Chapter Eight
“You heard him,” Bateman said, voice sharp enough to cut through concrete. “They’re not just holding her. They’re grooming her. They’re trafficking kids. That changes our playbook.”
No one argued.
Hogan stood, fists clenched at his sides. Marsh froze mid-keystroke, the cursor blinking on a feed frozen over Sophia’s fragile, rehearsed smile.
Ezra didn’t move. Just stared at the waveform on the monitor, the one tied to Ricky’s comms, still open, still transmitting.
Bateman dropped a new set of printed maps and tactical overlays on the table. “We go in hard. Fast. No soft edges. Primary objective is Sophia, secondary is anyone else we can safely extract. But let’s be clear—this compound goes down.”
“You want burn protocol?” Hogan asked, eyes sparking.
“I want cleansing fire,” Bateman growled. “We hit them with precision and speed. No friendly fire, no unnecessary casualties—but we make damn sure no one walks out of that place with a kid in their arms ever again.”
Bateman’s hand hovered over the comms terminal.
“We’ll need backup,” he muttered.
He tapped a few keys, and Marsh slid a monitor around with a knowing grunt. The secure video link flared to life, then blinked into clarity. Kai’s face appeared, scowling and shirtless, a half-eaten protein bar hanging from his mouth.
“You’re late,” Kai said around a bite. “Someone better be bleeding.”
“We’ve got a girl in a cage and a pedophile network behind it,” Bateman said flatly. “How’s that for bleeding?”
Kai stopped chewing. Swallowed. “You’ve got my attention.”
Bateman outlined it fast—Ricky embedded, confirmation on Sophia, the traffickers, the need for speed and destruction.
When he was done, Kai leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “You want to burn it down?”
“I want to erase it,” Bateman said. “Every file. Every fingerprint. Every name. This thing’s global. We start the purge here.”
Kai arched a brow. “You’re calling in the dragon.”
“I need fire.”
A pause.
Then a smile. Slow. Dark. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Hogan, who’d been listening quietly, finally spoke. “Won’t this ruin your career?”
Kai snorted. “Career? Which one?”
Hogan leaned closer to the screen. “I’m serious.”
Now, Kai’s expression changed—something sharper behind the snark. Measured. Earnest.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice low and even, “you don’t get to choose the easy road. You do the hard right. You put your body between a child and a monster. You do it because you can. Because you should.”
The silence that followed was thick and real.
Then Kai added, casually, “Also, if anyone asks, we were never here.”
Marsh gave a small cheer. “Classic.”
Bateman leaned forward. “How many?”
“Bringing a team of ten,” Kai replied. “Ex-military. No paper trail. I’ll split them in two—double insertion. Greater impact. Your playbook, my firepower.”
“You’ll take the east and south walls. We’ll cover north and west.” Bateman must already have the playbook written.
“Done.”
“See you on the ground.”
Kai winked. “Tell Hogan to save me a dance.”
The screen blinked dark.
Bateman turned back to the team, jaw tight. “Game on.”
He pointed to the terrain map. “Insertion route is split. Ricky’s already inside and will mark Sophia’s exact location. Hogan, you’ll take point with Team One—breach through the south wall using the access tunnel Marsh located.”
“Copy that,” Hogan said, already checking his sidearm.
“Team Two will breach the north through the fake aid station—go loud if you have to. Ezra,” he looked up, locking eyes with him, “you take rear flank. Guard the fallback route and hold the evac corridor. If they run, they’ll run that way. No one gets out unless they’re ours.”
Ezra nodded once, low and tight. “Copy that.”
“Extraction zones are here, here, and here,” Bateman continued, jabbing his finger at the map. “Primary pickup will be via drone lift. Marsh already has our ride prepped with the NATO logo stickered on it like we borrowed it from a UN gala.”
“That’s because we did borrow it from a UN gala,” Marsh muttered.
Bateman ignored him. “Secondary route is forest pullback to vehicles. Tertiary is emergency—straight down the river. You don’t want to swim that. Think of it as your ‘shit went sideways’ plan.”
“What about after?” Ezra asked.
Bateman’s jaw set. “We light it up. Document everything. Data dump straight to Interpol. Then, we make it disappear.”
Silence fell.
Then Hogan grinned. “Hell of a Wednesday.”
Bateman’s voice dropped low. “Make it a rescue. Make it righteous.”
****
He’d timed it down to the breath.
Three minutes to impact.
Ricky stood by the equipment shed with a frayed clipboard in hand, the perfect picture of underpaid freight crew. The compound buzzed around him in lazy rhythm—guards yawning, supplies being shuffled, someone arguing in a back corner about inventory codes. All surface calm.
But beneath it?
Tension. Ready to snap.
