6. Saint
Chapter 6
Saint
Cipher's fingers dance across the keyboard, hacking into the security system of the Golden Touch Day Spa with the same ease other men might tie their shoes.
"We're in," he announces, giving me a curt nod. "I've got control of their cameras and security protocols. The team can move whenever they're ready."
I check my watch—ten minutes until the raid. My body hums with the familiar pre-operation tension, muscles coiled tight, mind laser-focused. Though not as focused as it should be. Every few minutes, unbidden, Luna's face appears in my thoughts—those dark eyes, that shy smile, the softness of her lips beneath mine.
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the mission. Tonight is about wielding a massive blow to Kovalev and his trafficking operation. We've been tracking this Russian piece of shit for months, watching as he expanded from loan sharking into moving girls across state lines. We now know without a doubt that The Golden Touch is a processing center where women are broken, photographed, and prepared for "distribution."
The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I've seen a lot of ugly shit in my time, done plenty myself, but trafficking has always been a line the Shadow Reapers refuse to cross—an industry we refuse to condone. And this piece of shit thinks he can sneak into our own territory right under our noses. Naw. We're going to send Kovalev a message he won't forget.
"Team’s in position," Cipher reports, speaking into his headset. "Ghost, you're clear to move on your mark."
Through my earpiece, I hear Ghost's measured voice. "Copy that. Moving in sixty seconds."
The radio crackles with confirmation from each team—Blade leading Alpha team at the front entrance, Hawk with Bravo at the rear. My knife handle warms beneath my restless fingers as I wish I was out there instead of stuck here on comms, but Ghost insisted he needed his Sergeant at Arms coordinating from central command tonight.
"Teams moving," Cipher narrates as the monitors show black-clad figures converging on the building. "Alpha breach successful. Bravo in position."
I watch as our brothers flow into the spa like a well-oiled machine. This isn't our first rodeo, and we've drilled the operation a dozen times. Get in, secure the targets, extract the girls, plant the charges, get out. Clean and quick. Send Kovalev a message that Wraithport isn't his for the taking.
"Front desk secured," Blade's voice reports. "Moving to back offices."
"Back corridor clear," Hawk adds. "Two rooms secured. No resistance."
"Police scanner quiet," Cipher informs me, monitoring a separate program. "No chatter about our location. Closest patrol is fifteen blocks away and heading in the opposite direction."
So far, so good. I lean forward, scanning each monitor for potential complications, mentally calculating egress routes if things go south. Most operations veer a bit sideways at some point—that's just the nature of the beast—but tonight seems smooth as butter.
Ghost's voice fills my earpiece, tension evident despite his controlled tone. "Target acquired. Repeat, target acquired.”
He’s got Popov.
"Copy that," I respond. "Status on civilians?"
There's a pause, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
"Eight workers located," Ghost replies. "Being evacuated now. No customers present."
I breathe a sigh of relief. We'd timed the raid for after-hours, hoping to minimize collateral damage.
"Charges being set," Hawk reports. "T-minus ten minutes until we're ready to light this place up."
I'm about to acknowledge when Blade's voice cuts through, lower and more urgent than before. "Saint, brother, you there?"
"Go ahead," I respond immediately, recognizing the tone that means trouble.
"That woman from the clinic is here. The one you were with today. She’s..um…one of the workers."
The world stops rotating on its axis. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else for a moment. Luna? Luna is inside a building we're about to blow to kingdom come? Luna is working for a human fucking trafficker?!
"Say again," I demand, needing to confirm what I've heard.
"The chick from the vet clinic. The one with the little dog."
Red washes over my vision, hot fury rising so fast I can barely breathe through it. The thought of my sweet precious in that place, of men's hands on her delicate skin, of strangers viewing her as merchandise... That fucking Russian will die a slow, painful death. Really slowly and excruciatingly painful.
"I'm coming in," I announce, already on my feet, chair crashing backwards to the floor.
"Negative," Ghost's voice cuts through. "Stay at your post. We've got her. She'll be evacuated with the others."
"Like hell," I growl, grabbing my cut and strapping on my shoulder holster. "That's my woman in there. My ol’ lady.”
"Your ol’ lady?” Ghost sounds genuinely surprised. "Since when?"
"Since fucking now.” I'm already moving toward the door, adrenaline and protective rage coursing through my veins like liquid fire. "Cipher, you've got comms. Keep Ghost updated on police movement."
Cipher merely nods, knowing better than to try to stop me. In our world, when a brother claims an ol’ lady, that's that. Even the Prez won't interfere.
