25. Trent
CHAPTER 25
TRENT
The auction opened with a pedophile’s wet dream.
Lot Number One was a prototype surveillance drone disguised as a cartoon bumblebee.
Marketed as an “educational engagement tool with embedded safety protocols,” it was cute enough to pass inspection in a kindergarten and small enough to nestle beside a crib mobile. The specs boasted facial recognition, real-time location tracking, and proximity-activated explosives—because why stop at watching when you can also erase the evidence?
The room buzzed with interest. One buyer inquired about the possibility of deploying it in refugee camps. Another asked about its audio feed specifically for “remote behavioral assessment.”
These people toasted pedophilia over champagne.
I wanted to put a bullet in every one of them.
But I blocked it out. Let it all blur into meaningless noise. Crystal glasses clinking, the low hum of whispered deals struck by people with too much money and not enough soul. I stood with my back to the wall, scanning the crowd. My stance was relaxed, hands clasped in front of me like any good bodyguard. But my eyes never stopped moving. Three exits. Twenty-eight guests. Fourteen guards. Two snipers overhead, trying to blend in. I clocked them the second we walked in.
Decker was working the crowd a few feet away, playing the part of the arms dealer he used to be. He laughed at something the Chinese dealer said after winning the first item, raising his champagne in mock toast.
In that moment, I understood Nolan’s distrust of him. He fit in too well with these people. He was too comfortable in their skin, like he’d never fully shed it himself, like slipping back into this world didn’t cost him a thing.
The next item was a neurostim collar marketed for “enhanced obedience.” Translation: a slave who didn’t know they were enslaved. The interest was explosive, bidding fierce. Even Decker joined in, and he seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.
I exhaled hard and blocked it out, and my thoughts slipped—like they had so often recently—to Evelyn Phillips and the little girl I’d lived with for two years while embedded in a cult that nearly triggered the apocalypse they were praying for.
Fuck.
Why did that woman continue to haunt me?
It had been a month since the extraction. She should be out of my system by now. She wasn’t even my type. Too quiet. Too broken. Too many complications.
I shouldn’t care. They were part of the job. Just another mission.
But, damn it all to hell, I did care. Too much. I wondered if Evelyn was sleeping through the night, or if she still startled at shadows. If the girl, Emma, still refused to let go of her hand.
I’d put them in that safe house myself. New names, new identities, new lives. No contact. No trace. And still, I couldn’t shake the weight of that promise I’d made to them: You’re safe now.
The bidding reached a fever pitch, pulling me back to the present. Three million for a collar that could turn a human being into a puppet.
I tensed as the room erupted in applause. The buyer—some European aristocrat with old money and older sins—smiled like he’d just acquired a prized thoroughbred. Next to him, his companion, a woman half his age with dead eyes, applauded mechanically.
A sudden prickle of instinct skated along the back of my neck and had me straightening away from the wall, watching the crowd more closely. It was a sense, low and sharp, that something had shifted around me. A gut instinct I’d learned not to question.
I scanned the room again, and realization hit.
Fuck.
Flynn and Lyric weren’t here.
They’d been working the crowd twenty minutes ago, but I hadn’t seen them since the auction started.
I tapped my ear once, activating the encrypted comm link. “Dealer, do you have eyes on Outlaw or Siren?”
Decker didn’t visibly react, but his voice came through crisp in my earpiece. “Negative, Vigil. Last visual was Siren with Moreau near the terrace doors. Outlaw was at the bar watching them, looking pissed.”
I kept my expression neutral as I moved toward the eastern wall, finding a better vantage point while maintaining my cover as Decker’s security. Something wasn’t right. Operatives don’t just disappear during a mission unless they’re compromised.
“I don’t like this,” I murmured just loud enough for the comm to pick up.
“Makes two of us.” He took a slow sip of champagne, his gaze sweeping the room. “Moreau’s gone, too.”
“I’ll check the east wing,” I said quietly. “You take west. Rendezvous back here in ten.”
Decker nodded, already drifting away, that easy smile back in place as he slipped through the crowd like smoke.
I moved along the perimeter of the room. Moreau’s guards tracked me with their eyes but didn’t interfere. To them, I was just another security detail, watching my principal’s back. They had no idea I was hunting.
I had just stepped into the hallway when a murmur went through the crowd behind me. I backtracked in time to see Moreau return to the ballroom, his security detail forming a tight perimeter around him. His face was placid, but there was a cold satisfaction in his eyes that made all of my instincts fire.
I had no doubt he’d made our operatives, but Flynn and Lyric weren’t with him.
What the fuck was going on?
I spotted Decker on the other side of the ballroom. Several Russian men in suits had waylaid him, chatting animatedly, which was for the better. At least I didn’t have to go searching for him now. I cut through the crowd, headed back toward him.
“Mission’s blown,” Decker said into his champagne when I reached his side and pulled him away from the Russians.
Yeah, no shit, I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut.
He nodded and smiled at a passing guest, still playing his part. “What’s the plan now?”
I had no fucking idea.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Moreau called and held up his hands, waiting until the chatter died down. “Before we continue the auction, I’ve arranged one final demonstration.”
My gut tightened.
This was not going to be good.
“Follow me, if you would.” He gestured toward the terrace doors. “I believe you’ll find this particular performance... enlightening.”
The crowd moved as one, murmuring with dark anticipation.
Whatever he was about to show his guests, it wasn’t just going to be tech.
As we joined the flow of bodies, I ran through all the contingency plans, but the only one that made sense was a hot extraction. We needed Nolan here with the helo ASAP, but contacting him was going to be next to impossible. Our comms worked within the house, but no signal was getting off the island.
