Omega on Fire

8. Trigger

CHAPTER 8

TRIGGER

I adjust the night vision goggles over my eyes and scan the barren landscape. It's amazing how these fuckers always find the most remote locations for their depravity. In the middle of the New Mexican desert, no civilization can be seen for miles. Perfect spot to hide and most government agencies are none the wiser.

"Three more vehicles approaching from the south," Joker's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Bentley, Rolls-Royce, and what looks like a custom Maybach. These bastards aren't even trying to be subtle. Talk about who’s who amongst the corrupt and deviant."

I watch as the convoy of luxury cars winds its way toward what appears to be nothing but sand and rock formations until they disappear into what we now know is a hidden entrance to an underground bunker. Clever. The kind of clever that costs millions. A red flag that this situation is much larger and more far-reaching than I care to consider right now. Rescue first, take down the bad guys later.

"How many guests does that make?" I ask, my voice low and steady despite the rage simmering beneath my skin.

"Twenty-eight," Joker responds. "Plus, whatever security they've brought along with them. I've got thermal readings suggesting at least sixty bodies in total. That’s not counting how many guards and staff they have on the inside."

Beckett shifts beside me, his finger tapping against his rifle. "Is there a second entrance? A less conspicuous one?"

"I'm all over it. I have my drones checking all the nooks and crannies," Joker says through the comms in our ears.

While we wait, my thoughts turn to the woman who's wormed her way into my consciousness since the moment I saw her picture. I want to get her out of there, protect her, and make her ours. I know it's not rational, but I didn't claim to be a rational man when I want something or someone. A tug in my chest is telling me she belongs with us. I guess this is what it’s like to naturally feel a mating bond. It’s so rare these days, I didn’t believe it could happen this way anymore. But here we are, with only a picture to be sure. I don’t need proof, I have a feeling. Now I just need to lay my eyes on her and all will be revealed.

Charlotte is down in that hellhole, probably terrified, possibly drugged, waiting to be sold off like livestock to the highest bidder. The thought makes my blood boil, a growl rises in my throat that I barely manage to suppress. Breathe.

"Drones are picking up the security pattern," Joker updates. "They've got armed guards at every entrance point, but they're rotating on a predictable schedule. Hold up, I'm seeing a service entrance on the northeast side with minimal coverage."

"That's our way in," I decide. "Is Dez's backup team in position?"

"Affirmative," Moses confirms through the comm. "They're holding at the extraction points, ready to move on Joker's signal."

I glance over at Beaux, who's crouched twenty yards to my right with Quincy. Even in the darkness I can see the wild look in his eyes. He's been on edge for days, but now, now he's got that look that usually ends with bodies on the ground .

"Remember the plan," I say firmly, making eye contact with each member of my team. "We split into three teams. We move fast, we hit hard, and we get all the captives out of there. Not one of them left behind. No heroics. We leave the clean-up for the local authorities when they move in. Hopefully we'll be long gone before they do."

Malcolm nods from his position, already paired with Moses. "We'll take the eastern quadrant, the cell blocks, clear it room by room."

"Quincy and I will handle the security hub," Beaux adds, checking his weapon one last time. "I'm going to need a few trophies, preferably eyes and ears." The smile on his face would make a normal man piss his pants, but none of us bat an eye at his need to mutilate the dead for his pleasure.

"While Beckett and I go for the main auction floor," I finish. "Once we have Charlotte, we trigger the fire system. That's your cue to extract, no matter what."

The radio crackles with Joker's voice again. "Heads up. I think they're starting. The last of the guests are inside, and I'm picking up movement in what looks like a central chamber."

My heart rate spikes. "Time frame?" I ask, shifting on the balls of my feet ready to move .

"Based on heat signatures and movement patterns, I'd say you've got less than fifteen minutes before they bring out the merchandise," Joker replies.

Merchandise. The word makes me want to tear something, someone, apart. Charlotte isn't merchandise. She's ours. She's pack. We just need to convince her of it.

"Let's move," I order, sliding down from our vantage point. "Beckett, with me. Moses, you and Malcolm circle around to the east entrance. Beaux, you and Quincy take the service corridor Joker mapped."

We move like shadows across the desert floor, our boots barely making a sound on the hard-packed earth. Years of military training and black op missions have made us efficient, deadly. But I've never felt the stakes as high as they are right now.

"Joker," I murmur into my comm. "We're going in. Have the extraction team ready."

"Already in position," he says, voice steady and calm. "Just give the word."

I take one last look at my pack, my brothers, each of them locked and loaded, faces set with determination. We only get one shot at this. If we fail, Charlotte disappears forever into some Alpha's private collection, and we lose something life-changing for us all .

