Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gunnar
The night swallows us whole as we ride.
All our bikes in formation, cutting through the darkness like a blade, and Ulf driving a club van.
The roar of engines drowns out everything else—the fear, the doubt, the voice in my head that keeps whispering what if.
Fenrir at the front, Runes beside him.
Me and Tor behind them.
Hakon, Ulf, Magnus, Kraken, Rati, Dag, and the others fanning out behind us.
Brothers.
Family.
Riding into war.
The wind whips at my face, cold and sharp, keeping me alert.
Keeping me focused.
Keeping the memories at bay.
But they creep in anyway.
Ingrid's face before I left.
The fear she tried so hard to hide.
The way her hands trembled when she touched my chest.
The tears she blinked back when she made me promise to come home.
I meant that promise.
I mean every promise I make to her.
And tonight, I'm going to keep it.
Tonight, we end this.
The motel is about ninety minutes north, right on the Florida-Georgia line.
Middle of nowhere.
The kind of place people go to disappear.
The kind of place where no one asks questions and everyone looks the other way.
The kind of place where children are moved like cargo, sold like merchandise, destroyed before they ever have a chance to live.
I think about what Ted told us, about what he admitted before we made him pay.
The things he did to those kids.
The things all of them do.
My hands tighten on the handlebars.
Not tonight.
Tonight, these kids go home.
And the men who took them go to hell.
We kill the engines a quarter mile out.
Coast the last stretch in silence, the bikes rolling to a stop in the shadows of the tree line.
The motel emerges from the darkness like a rotting tooth—single story, maybe fifteen rooms, half the neon sign burned out.
The kind of place that looks abandoned even when it's not.
The kind of place nightmares are made of.
The parking lot is scattered with vehicles.
A white cargo van.
Two sedans.
A pickup truck.
My jaw tightens.
That van is probably how they transport the kids.
Probably has bars on the inside.
Probably smells like fear and piss and desperation.
Probably heard screams that no one else ever will.
We dismount in the tree line, gather around Fenrir.
His face is carved from granite in the moonlight.
"Eight to ten guys, according to the intel," he says quietly. "Kids are probably in one of the back rooms—easier to contain, harder for anyone passing by to hear them cry."
No one flinches at the word.
We all know what we're walking into.
We all know what these men do.
We all know they deserve everything that's coming.
"Teams of two," Fenrir continues. "Gunnar and Tor, take the east side. Hakon and Ulf, west. Magnus and Kraken, you're on vehicle duty—no one leaves. Rati and Dag, back entrance. Runes and I take the front."
Fenrir gives out more orders, and there are nods all around.
No questions.
We've done this before.
Maybe not exactly this, but close enough.
We know how to move as one.
How to fight as one.
How to kill as one.
"This shit is serious, brothers," Runes says, his voice low and hard. "No one walks out of here except our people and those kids. Understood?"
"Understood," we echo.
"Find out who's running this operation. I want the head of the snake before we're done."
More nods.
"Move out. Signal is three clicks on the radio. Then we hit them hard and fast."
We disperse into the darkness.
Shadows swallowing shadows.
Tor falls into step beside me as we circle toward the east side of the motel.
His face is carved from stone.
Unreadable.
But I know what's going on inside his head.
This is personal for him in ways it isn't for the rest of us.
He survived what these kids are going through.
He carries those scars every day—some visible, most not.
He knows what it's like to be small and scared and trapped.
To pray for someone to save you.
To have no one come.
"You good?" I ask quietly.
"I'll be good when they're all dead."
Fair enough.
We reach our position.
Crouch in the shadows behind a rusted dumpster that reeks of decay.
From here, I can see two rooms with lights on.
Room 11 and Room 14.
Movement behind the curtains of Room 11.
Adult-sized shadows.
Laughter drifting through the thin walls.
Like they're having a party.
Like they're celebrating.
Room 14 is still.
Too still.
No movement.
No sound.
That's where the kids are.
I'd bet my life on it.
My radio crackles.
Three clicks.
It’s go time.
We move like ghosts.
Fast.
Silent.
Deadly.
Years of training.
Years of brotherhood.
All of it condensed into this moment.
Tor takes point, his gun drawn, his movements precise and predatory.
I cover his six, scanning for threats, my own weapon steady in my hands.
The first guard doesn't even see us coming.
He's leaning against the wall outside Room 12, smoking a cigarette, looking bored.
Like this is just another night.
Like he's not guarding children who are about to be sold into hell.
Like he's not complicit in the destruction of innocent lives.
Tor's knife opens his throat before he can make a sound.
The cigarette falls.