"Saint, we're on a timetable here," Ghost warns through the earpiece. "Charges are set. Ten minutes until detonation."
"Understood," I reply, not slowing my pace. "Just make sure she's safe until I get there."
I disconnect the comms, pocketing the earpiece as I stride through the clubhouse. Two prospects look up as I pass. Reading my murderous expression, they wisely stay out of my way. Outside, I swing onto my Harley, the engine roaring to life beneath me like a beast awakening to hunt.
The ride to the spa takes four and a half minutes. Wind tears at my face as I weave through cars, running red lights, focused solely on reaching Luna. I've killed men before, felt their life drain beneath my hands, but never have I felt this overwhelming need to protect someone. It's a foreign sensation—half maddening, half exhilarating.
When I arrive, the scene is relatively quiet. The brothers have the chaos under control as they escort women from the building—some crying, some stoic, all looking shell-shocked. The stench of fear hangs heavy in the air.
I dismount, roll my bike into a nearby alley, and return, scanning faces until I spot Blade near the side entrance.
"Where is she?" I demand without preamble.
"Back room, last door on the left," he replies, eyebrows raised at my intensity. "You've got five minutes. Don't make me come in after you."
I nod my thanks and push past him into the building. I move quickly down the hallway, checking rooms as I pass. Empty massage tables that have seen too much, storage closets hanging open, a small office with files scattered across the floor where we've gathered intelligence.
Finally, I reach the last door. It's partially open, and through the gap, I see Luna frantically gathering items into a backpack.
I push the door open, and she whirls around, eyes wide with fear before recognition sets in.
"Saint?" She clutches the backpack to her chest like a shield. "What—how?—"
"We need to go," I tell her, fighting to keep my voice level despite the rage still churning inside me. "This place is about to be dust."
Confusion clouds her face, followed quickly by defiance. "What are you doing here? What's happening?"
"No time to explain. We've got five minutes before this whole place blows."
"Blows?" She takes a step back, eyes darting to the door behind me. “What…what…who are you? What is this?"
"I'm the man who's trying to save your life," I growl, patience wearing thin as precious seconds tick by.
Her face drains of color, and I see the terrible dawning of understanding in her eyes. She sways slightly, and I step forward, steadying her with my hands on her shoulders.
She nods, then abruptly pulls away, her expression hardening. "Why are you here? How did you know about this place?"
“We’ve been watching Popov for months," I explain, checking my watch. Four minutes. "He works for a larger human trafficking organization we're dismantling."
Her eyes narrow. “Your motorcycle gang?"
"Club," I correct automatically. "And yes, the Shadow Reapers. We handle problems like Popov and his boss."
"Handle?" The word drops between us like a stone. "You're going to kill him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "He deserves worse than death.” For what he was planning to do to her alone, I'd gut him slowly and feed him his own entrails.
She steps back, wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't be involved in this. I can't. I'm undocumented, Saint. I can't have any contact with police. If I get arrested, if they check my status?—"
"I know," I cut her off, surprising her. Of course she is. Why else would she work at a place like this? Put up with a boss like that?
Her eyes fill with tears but she blinks them back fiercely. "You don't understand. I need this job.” She gestures wildly. "How will I pay rent? Buy medicine for my grandmother? We just got an eviction notice. Three days and Abuela and I are on the street."
"I'll help you," I tell her, reaching for her again, drawn to her like gravity.
She evades my touch. "Why? What do you want from me?"
The question is like a slap, but I understand it. In her world, nothing comes without a price.
I want you , I almost say in a moment of raw honesty. But not like this. Not forced by circumstance. I want her to choose me, so instead I say, “Right now, I just want you safe."
Her expression softens just slightly, but she's still hesitant. “I-I don't know..”
“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we need to move."
As if to emphasize my point, a muffled explosion sounds from somewhere in the building—the first charge, ahead of schedule. The floor beneath us vibrates, dust drifting down from the ceiling.
Luna jumps, eyes wide with renewed fear. "What was that?"
"Our timetable moving up," I growl, patience gone. "We're leaving. Now."
When she still hesitates, looking around at the meager belongings she's gathered, I make the decision for both of us. In one swift motion, I scoop her up and toss her over my shoulder, ignoring her startled cry of protest. She's light as a feather, all slender curves and delicate bones.
"Put me down!" she demands, struggling ineffectively against my grip. "I can walk!"
"No time," I tell her, already sprinting toward the exit.