Chapter 90 Damian
Damian
The warehouse stank of cordite and fear.
The girls stumbled out of the cages, blinking under the flicker of failing lights.
Some clung to each other, too shaken to move; others bolted the moment the locks clicked, their bare feet slapping against concrete.
I moved among them, rifle still hot in my hands, checking corners, scanning shadows. We couldn’t afford a surprise—not now.
Oliver’s voice cut sharp. “We’re clear on the east side. Two trucks ready outside.”
“Move them,” I ordered. “Cyclone, stay on the locks—make sure there’s nothing else hidden.”
The youngest girl—a blonde with dirt smudged across her face—stared up at me, wide-eyed. Couldn’t have been older three. My chest tightened, a weight pressing down like armor. She flinched when I crouched, but I lowered my weapon, softening my voice.
“You’re safe now,” I said. “Stay close to Oliver, that’s him,” I said, pointing, he’ll get you out.”
Her lip trembled, but she nodded and ran after the others.
Gage’s voice came through the comms. “Perimeter’s holding. No sign of reinforcements. Either they cut and ran, or they’re waiting down the line.”
“Let them wait,” I muttered, hauling another girl toward the exit. “We’ve already broken their grip here.”
Cyclone jogged up, laptop hugged to his chest, sweat streaking down his temple. “Damian—these files? It’s bigger than I thought. Routes, bank transfers, coded messages—hell, I even found chatter about payoffs to law enforcement. He’s rotting this city from the inside.”
I shoved open the bay doors, the crash of surf rushing in. The trucks idled in the dockyard, Oliver waving the girls forward. My boots hit the gravel, lungs filling with salt air.
“Then we burn it down,” I said flatly. “Every last piece of it.”
One by one, the girls loaded into the trucks.
Some cried silently; others stared blankly, hollow-eyed.
Survivors, every one of them. I caught the blonde again as she climbed into the first truck—she looked back at me like she wanted to ask something.
Will you really keep us safe? The question burned, unspoken, before the door slammed shut.
Oliver climbed into the driver’s seat, revving the engine. “We rolling?”
“Roll,” I confirmed.
The convoy pulled out, headlights cutting through mist, wheels crunching against the cracked dock road. I scanned the rearview mirror from the SUV, my rifle across my knees, my shoulder throbbing where the bandage bled through more.
Gage’s voice carried over comms, dry but steady. “Hell of a night.”
“Not done yet,” I said. My gaze fixed on the horizon, where the first line of dawn burned against the water. “This is just the start. Luthor’s not running—he’s regrouping. And when he shows his face, I’ll be there.”
I leaned back in the seat, the hum of the engine mixing with the thundering in my chest. My team was intact. The girls were free. The mission was a win on paper. Some of the girls called their parents, who would meet us at the police station. I would be sure to tell them not to trust anyone.
But the only thing I wanted—needed—was to get back to the safehouse. To the woman who held my heart in her hands and her sister, who was our first rescue.
And until I saw them again, until I put my arms around them both, I wouldn’t let myself breathe easy.