The terrace opened onto a courtyard I hadn’t seen during recon. Wide, circular, enclosed by high walls. Four exits, each manned by armed guards. Torches ringed the perimeter, their flames casting long shadows. It felt like a Roman arena. The kind that had only one purpose: Execution.
Decker let out a low breath. “Who the fucking fuck builds a colosseum in their backyard?”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. He’d summed it up succinctly enough.
Moreau climbed a short platform at the north end, positioning himself so every eye was on him. He raised his arms like he was Caesar or some fucking thing. All he needed was a toga.
And the knife in his back.
“For those unfamiliar,” he said when silence fell, his voice ringing out over the courtyard. “Sentinel MK-IV is more than a drone system. It’s an autonomous hunter. Capable of identifying, pursuing, and eliminating targets without operator input. Facial recognition. Thermal imaging. DNA sequencing. This is precision death, gentlemen.”
A few guests applauded. Others leaned in, intrigued. No one looked away.
“But of course, you want proof. Reliability. Accuracy. And what better proof,” he said, smiling now, “than live targets?”
A door opened in the far wall of the area. Two guards dragged Flynn and Lyric in, while another two marched behind with rifles.
My lungs locked. For a split second, I wasn’t an operator. I was just a man watching two people I was supposed to protect being dragged out like animals for slaughter.
They were drugged, barely standing. Flynn’s shirt was missing buttons and a sleeve, his ribs blackened with bruises. Lyric’s red dress hung from one torn strap, a handprint visible on her arm.
Whatever happened, they hadn’t gone quietly.
Even now, they continued to fight against their captors.
Moreau swept a hand toward them. “Our uninvited guests—American operatives who thought to infiltrate our gathering. Ms. Elisa Deveraux, better known as Lyric Renard, and her companion, Flynn Shepherd.”
The guests murmured. One or two chuckled. This was theater to them.
“Fuuuck,” Decker muttered.
The guards cut Flynn’s restraints. He swayed, caught himself, and scanned the crowd. His eyes locked on mine for an instant before he turned to help Lyric as her bindings were also cut off. She staggered but lifted her chin. There was blood on her temple, but her eyes burned with hatred and defiance.
“We used the neural disruptor to ensure a smooth transfer,” Moreau explained. “It’s already wearing off, but the effects are still counteracted immediately by the antidote.”
The guards jabbed them with pressure syringes, similar to the one used during the earlier demonstration of the neural agent.
As soon as the antidote hit, Flynn exploded into motion.
He lunged at the nearest guard, his fist connecting with a brutal crack. The man dropped, but another raised his rifle and aimed at Lyric.
“Move again, and she dies,” the guard barked.
Flynn froze. His chest heaved, muscles locked, one hand clenched in the guard’s shirt. He didn’t look scared. He looked murderous. But he dropped his grip, slowly, jaw grinding like he was chewing glass.
Lyric didn’t flinch. Didn’t plead. She just held her ground beside him, spine straight, eyes locked on Moreau like she could kill him with sheer willpower.
Goddammit, Flynn.
I should’ve expected him to go feral like that. The man had the instincts of a wrecking ball and the impulse control to match.
Beside me, Decker murmured, “We need a plan. Now.”
My fingers itched for the weapon holstered at my back, but I didn’t move. Not yet. If I drew now, I’d get maybe two shots before the guards reacted, and Lyric and Flynn wouldn’t make it out alive.
And neither would we.
Moreau chuckled, watching the scuffle below with obvious delight. “As you can see, our guests have full motor function again. Just in time to give us a demonstration.”
The crowd leaned forward in anticipation as the drone emerged from a hidden panel in the wall. Sleek, matte black, no visible rotors, almost no sound. It hovered six feet above the ground, sensors tracking, lights pulsing red.
“Sentinel uses biometric targeting, facial recognition, and predictive pursuit algorithms,” Moreau told the crowd. “It doesn’t just hunt, it learns. Adapts. But I’m sure you’re wondering, how far can this system go? How fast? How intelligent is it? Tonight, you’ll see for yourselves. And what better way to showcase its ability than to pit it against two highly trained operatives?”
The guards backed up as the drone circled Flynn and Lyric, scanning.
“Targets acquired,” it intoned, voice flat and metallic.
“Of course, we want a demonstration, not an outright massacre,” Moreau added. “So we’ll provide our friends with a sporting chance.”
He snapped his fingers, and the guards threw a couple of small-caliber pistols and two combat knives on the ground. Then they disappeared behind the heavy door again, locking it closed with a heavy thud, leaving Flynn and Lyric alone in the arena with Sentinel.
The drone hummed, patient and predatory.
My hand drifted toward the weapon at the small of my back. I could hit the fucking thing from here.
Decker caught my arm. “I wanted a plan, Vigil. Not a suicide pact.”
He was right. No doubt Sentinel had the best shielding available. A single bullet wouldn’t take it out of the sky, which meant Moreau’s “sporting chance” was just another show.
He absolutely wanted a massacre.
“Find the signal jammer,” I ordered. “Take it out, and call in air support.”
Decker nodded. “What are you going to do?”
I watched Flynn put himself between Lyric and the drone. He wasn’t thinking tactically. He was thinking like a man who’d already decided he’d die for her.
But Lyric didn’t stay behind him. She squared her shoulders, picked up one of the pistols, and fired. The bullet pinged harmlessly off Sentinel’s shielding.
“Initiate pursuit protocol,” Moreau commanded.
The drone shot forward.
I swore and turned away from the arena. What was I going to do? Whatever it took to keep them alive until backup arrived.
Even if it meant I didn’t walk out of here with them.