Chapter 10 Kreed
KREED
Kaylor screaming my name was the last thing I heard before I collapsed into fitful sleep and the first thing that slammed into my consciousness when I jolted awake in a cold sweat at three in the morning. Raw, desperate, terrified, the sound carved itself into my skull.
Sleep had become a foreign concept. I’d spent the entire night pacing the length of her bedroom, wearing a path in the hardwood as I replayed every possible scenario of how this rescue could go catastrophically wrong.
There was no margin for error. Not a fucking millimeter of wiggle room.
One wrong step, one mistimed move, or one guard we didn’t account for, and I could lose her forever.
The thought made my chest constrict until breathing became painful.
Brock, Grayson, Micah, Fynn, Raine, Maddox, Mason, and I spent every waking hour gathering information on the house they were holding the auction at, dissecting the plan, turning it over from every angle until nothing was left unchecked.
Brock’s dining room table disappeared beneath a sprawling map of blueprints, surveillance photos, and personnel files.
Red ink marked entry points, escape routes, and contingency plans. Black X’s marked possible guard posts.
Fynn and Raine transformed the living room into a command center, setting up their laptops and monitors. Empty energy drink cans and coffee cups littered every surface, evidence of their seventy-two-hour marathon session.
Lines of green code scrolled down their screens faster than my eye could follow, an endless waterfall of numbers and symbols that might as well have been hieroglyphics, but I watched anyway, mesmerized by their fingers dancing across keyboards as they picked apart the auction house’s security system piece by digital piece.
“We’re in,” Fynn announced around hour sixty, leaning back and scrubbing a hand down his face. “Let’s make these assholes our bitches.”
Raine leaned back, a smirk playing at his lips.
If I didn’t know better, I would think he was enjoying working with Fynn.
He was feeling pretty good about himself right now, which made me start to believe this might actually work.
“Seconds before we break those locked gates open for the auction, the entire security grid will go dark. Cameras, alarms, motion sensors—all of it.”
Fynn rubbed at the back of his neck before his gaze met mine. “They’ll be flying blind for exactly twelve minutes before backup power kicks in. That’s our window. You’re up, Corvo.”
Twelve minutes. Seven hundred and twenty seconds to infiltrate, locate her, and get her the fuck out. It sounded like an eternity and no time at all. “We’ll make it work.” I glanced at Brock as he got to his feet. “And your guy. He’s up for this?”
“If he wants that gambling debt he incurred with a not-so-friendly bunch wiped and to live, he’ll keep up his charade flawlessly,” Brock said.
I nodded. “A last-minute buyer could be suspicious. He needs to keep a low profile inside. I don’t want him to be too eager or fidgety.”
Brock’s stormy aqua eyes met mine. “I still can’t believe your dad just handed over the address.”
Me neither. “Trust me, it won’t come without a price.”
“And you’re willing to pay it? Regardless of the fallout?”
“I am for her,” I replied without a speck of hesitation.
Brock seemed to approve of my response, nodding. “Good man. I knew there was something redeemable about you.”
“I wouldn’t deem me a saint just yet.” There was plenty of time for me to still fuck up.
In the abandoned warehouse my father had converted into an armory years ago, Mason, Maddox, and Micah were locked and loaded with a select handful of Ravens. I wasn’t sure it was the wisest plan to have those three leading the firepower, but I trusted no one else. Not with this.
When I stepped inside the warehouse, my eyes immediately found Mason and Maddox.
Having the location meant we didn’t necessarily need an inside man, but Brock and I both agreed, for Kaylor’s safety, it made sense to have someone undercover once shit hit the fan.
It would ease both of our minds knowing he had eyes on her and could get to her quickly while the rest of us created enough of a diversion to get her out. It was like having a fail-safe.
Maddox sat hunched over a workbench with Alex, sorting through guns. Beside them, Torres was checking ammunition, counting rounds, and loading magazines until his movements became hypnotic. Click, slide, click, slide.
At the far end of the warehouse, Mason and Micah were strapping blades to their thighs, forearms, and the small of their backs.
Brock noticed my gaze, and from the pull of his lips, I had an inkling he was thinking the same thing I was…
should the two of them be doing anything together, let alone something that involved sharp weapons?