The body follows.
Blood pools on the cracked concrete, black in the moonlight.
We step over him and keep moving.
Room 11 is our first target.
I can hear voices inside now.
Clearer.
Louder.
Laughter.
The clink of bottles.
They are having a fucking party.
Bastards!
Rage burns in my chest, but I keep it controlled.
Channel it.
Focus it.
Tor looks at me.
I nod.
He kicks the door in.
Wood splinters.
The frame cracks.
I'm through the gap before it bounces off the wall.
Three men are inside.
One at a table, counting cash—stacks of bills, blood money from selling children.
One on the couch, beer in hand, watching some show on a cracked TV.
One coming out of the bathroom, still zipping his fly.
They freeze for half a second.
Half a second of shock.
Half a second of realization.
Half a second too long.
I put two rounds in the chest of the one with the cash.
He falls back, money scattering, hundred-dollar bills stained red.
Tor takes the one on the couch—double tap, center mass.
The beer bottle shatters on the floor.
The third one—bathroom guy—goes for a gun on the nightstand.
I shoot him in the knee.
He screams, collapses, clutches at the ruined joint.
Tor is on him in an instant, boot on his chest, gun pressed to his forehead.
"Who's in charge?" Tor demands.
"Fuck you—"
Tor shoots him in the shoulder.
The scream that follows is inhuman.
Primal.
Music to my fucking ears.
"Who. Is. In. Charge."
"Womack!" the man gasps, tears streaming down his face. "Eddie Womack! He's in Room 8—please, please don't—"
Tor pulls the trigger.
The begging stops.
The room goes quiet except for the TV, still playing in the background.
Some sitcom.
Laugh track.
Surreal.
I'm already moving to the door.
"Room 8," I say into the radio. "Target is Eddie Womack. Room 8."
Fenrir's voice crackles back. "Copy. Converging now."
We clear the rest of Room 11—bathroom, closet, under the bed.
All clear.
We head back into the night and gunfire echoes from the west side.
Hakon and Ulf are making contact.
More shots from the front.
Runes and Fenrir.
The motel has become a warzone, and we're winning.
Room 8 is at the far end of the building.
Corner unit.
Easier to defend.
Harder to escape from.
The room of a man who thinks he's untouchable.
By the time Tor and I reach it, Fenrir and Runes are already in position.
Hakon and Ulf come up behind us.
"He's inside," Fenrir says quietly. "Curtains are drawn. No visual."
"How many with him?"
"Unknown."
I check my magazine.
Still half full.
Enough.
"On three," Fenrir says. "One. Two. Three."
Runes kicks the door.
It splinters off its hinges and crashes inward.
We pour through like a flood.
Two guards are inside, both reaching for weapons, but they’re both too slow.
Both go down before they can raise their guns.
And there, in the corner, trying to climb out the bathroom window—
Eddie Womack.
Middle-aged.
Soft around the middle.
Balding, with a comb-over that's failing miserably.
The kind of guy you'd pass on the street without a second glance.
The kind of guy who blends into a crowd.
The kind of guy who runs an operation that destroys children's lives.
Fenrir grabs him by the collar, drags him back into the room, throws him on the floor. "Going somewhere?"
Womack's eyes are wild.
Terrified.
Sweat beading on his forehead, soaking through his cheap button-down shirt.
"Please—I have money—I can pay—"
"We don't want your money," Runes says coldly. "We want answers."
"Anything. I'll tell you anything. Whatever you want to know."
"Who do you work for?"
Womack hesitates.
Just for a second.
But I catch it.
The flicker of calculation behind the fear.
He's thinking.
Deciding what lie to tell.
Weighing his options.
"No one," he says finally. "I run this operation. It's mine. All of it."
"Bullshit," Tor spits.
"It's true! I swear to God—"
Fenrir presses his boot into Womack's chest, grinding down. "A little birdie told us this is just one stop on a bigger pipeline. That there's someone above you. Someone pulling strings."
"There's no one. I'm the boss. I'm the one who built this. You got me—you got the whole operation."
He's lying.
I can feel it in my bones.
But I can also see the fear in his eyes—not just fear of us.
Fear of something else.
Someone else.
Someone he's more afraid of than four armed men standing over him.
Someone whose wrath is worse than death.
"He's lying," I say.
"I'm not! I swear on my mother's grave—this is it. This is everything. Kill me and it's over. The whole thing dies with me."
Fenrir looks at Runes.
Something passes between them.
A decision made in silence.
"Fine," Fenrir says. "If you're the boss, then you're the one responsible for everything. For the kids. For the trafficking. For what happened to my daughter."