like a man who’d been standing too long. Started drifting toward the main entrance, casual as a smoke break.
“Going somewhere, Ryan?”
Oliver’s voice stopped me ten steps from the door.
Ryan. I turned. Given the fact that my whole team was here, the smugness on his face made sense now. The amusement. The way he’d been watching me all morning like a cat with a cornered mouse.
He knew.
We hadn’t tried to hide my first name from him, but he’d never once called me by it. He was making a point.
“I have to admit, I admire your commitment.” Oliver moved closer, smile still firm on his face.
“Is that so?” My hand inched toward my Glock.
“Six weeks.” He moved closer, and I tracked his men shifting positions around us. Tightening. Closing off exits. “I talked to Diesel and Tommy—that little dumbass still defended you. They said you never broke character once.”
Maybe he was fishing. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He ignored me. “It was true at the compound as well. You played it almost perfectly—rebellious enough to be both interesting and keep my natural suspicious nature at bay. Winning that shooting contest was particularly well-played. Anyone else would’ve let me win.”
My hand drifted toward the Glock at my hip once more. “We can have another shooting contest right now if you want.”
Oliver’s smile widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t. My men have orders. You so much as touch that weapon, and you’ll have six holes in you before it clears the holster.”
I held still. Calculating. Beckett was forty feet away. Hunter closer to sixty. Aiden had the best position, but he’d have to move through three militia men to reach me.
I dropped the pretense, buying the team time to move into whatever final positions they needed. There was going to be no talking my way out of this one. “What gave me away?”
“Nothing you did.” Oliver reached into his jacket, and every muscle in my body tensed. But he only pulled out a photograph. Worn a little at the edges.
He held it up, and my heart stopped.
Mia. Younger. Smiling. Her arms wrapped around me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder. Both of us laughing at something the camera had caught. Happy. In love. A lifetime ago.
“Imagine my surprise,” Oliver said, “when Bishop brought me this last week. A whole box of your history with my escaped prey.” His pale eyes glittered. “Ryan Cooper. Former Marine. Not actually a disgraced arms dealer at all.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Your girlfriend kept quite a bit of useful information. Letters, photographs, little mementos. Very sentimental.” He tucked the photo back into his jacket.
“Where did you—”
“Mia’s apartment, of course.” Oliver’s smile turned sharp.
“I had Bishop do a little backtracking for me from the barn. There was something that never felt right about your story, even after talking to Diesel and Tommy. You know, I’ve thought about her every day since she slipped through my fingers. My little prey that got away.”
His voice dropped, intimate. Almost reverent.
“Most of them break within the first hour. Sobbing. Stumbling. Begging. But not our Mia.” His pale eyes went distant, savoring.
“She ran like she meant it. Tore that pretty dress to rags and kept climbing. Smeared herself in mud like some kind of wild thing. Even wore the right shoes—clever girl, hiding those sneakers under that gown.”