"Joker, kill their lights on my mark," I say, feeling the Alpha rise in me; that primal protector ready to tear through anyone standing between me and what's mine. "Three, two, one, mark."

The distant compound plunges into darkness. We move.

CHARLOTTE

I hate the smell of antiseptics. It reminds me of hospitals, of clinical coldness, of something trying to wipe away what it can't actually clean. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel clean again. Stop, Charlotte, I scream at myself as I try to keep my thoughts focused on the present. The sharp scent burns my nostrils as cold water blasts against my naked skin.

"Arms up!" barks a guard, his face an expressionless mask as he sprays me down with a pressure hose like I'm cattle being prepped for slaughter.

Maybe I am.

The concrete floor beneath my bare feet is slick with water and whatever scent suppressant soap they're using. I guess they don’t want a frenzy when they parade us in front of our potential buyers. The scent of flowers and bleach burns my nostril and makes me want to gag as it lingers in the back of my throat.

There are five of us Omegas lined up against the wall, all being hosed down simultaneously. None of us look at each other. It's easier this way, to pretend we're alone in our mortification.

"Turn," another guard commands, and I mechanically rotate, letting the water hit my back, my ass, the backs of my legs. I've stopped shivering. Stopped feeling much of anything except a dull, persistent rage that keeps me breathing. I let the numbness spread and encompass me, like a weighted blanket, giving me comfort against the pain that threatens to overcome me.

Weeks. It's been weeks since they drugged me and threw me into a van. I've endured the poking and prodding, the tests and examinations. I will never get over the way my veins burned as they pumped the vile heat inducing serum into me. The days that followed will forever taunt me, my body betraying me while my mind screamed. All this happened while vile spectators watched from the confines of their safe warm homes. It’s too much to contemplate, nowhere to run from my shame. I want to shut down, but I can't.

Dr. Locke walks into the room. Cruella cruelty on full display in a white floor length gown with a clipboard clutched in her hands. "Number 42 is clean. Get her dressed." She sneers at me as she points her boney finger in my direction.

I'm Number 42 now. Not Charlotte Matthews. Just inventory. I want to clap back but I press my lips into a thin line and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. The taste of blood in my mouth keeps me from making things worse for myself.

A bundle of fabric is thrust into my hands as I'm pushed behind a flimsy partition. It's a dress, if you can call it that, sheer black material with strategic opacity in just enough places to technically not be pornographic. I stare at it, wondering how the hell it's supposed to fit over my curves.

"Hurry up," Dr. Locke snaps. "We're on a schedule."

I step into the dress, tugging it over my hips with difficulty. The fabric stretches painfully across my thighs and chest, cutting into my skin like dental floss.

"Jesus, they couldn't find something in my size?" I mutter, trying to adjust the neckline that's threatening to expose more than it covers.

A guard laughs. "The buyers like to see what they're getting. Trust me, plenty of Alphas prefer something substantial to hold onto."

His eyes rake over my body, and I resist the urge to cover myself. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"You should be grateful," he continues, grabbing my arm to lead me to a row of chairs where the other Omegas are being prepped. "We've got some serious players out there tonight. Saudi princes, tech billionaires, even a few celebrities. Your life could get real comfortable, real quick, if you play nice." He winks and blows me a kiss.

"Fuck you," I whisper, but he just laughs again.

I'm pushed into a chair where a woman with dead eyes begins attacking my face with makeup brushes. Another works on my hair, yanking and twisting it into an updo that pulls painfully at my scalp. My hair. How long has it been since it’s been properly washed and maintained? It’s the last thing I should be focused on, but I love my wild curls. This isn’t right. Everything feels distant, like I'm watching it happen to someone else.

"The last Omega that went to the Sheikh sold for four point five million," the makeup woman says conversationally, like she's discussing the weather. "He keeps them in a compound in Dubai. Gold-plated everything I hear. "

I don't respond. My mind is racing, calculating. This is my last chance. Once I'm sold, once I'm out of this country, I'll disappear forever.

Once the makeup woman finishes with us all, they line us up by our numbers, not our names. The scent of fear is thick in the air, mingling with perfume and the lingering antiseptic. My legs feel weak, but I force myself to stand straight. I won't go to my doom slouching.

"Remember," a guard says as we're led down a corridor, "smile pretty for the nice Alphas. The more you bring in, the better we treat the next batch."

My stomach turns. The next batch. How many Omegas have they processed through here? How many more will there be after we're gone? I ponder as the corridor opens into what looks like a converted ballroom. A runway stretches down the middle, surrounded by plush chairs filled with men and women in formal wear, sipping champagne like they're at a fashion show instead of a human auction.

