Chapter Twelve
Emerson
Two hours.
That was the agreement.
Two hours of gathering everything we could before we charged a building that might hold my sister… or might hold nothing but false hope.
The war room feels different tonight. Suffocating.
Electric. Like the walls themselves know what’s at stake.
Berk works in silence, bathed in the harsh blue glow of her screens, fingers moving so fast I can barely track them.
Ronan is beside her, matching her speed, jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking every time a dead end taunts him.
Rowan can’t stop moving. He paces a rut into the carpet behind us, back and forth, back and forth, like momentum alone might summon answers.
Me? I’m on every CCTV, every comm intercept, every scrap of data we hijacked.
My leg bounces, my hands shake—not from fear, but fury.
My baby sister is somewhere in the dark with the same assholes who stole Berk from us years ago.
The same father who smirked as he carved pieces out of the people I love.
Now, Bryce fucking Blackthorne—dear old dad—thinks he can actually hide from us?
Not a fucking chance.
Berk finally breaks the silence.
“I got something.”
Her voice slices through the room. Controlled. Focused. But there’s a tremor buried under it that only someone who loves her would hear.
Rowan stops pacing mid-stride. Ronan leans in. I turn in my chair.
She enlarges a file—digital blueprints—and rotates them.
“The warehouse Bryce pinged from.” Her mouth curves bitterly, zooming in again. “The ground floor is business. Storage, loading bays, staging, and a small office overlooking everything. Three entrances. Two are side exits. No cameras.”
I feel my pulse kick. “Means we can ghost in.”
She nods. “Exactly.” Then she scrolls upward. “And upstairs… is a personal residence.”
Something cold rips down my spine.
“A residence?” I ask.
“Two bedrooms. Full bath. Living space.” She clicks again. “One room has thicker wall framing. Could be nothing. Could be where he’s keeping the leverage he doesn’t want anyone to see.”
Kimber.
My chest tightens so fast my breath stutters.
Rowan’s voice comes out low and tight. “Anything on how many people inside?”
I switch to the CCTV feed. “Not enough clarity. Bryce keeps himself just outside most camera angles. We’re lucky we caught his image earlier.” I gesture to the screen. “But there are shadows. Movement. I’d estimate four to six bodies cycling through.”
“Armed?” Ronan asks.
“Most likely. This isn’t a stash house. He’s scared.” I look up from the screen, jaw flexing. “And scared men bring guns.”
I look between them. “What about Kimber? Anything in the messages?”
Her eyes flicker with something fragile and furious all at once.
“They don’t use names. But they call her the package.” She swallows. “Bryce received a text last night that the package is stable. And earlier today something about keeping the package quiet.”
My vision blurs for half a second. I have to grab the desk to steady myself.
Rowan watches me, his face hollowed. “Em…”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Keep going.”
We dig deeper. Berk runs programs that should not legally exist. Ronan stitches CCTV from dozens of businesses together like some unholy quilt. I intercept more feeds, isolate audio, scrub interference.
And finally—
“Got him.” Ronan slams a finger on a frozen frame.
Bryce’s smug, rat-like face stares back at us through a jittery security feed, caught in the window from across the street. He looks older. Worn down. Slick with sweat. Fear riding his spine, paranoia bent heavy across his shoulders.
Berk leans in. “He’s moving around the upper level. Probably bedding down there.”
“Then we hit the top floor first,” I say, the decision forming without hesitation. “We get him on his back before he even knows we’re inside. Security will presumably be heavier on the ground floor. We’ll make them come to us.”
Ronan nods. “We hit him tonight.”
Rowan tightens his fists. “No more waiting. Kimberly doesn’t get another sunrise in that place.”
Berk looks at each of us—slowly, deeply—something like a promise flickering in her eyes.
“It’s risky,” she says softly. “But it’s the best shot we’ve had since she was taken.”
I step closer to her. Close enough that she feels my breathing. “I’m not failing my sister again.”
Her hand slides into mine. Firm. Certain.
“You won’t. We won’t,” she breathes, like it’s a promise carved into bone.
Ronan closes his screen with finality. “Gear up.”
Rowan grabs his blades without a word.
I study the warehouse blueprint one last time, memorizing every line, every room, every blind corner—every place Kimber could be hiding, hurt, or waiting.
We’re coming for you, little sister.
~~~~~
The warehouse sits hunched in the dark like a rusty animal, long dead but still dangerous.
