Chapter 89 Damian
Damian
The metal door groaned as Oliver slipped the lock, the sound swallowed by the crash of waves against the dock. I moved in first, rifle raised, senses sharpened to a razor’s edge.
The air inside was thick with salt, oil, and sweat. Rows of crates lined the walls, stacked high like a maze, shadows curling in every corner. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly.
Too quiet. Too empty.
“Clear left,” Oliver whispered, sweeping his rifle.
I signaled forward, every muscle coiled. My boots kissed the concrete floor without a sound. Then I heard it—voices, muffled, coming from deeper inside. I motioned, and we moved toward the sound.
Cyclone’s voice murmured in my ear. “Heat signatures—dozen, maybe more, clustered near the center. And…damn. Damian, they’ve got cages.”
My stomach knotted. I didn’t need the feed to know what that meant.
We rounded the last row of crates, and the scene snapped into focus.
Girls. Young, terrified, huddled behind iron bars. Their eyes went wide when they saw us, faces pale with hope and fear tangled together.
And in front of them—guards. A dozen men in black tactical gear, rifles slung ready, already pivoting toward us.
“Contact,” Oliver barked, and the world erupted.
Gunfire split the air, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Sparks flew as bullets slammed into steel. I dropped one, then another, my rifle kicking steady against my shoulder. Oliver peeled off right, cutting down a guard before he could reach cover.
“Two more coming left!” Gage’s voice snapped from above. His shots rang out a heartbeat later, precise and deadly.
I surged forward, fury pounding with every step. A guard lunged from behind a crate, knife flashing. I slammed the butt of my rifle into his jaw, felt the crunch reverberate through my arms, and put him down hard.
“Cyclone!” I barked over the roar.
“I’m on it!” His voice was tight with focus. “Doors are electronic—I can pop the locks, but I need cover!”
“Do it.” I fired again, dropping another man before he reached the girls’ cages.
The firefight raged, bullets ricocheting off steel, shouts and screams tangling in the chaos. My shoulder burned where the bandage pulled, blood seeping again, but I shoved it down. Pain didn’t matter. Not here. Not when those cages stood between freedom and hell.
“Doors opening in three…two…” Cyclone’s voice hit like thunder.
A sharp click echoed across the warehouse. The locks disengaged, the bars swinging free.
“Now!” I roared, laying down fire to clear the path. “Get them out!”
Oliver rushed forward, ushering the girls out with sharp commands. Gage’s cover fire never faltered, dropping men before they could regroup.
The tide turned fast, the last few guards scattering under our push. I advanced on the final one, slamming him against the wall, my forearm pressing into his throat.
“Where’s Luthor?” I snarled.
His eyes bulged, spit flecking his lips. “He’s…already gone. This was…just a handoff—”
I silenced him with a single shot.
The warehouse went still, smoke curling through the rafters, the air reeking of gunpowder and sweat. The girls clung to each other, wide-eyed but alive.
Cyclone clutched his laptop, breathless but triumphant. “We got them. And the data—they’ll tell us where he’s moving next.”
I holstered my rifle, scanning the shadows one last time. My heart still thundered, but not from the fight. From the promise waiting at the safehouse.
I’ll come back to you.
And as Oliver herded the last girl toward the exit, I swore to God I’d keep that vow—no matter how many walls I had to tear down to finish this.