Chapter 25 Damian
Damian
The warehouse district stretched like a graveyard — long rows of corrugated steel, floodlights humming against the fog, shadows thick between the buildings.
Hemsley’s truck rolled into one of the larger bays, men moving with practiced ease as they guided it inside. No uniforms. No logos. Just plain clothes and weapons tucked too neatly under jackets. Professionals who didn’t want to be remembered.
Cyclone tracked the signal from our vantage point on a ridge overlooking the site. River scanned through the binoculars, muttering under his breath.
“Same playbook as Hub 9,” he said. “Different field.”
I grunted. “Luthor doesn’t build new tricks. He repackages the old ones until people stop looking.”
My chest tightened at the thought. Morgan had said almost the same thing last night, her soft voice drifting across the kitchen as she whispered into that bloody recorder: They hide in charities, in logistics firms, in names no one remembers once the ink dries.
She’d never seen this before, never walked into a place like this. And yet she’d painted it with words as if she had.
I shoved the thought down, but it stuck like a burr.
“We can’t breach tonight,” Cyclone said, steady as stone. “Too many exits, not enough cover. We need more eyes, more angles.”
River lowered the binoculars, jaw tight. “What about Ruby?”
The question hit like a blade. Morgan’s fear — her whispered she’s scared of the dark — was still lodged in me. Ruby could be inside one of those trucks. Or she could already be moved further down the chain.
Either way, Morgan would be waiting at the farmhouse, eyes wide, asking if I’d found her. And I’d have no answer worth giving.
I forced the weight back where it belonged — behind discipline, behind steel. “We mark the site. We tag patterns. Then we go back and regroup. If we charge blind, we lose everything.”
River swore under his breath, but didn’t argue. Cyclone logged the coordinates, calm as ever.
As we pulled back into the fog, I caught myself glancing at my watch. Not for the time. For how long Morgan had been alone.
Too long.
I pressed my mouth into a hard line, but the truth whispered anyway: I wasn’t just racing Luthor anymore. I was racing my own chest, my own pulse, the dangerous way her name lodged there.
Morgan Tate was becoming more than a civilian I’d sworn to protect.
And that was the most dangerous battlefield I’d faced yet.