I scan the room, looking for exits, for anything I can use as a weapon. There has to be a way out.

The first Omega is pushed onto the runway, and the bidding begins. The numbers are obscene, the commentary worse. These people are talking about us like we're racehorses or breeding stock .

I'll die before I let them put me on that stage.

When my guard's grip loosens as he watches the bidding war, I make my decision. It's now or never.

I drive my elbow back hard into his solar plexus. He doubles over with a surprised wheeze, and I turn, ready to run, to fight, to do anything but accept this fate.

And then, like a miracle, the lights go out.

Complete darkness. Chaos erupts. I run.

MOTLEY

I laugh as I step over the body of a guard I just eliminated. This motherfucker really thought he was a soldier—wannabe military type with tacti-cool gear but couldn't even sense me coming up behind him. He couldn’t even use the excuse of complete darkness for me getting the jump on him either. He and the other guards are wearing night vision goggles like we are. Hell, the emergency lighting came on shortly after lights went out in the entire compound. No, these assholes are subpar, simple as that. Just took one swift slice across his neck, and down he went. No fun at all. Quincy's beside me, methodically taking out the remaining security personnel as we secure the control room .

"These rent-a-cops are fucking pathetic," I tell Quincy, wiping my blade on the dead man's shirt. "I've had more resistance from a goddamn mall cop. Where's the challenge?"

Blood splatter decorates my face like war paint, and I don't bother wiping it off. I like the way it feels—warm, wet, real. Nothing gets the blood pumping like a good kill. The metallic scent in the air is intoxicating, feeding the wild part of me that's always lurking just beneath the surface.

"Joker, we've got control of the security room," I say into my comm, stepping over another body to reach the main console. "Cameras are ours. Systems compromised."

"About fucking time," Joker's voice crackles in my ear. "I was beginning to think you stopped for a snack."

I grin, scanning the monitors. "What can I say? I like to savor the moment," I say, making Quincy chuckle behind me.

My eyes dart frantically from screen to screen. Dozens of feeds showing various areas of the compound—hallways filled with running figures, guards shooting blindly through the hazy amber emergency lights, rich assholes crawling over each other to escape. But I don't see her. I don't see Charlotte .

"Anyone got eyes on our girl?" I demand, feeling my chest tighten. The wild part of me growls, anxious and hungry. "Joker? You see her?"

"Negative," he responds, his usually playful tone now serious. "I'm cycling through all feeds. No visual on Charlotte yet."

"Trigger? Moses? Anyone?" I press, my fingers clenching around my weapon.

Teagan's voice comes through, steady but strained. "Main auction floor is chaos. These fuckers are turning on each other, trampling anyone who falls. It's like watching rats flee a sinking ship."

"Perfect cover," Moses adds. "They think it's a raid but don't know who's behind it. We're ghosts in the pandemonium."

I should be pleased. The plan is working, confusion and chaos, the perfect smokescreen for extraction. But my skin crawls with unease. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from the kills or the action, but from something deeper, something primal.

"Find her," I growl, my voice barely recognizable even to myself. "I need eyes on Charlotte. Now."

My Little Harlequin is somewhere in this shithole, scared and likely fighting for her life. Rubbing the center of my chest absently, I shake my head at these illogical feelings. I've only seen her in photographs, surveillance videos, intel reports—but something inside me knows, I just know. It defies logic. It defies everything I know about myself. But there it is, burning in my chest like a brand. Mine.

"I think I've got movement in corridor C," Quincy says, pointing to one of the screens. "Female, moving fast."

I lean in so close my nose nearly touches the screen. The grainy feed makes it harder to see without sufficient light, but there, skirting slowly around the outbuildings is a figure, but the face is unclear.

"Is that her?" I demand, squinting. "Joker, can you enhance this?"

"Working on it," he responds. "The system's ancient, but—yeah, facial recognition is giving me an 87% match. That's our girl."

Something inside me roars to life. She's alive. She's moving. She's fighting.

"She's heading straight for a security checkpoint," Quincy points out. "Three armed guards."

"Trigger, Moses, Charlotte's in corridor C heading north," I bark into the comm. "She's about to hit resistance. Who's closest?"

"We're two minutes out," Teagan responds immediately. "Moving to intercept."

"Not fast enough," I snarl, already heading for the door. "Quincy, hold this position. Keep our eyes in the sky."

"Motley, stick to the plan," Teagan orders. "We need you on the controls."

