Chapter 79 Damian
Damian
The convoy rolled dark and silent down a back road, dust trailing in the pale dawn. Cyclone sat up front, laptop balanced on his knees, the glow throwing hard lines across his face. Oliver drove, steady as stone. Gage rode beside me, checking his weapon with that familiar, calm intensity.
Cyclone broke the silence. “Two blocks out. Heat signatures all over. It’s live.”
My gut clenched. That meant Morgan was right—her breadcrumbs hadn’t just led us closer, they’d stirred the hornet’s nest. And if they’d found her once, they’d try again.
I shoved the thought down. I couldn’t be in two places. Right now, my job was here: crush this hub, cut Luthor’s legs out from under him, and get back to her before the walls closed in again.
We pulled into position, engines cut. The warehouse ahead was bigger than last night’s—two stories, reinforced windows, chain-link fencing curling around it like a cage. Men stood at the gates, armed, smoking like they didn’t expect a storm was about to roll through.
Oliver’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “We ghost it, or hit hard?”
“Hard,” I said. My voice didn’t waver. “No time for shadows.”
Gage smirked, loading a fresh mag. “My kind of morning.”
We moved fast—two at the gate before they even had a chance to radio, silenced shots dropping them clean. Cyclone was already working the fence override, muttering curses as the lock stuttered.
“Thirty seconds,” he hissed.
Thirty seconds felt like a lifetime with Morgan’s face in my head, with the memory of her voice whispering come back to me.
The lock clanged open.
We poured through the gap. Alarms shrieked immediately, lights flaring to life. Shouts erupted inside.
“Contact!” Oliver barked.
Gunfire ripped through the morning, sparks biting off the fencing as we returned fire. I moved forward, fast and low, clearing the entry point, my rifle a steady extension of my will. One man dropped. Another tried to flank. Gage cut him down before he’d taken three steps.
Cyclone was behind us, laptop still open even as he moved. “Server room’s upstairs. That’s where the real intel lives.”
“Then that’s where we go.”
We pushed in, boots pounding against the concrete floor, the acrid bite of gunpowder thick in the air. Every shot, every shout, was noise in my ears—but underneath it was the same silent promise I’d made before I left the safehouse.
I would end this.
I would get back to her.
And God help anyone who stood in my way.