“I’m rethinking all my decisions,” Brock grumbled.
“You’re not the only one. They’re going to be okay, right?” I asked.
“Tonight or in general?”
“Good point.” But I didn’t have the brain capacity to deal with the two knuckleheads of our crews.
“As long as they stick to the plan, we should be good.” I couldn’t figure out if Brock was trying to convince himself or me.
The crews’ orders were clear: fuck up the guards, disarm anyone who posed a threat, but no harm came to the girls. Anyone who ignored the directive would answer to me personally.
The Elite was handling the finesse operation, the part that required brains instead of bullets. Brock had pulled together the perfect decoy; whether or not he could be trusted remained to be seen, but he had something to lose if he screwed up.
His gambling debt would be the least of his worries.
Dean stood in the center of the warehouse, standing out in his expensive suit and Italian leather shoes that screamed old money.
Even his posture had changed, shoulders held with the casual arrogance of someone accustomed to never having to work a day in his life.
Daddy’s money had been there at every turn to bail him out… until recently.
But it was his eyes that sold the performance.
Cold, calculating, and empty of anything resembling human compassion.
He would fit right in with the other monsters who would be sitting in the underground auction tonight.
I didn’t have the backstory on how his family made their fortune, but as someone who grew up watching his father, whose morals were loose when it came to money, I recognized the same tainted soul in Dean.
“Remember,” Brock said, smacking Dean on the shoulder, “you’re Victor Kozlov, textile importer from Prague. You’ve got fifty million in liquid assets and a taste for young American girls. The accent is slight; you’ve been living in the States for fifteen years.”
Dean nodded, rolling his shoulders to settle into the persona. When he spoke, his voice carried just the faintest trace of Eastern European inflection. “Not a problem. All those summers abroad are paying off. What about the girl?”
“Kaylor. Your job is simple,” I said, stepping into his line of sight so he couldn’t avoid my eyes.
“Blend in, bid if you have to, but never—and I mean fucking never—lose sight of her.” He already had a picture of her, and since electronics of any kind were prohibited from the auction, he would have to go off memory.
“They might have changed her look. Try to pay attention to the details that can’t easily be altered.
She has a scar on her shoulder, a bullet injury. ”
“Associating with you seems to be hazardous to her life,” Dean commented, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Just keep eyes on her at all times,” I told him.
Brock handed him a tiny communication device. “I’ll be in your ear if anything goes awry, but make sure it doesn’t.”
“Comforting,” Dean grumbled, fitting the piece into his ear.
Brock eyed Dean, checking that the plant’s overall appearance was up to his standards. “Small price to pay for your life.”
“Assuming I don’t get shot.”
I shrugged. “A bullet is a better way to die than what those sharks have planned for you.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” Dean mumbled.
When shit hit the fan, Dean would go straight for Kaylor, no hesitation, no detours.
He needed to reach her before anyone else.
Our biggest obstacle would be my patience.
Having to wait just on the outskirts, knowing she was so close, would be a true test of my control.
Instead of worrying about Dean, Mason, or Micah, perhaps I should be concerned with myself.
Timing was key, and regardless of how much we plotted or tried to account for every possible hiccup, plans were just ink on paper until they met reality. And reality had a way of taking even the most perfect strategy and twisting it into a nightmare.
I pressed my palms against the table’s surface, leaning forward until the blueprints blurred beneath my gaze.
I didn’t care who got hurt tonight. Didn’t care how many bodies we left scattered across that auction house floor.
Didn’t care if we had to wade through rivers of blood to reach her.
The only thing that mattered…the only thing that had ever mattered… was her.
Revenge could wait. Tonight, there was only one objective.
Kaylor.
The signal came through, Fynn’s comm clipping to life in my ear as I crouched behind a truck.
In front of me was what had once been a grand plantation house that had been reduced to a shell.
The white columns were yellow with mildew.
The porches sagged. The grounds were acres of unkept lawn rolling away into pine and scrub.
From the road, it might’ve been a ruin. From here, with gates and a winding drive and enough privacy to make a man forget God existed, it was perfect.
Perfect for monsters like Rusty.
The circular drive gleamed with expensive cars, telling me two things: this was the place and the people inside didn’t expect trouble.