We kill the headlights a block away, coasting to a stop behind a row of shipping containers large enough to hide a hundred bodies.
The engine coughs once when Rowan shuts it off, then the whole van goes silent, leaving only the distant groan of the water hitting the docks.
Ronan cracks his knuckles. “We’re ditching the van after this.”
Before I can answer, Berk stretches her neck until it pops and says, “Already arranged. There’s another one on standby, a mile out.
We’ll ditch this one in the water, like the last one.
Stop worrying about the fucking van.” Her grin is pure mischief.
Wicked. Sharp. It cuts through my nerves like she always does.
We slip out into the cold. The air is salty with ocean stink and the faint chemical tang of diesel drifting around the pier.
The warehouse looks abandoned from the outside—windows shattered, metal siding warped—but we know better.
Monsters love places that are already rotting. They feel at home in them.
We take cover behind the building next door, shadows crawling across our boots as shipping cranes creak somewhere in the distance.
Rowan outlines the entry points, and the argument sparks almost immediately. “We pair up,” he says. “Two and two. No exceptions.”
I agree. “Berk, you stay with one of us.”
She pivots toward us—slow, intentional, a controlled movement predators make right before they bite.
A strand of hair slips aside, revealing the glint of her hidden comm like a warning flare.
“What part of I am not a porcelain doll are you three not processing?” Her voice is a lethal whisper.
“There are four entry points. We split. We hit them simultaneously. That’s how this works. ”
I step toward her, jaw tight. “You’re not going in alone.”
She smiles at me like she’s deciding which artery she’ll cut first. “Emerson Blackthorne, if you keep trying to bubble-wrap me, I will stab you in the throat and write I told you so in your blood.”
Ronan whistles low, chuckling. “She’s got a point.”
Rowan winces but also snorts. “You kind of deserve that one.”
I exhale hard, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Your own window. But the comm stays open. Constant check-ins.”
“Good boy,” she murmurs, patting my cheek.
The growl that rips from my chest makes her grin harder.
We fan out.
I climb the drainage ladder first, metal ice beneath my palms. The entire building vibrates faintly—the wind humming like an animal breathing in its sleep. The second-story ledge is narrow and coated in dust, but I crawl across it with practiced ease, keeping my footsteps soundless.
“Nothing here. Anyone got eyes?” I whisper.
Rowan reports right away. “Bryce is in the far room, sitting at a table. Looks half awake. Nervous.”
My teeth grind so hard that the pressure shoots into my skull. My father. The man who destroyed Berk. Reign. And so much more. The man who stole my sister. His daughter. Sitting ten yards away, breathing air he doesn’t deserve.
“Ronan?” Berk’s voice crackles softly in my ear. “Anything?”
“South side clear,” Ronan answers. “No visuals.”
“My side too,” she says. “Quiet.” Her whisper curls through the comm like smoke—steady, controlled, lethal. “Hold positions,” she adds. “Five minutes. Eyes open. Look for movement, shadows, anything that feels wrong.”
The order settles over us like a net. We obey.
My pulse beats like a drum behind my ribs as I lean closer to the window. Bryce shifts in his chair, rubbing his temples. His phone casts a sickly glow over his face, sharpening every grotesque angle.
He checks the staircase twice. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe he can feel death moving closer to his door.
Rowan’s whisper is thin. “He looks… different.”
“Scared?” I inject.
“Yeah. Very.” He laughs, because… good.
Fear won’t save him, but it will make this sweeter.
A guard coughs somewhere downstairs. Just one. That means more are waiting in the dark. They always keep the first floor loaded, ready to swarm if anything happens.
“Three more minutes,” Berk murmurs through the comm. “Report movement if you see it.”
The night presses heavier around us. My muscles coil, ready to spring. My breaths come slower, deeper, preparing myself for what I have to do when we breach the upper floor.
Images flash—Kimber tied to a chair, crying. Berk bloody in that bedroom years ago. Reign dying alone while our fathers smiled through it all.
My grip tightens on the windowsill until my knuckles crack.
Rowan whispers, raw and ragged, “I’m gonna fucking rip him apart.”
“Get in line,” I whisper back.
A long silence.
Then Berk again, quieter than before. “Two minutes.”
Every part of me goes still.
We’re close now—close enough that I can almost hear Bryce’s heartbeat. Almost feel the second his eyes widen when he realizes exactly who came for him.