"Fuck the plan," I growl, checking my weapons. "She's alone and about to run into three armed assholes. I'm moving."

"Negative, Motley," Deacon chimes in. "We're closer. Stay on the controls. Malcolm and I will get to her."

I ignore him. I won't feel right until I have her in my arms, until I can smell her scent and know she's real. Until I can take her somewhere safe and make her understand that she belongs with us—with me.

Nothing else matters. Not the mission, not protocol, not even Teagan's commands. I won't be calm until Charlotte is safe.

"I'm coming for you, Little Harlequin," I whisper as I slip out into the darkened corridor. "Just hold on."

DEACON

Malcolm and I have been methodically clearing cells for the past ten minutes, finding Omegas in various states of distress. My heart clenches at each new face—some with blank stares, others sobbing, all of them showing signs of the hell they've endured.

"You're safe now," I tell a young woman who's curled in the corner of her cell. She can't be more than twenty. She cringes when I reach out my hand. "We're here to help. Can you walk?"

Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, dart between my face and the open door. When she finally nods, I step back to give her space, watching as she shakily rises to her feet.

"Join the others in the main corridor," Malcolm says gently from behind me. "We have medical support coming."

My comm crackles. "I think I've got movement in corridor C," Quincy's voice reports. "Female, moving fast."

I continue down the hallway, my rifle ready as Joker confirms it's Charlotte. My pulse quickens at the name. We've studied her file extensively, her advocacy work, her speeches, the difference she's made for Omega rights. Even before this mission I'd felt a pull toward her that I couldn't explain.

Quincy’s voice comes over the comms, warning that Charlotte is heading toward a checkpoint. I glance at my position on the digital map Joker uploaded to our devices and respond, relaying our position as closest to her, only to hear Motley announce that he’s going to intercept and he’s refusing to stay put. Typical Motley.

I turn to Malcolm, gesturing at the remaining cells. "We've got at least thirty Omegas here, possibly more. They're in bad shape, dehydrated, drugged, traumatized."

Malcolm nods grimly, his dark eyes scanning the huddled forms of the Omegas we've already freed. They cling to each other in the dim emergency lighting, whimpering at every distant gunshot or shout.

"Joker," I say into my comm, "we need the extraction team now. There are too many Omegas for us to move alone, and most can barely walk. We need medical support and transport immediately."

"Roger that," Joker responds, all business now. "Extraction team is green-lit. ETA three minutes to your position."

Malcolm steps forward, addressing the frightened group. "More help is coming," he assures them, his deep voice steady and calming. "You're safe now. No one will hurt you again. We'll get you home."

I watch as his words wash over them, some of the tension visibly leaving their bodies. It's a gift Malcolm has, the ability to project safety, to make people believe everything will be okay. Right now, I'm grateful for it.

"I'll check the remaining cells," he says to me. "You go for Charlotte."

I nod, already turning toward corridor C when a curse from Malcolm stops me.

"Fuck! Deacon, come here."

The tone in his voice makes my blood run cold. I double back, peering into the cell he's illuminating with his flashlight. The smell hits me first—decay, death, unmistakable even under the antiseptic reek of the facility.

A body lies on a metal cot, skin gray and waxy, lips blue. An Omega, female, can’t be more than twenty-five. No visible wounds, but needle marks on her arms tell enough of the story.

"They just left her here," Malcolm whispers, rage and disgust mingling in his voice.

I close my eyes briefly, offering a silent prayer, something I haven't done since I left my parents' house at eighteen. "Tag the room for evidence collection. The authorities will need to identify her and notify family."

"Deacon," Joker's voice cuts in urgently. "Charlotte's avoided the checkpoint, but she's doubling back toward your position. She's, wait, what the hell? She's heading straight for the cell blocks."

"What?" I demand, already moving again. "Why would she?—"

"Thermal imaging shows she's moving towards you," Joker explains, bewilderment clear in his voice. "She got away, had a clear path to the extraction point, but she's coming back."

Understanding dawns on me. "She's coming back for the others."

I break into a run, leaving Malcolm to finish clearing the cells. Everything I've read about Charlotte Matthews, of course, it shouldn’t surprise me that she wouldn’t just save herself and leave others behind.

"I'm going to intercept Charlotte," I inform the team, my breath coming faster as I sprint through the darkened corridors. "Joker, guide me to her."

I don't wait for their acknowledgment. All I can think about is reaching Charlotte before anyone else does. Before she puts herself in danger trying to save others.

Her courage, her selflessness in the face of her own terror, it awakens something in me I thought I'd buried long ago, something my parents tried to beat out of me with scripture and discipline.

Hope.