He tilted his head like he was scratching it and murmured into the comms, “Two minutes. Standing by.”
Bateman came back low and steady. “Copy. Teams are moving.”
Sophia was nearby, crouched by a garden bed, fingers pressed into the dirt like she was trying to draw something invisible. She looked too quiet. Too still.
Then came the storm.
Two guards approached—both ones he’d flagged before. One, the twitchy jackass with a wandering eye. The other, a bigger guy with a sneer like it had been surgically attached. They barked something at her in clipped, cruel Albanian.
Sophia tried to get up.
One of them reached for her.
The clipboard cracked across his face with a wet snap that echoed across the courtyard before he had a chance to put a hand on her.
“Hey!” Ricky barked, stepping into their space like he owned it. “You touch her, you answer to me.”
The second guard lunged. Ricky pivoted, using the clipboard like a baton. He jammed the metal clip into the guy’s throat, then spun and drove the entire edge across the bridge of his nose, driving bone shards up and into his brain.
Blood sprayed. The guard went down in a heap, dead before he hit the ground.
But the first one recovered fast, swinging hard.
Ricky ducked under the blow, dropped the clipboard, and finished it the old-fashioned way—a tight combo to the ribs, then a brutal straight punch that shattered the man’s jaw.
The guy hit the dirt and didn’t get back up.
Sophia had bolted—pure instinct.
“Miracle!” Ricky shouted. “Sophia—Miracle!”
She skidded, turned on a dime, eyes wide.
He opened his arms. “Come on, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
She ran. Full speed. Launched herself into his chest like she belonged there.
“Atta girl,” he breathed, arms locking around her. “You’re safe now.”
Gunfire echoed in the distance. The op was live.
Ricky turned and sprinted toward the outdoor corridor he’d scouted two days ago, twisting through the courtyard, and out past the clinic sheds. His boots pounded across the dirt. Sophia clung tight to him, not making a sound.
They rounded a corner—and he stopped cold.
Two more guards. They hadn’t chosen fight or flight yet. They were still mid-panic, like deer trying to math out their chances of survival.
Ricky bent and placed his precious cargo on the ground and met Sophia’s eyes. “Down that way, follow the wall. Now. Uncle Ezra’s waiting.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “What about you?”
“I’m right behind. Go, Soph. Run.”
She did.
“Ezra!” Ricky snapped into the comms. “Sophia’s inbound. Take her. I’ll be right behind her.”
Ezra’s voice came back clipped and sharp. “Copy that. I’ll get her.”
The first guard came at him fast, knife out.
Ricky ducked low, grabbed the guy’s wrist, and slammed him against the wall. The knife clattered. A knee to the gut, an elbow to the neck, and the man crumpled.
But not before the second caught Ricky across the forehead with a sucker punch—something hard, something metal.
Pain bloomed behind his eye. Blood blurred his vision.
He turned with a snarl—and threw a punch that cracked ribs on impact.
The second man dropped.
Silence.
Breathing heavy. Blood dripping.
And then—movement.
Four more kids, barefoot and terrified, clutching hands and running down the corridor after Sophia.
Ricky waved them forward. “Go! With her—now!”
He followed.
One man. Five children.
And a hallway full of monsters left behind with two teams of military men hell bent on burning that hellhole to the ground.
****
Ezra caught the first glimpse of her through the smoke.
Tiny, fast, terrified—but still running.
He broke cover and sprinted forward, heart thudding like a war drum. Sophia launched herself into his arms, wild and weightless, clinging like a lifeline.
“I got you,” he whispered, throat burning. “You’re safe. You’re safe, I promise.”
Her little arms locked around his neck. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak.
She just held on.
Ezra turned, eyes scanning behind her—just in time to see Ricky rounding the corner, blood streaking down his temple, shirt torn, four more kids trailing him like ducklings.
Ezra’s lungs gave out in a single breath of relief.
Ricky looked like hell. A hot, furious, gorgeous mess of blood and adrenaline and protectiveness turned all the way up to eleven.
He grinned when their eyes met. “You miss me?”
Ezra rolled his eyes. “Not even for a second.” Can’t have his man’s ego getting too inflated.
He placed Sophia gently on the ground beside the truck they would be traveling out in, then turned and herded the rest of the kids into the other evac van. The kids were quiet, traumatized, but looked thankful as hell to be out of that place. The oldest one looked no older than eight years old.
Behind them, gunfire rattled like thunder.
“West wall clear!” Hogan’s voice came over comms. “South sector neutralized. Kai, status?”
“East team’s bored,” Kai replied, voice dry. “We were hoping for more resistance. You promised me fire, Hogan.”
“Fire takes time, Kai” Hogan growled.
“So does flirting with you, but I still find room for it in my schedule.”