Chapter 5 - Reaper #2
We breach the entrance. The guards barely have time to register our presence before they're subdued—one by Ghost's chokehold, the other by my boot to his knee followed by a pistol against his temple.
"How many inside?" I demand, voice low.
"F-four," the guard stammers. "Plus the merchandise."
"Where?"
"Center of the warehouse. Shipping container. Green."
I nod to Ghost, who secures both guards with zip ties and duct tape over their mouths. We move deeper into the warehouse, the rest of our crew converging from other entry points.
The space is cavernous, poorly lit, and smells of rust and mildew. Stacks of crates and abandoned machinery provide ample cover as we advance toward the center where a green shipping container sits like an obscene coffin.
Two more guards stand near it, along with a woman in a tight red dress. Naomi, I assume, from Evelyn's description. A man in an expensive suit paces in front of them, speaking rapidly.
We position ourselves strategically, surrounding them. I signal to my brothers: take them down but keep them alive if possible. We need information.
The assault is swift and calculated. Ace and Viper take out the two guards with precision strikes. Blade secures the woman, who shrieks and claws until he zip-ties her hands. I go for the man in the suit, driving him to the concrete floor with a force that knocks the wind from his lungs.
"Keys," I demand, pressing my forearm against his throat. "For the container. Now."
His eyes bulge as he fumbles in his pocket, producing a ring of keys. I snatch them, tossing them to Ghost. "Get the girls. Slowly. They'll be terrified."
Ghost approaches the container, finding the right key after two attempts. The heavy door swings open with a metallic groan.
The smell hits us first. Unwashed bodies, human waste, fear. Then comes the sound—whimpers, muffled crying. Ghost steps back, holstering his weapon.
"It's okay," he calls into the darkness. "We're here to help. You're safe now."
No response except more frightened sounds. I haul the suited man to his feet, shoving him toward the container. "Tell them they're safe. Now."
He hesitates until I press my gun to his spine. Then he speaks rapidly, his voice shaking.
Slowly, figures emerge from the shadows of the container. Girls. Some no older than nineteen. All with the hollow-eyed look of the traumatized. Ten in total, dressed in dirty clothes, supporting each other as they blink in the relative brightness of the warehouse.
I feel a familiar rage building, the kind that usually ends with blood on my hands. But I force it down. These girls need calm, not more violence to witness.
"Ghost, get them to the vehicles. Ace, secure the perimeter. Make sure we didn't miss anyone. Viper, Blade, bring our new friends. We're leaving in two minutes."
As my brothers carry out their tasks, I approach the woman, Naomi. She glares at me with undisguised hatred.
"You," I say quietly, "are going to have a long conversation with someone who knows exactly what you've done. She's been looking forward to it."
Fear flickers across her heavily made-up face. Good. She should be afraid.
We move as a unit toward the exits, the girls huddled together, the captives restrained and stumbling under my brothers' rough guidance. The operation has gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. My instincts prickle with unease.
Outside, the daylight seems harsh after the dim warehouse. The girls blink and shield their eyes as Ghost guides them toward our vehicles. I scan the area, that sense of wrongness growing stronger.
Movement catches my eye. A glint of metal from the roof of a neighboring building. Sniper.
"Down!" I roar, shoving the nearest girl to the ground as the first shot rings out.
Chaos erupts. My brothers return fire, taking cover behind vehicles and shipping containers. The girls scream, dropping to the ground or freezing in terror.
"Wilder! Status!" I bark into my comm.
"Secure with our guest. Taking fire from the east."
Evelyn. She's with Wilder. She's safe. The knowledge steadies me as I position myself behind a concrete barrier, returning fire toward the sniper's location.
"Ghost! Get the girls to cover!"
Two more shooters appear from behind the warehouse. Blade takes one down with a clean headshot. The other ducks back into cover.
"Moving to flank!" Viper calls, disappearing around a stack of crates.
The firefight is intense but brief. My brothers are combat veterans, trained by warfare and hardened by years of surviving in a world that wants us dead. The opposition is organized but not at our level.
When the shooting stops, two of their men are dead, one is wounded, and the sniper has vanished. We've sustained no casualties, though Ace is bleeding from a graze along his bicep.
"Clear!" comes the call from all positions.
I stand, surveying the scene. The girls are huddled together behind the SUV, wide-eyed and trembling. Our captives are secured, including Naomi, who's bleeding from a cut on her forehead where she hit the ground.
"Load up," I order. "Wilder, bring the van around."
The black van appears from behind the shipping containers, Wilder at the wheel. The passenger door opens, and Evelyn jumps out before I can stop her.
"Get back in the van!" I shout, but she's already running.
Not toward me, but toward the huddled girls. She reaches them, dropping to her knees, speaking in low, urgent tones. To my surprise, they respond to her, some reaching out to touch her arm, her face. Recognition. She was one of them just a few days ago.
I approach cautiously, not wanting to frighten the already traumatized girls. Evelyn looks up at me, something fierce and triumphant in her eyes.
"They need medical attention," she says. "Food. Clean clothes. They understand English but are afraid to speak it."
I nod, impressed by her composure. "We're taking them somewhere safe. Tell them that."
She relays the message, her tone gentle but firm. The girls seem to relax slightly, some nodding in understanding.
"What about them?" Evelyn asks, looking toward our captives with undisguised hatred.
"They're coming too. For questioning."
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the hunger for justice—for revenge—burning there. It's a look I recognize, one I've worn myself. I should discourage it. Should tell her that vengeance only begets more violence, that it won't heal the wounds they've inflicted.
But I don't. Because sometimes, the only path to healing runs through retribution first.
"You'll get your answers," I tell her. "You'll get your justice."
I shouldn't celebrate the vengeful fire in her eyes. Shouldn't feel this surge of admiration for her strength, her resilience, her capacity for righteous fury.
But I do. God help me, I do.