15. Saint
Chapter 15
Saint
The docks loom ahead, a labyrinth of shipping containers, warehouses, and rusting equipment. Each second that passes is a second too long. My Luna is somewhere in this maze, afraid and in pain, and every fiber of my being screams to tear this place apart until I find her.
We move in silent formation—Ghost and Blade flanking me, Hawk and Cipher covering our six, and eight other brothers fanning out in tactical groups. We're heavily armed, body armor beneath our cuts, faces set in grim determination. Cipher's intelligence pointed us to this storage facility on the edge of the industrial waterfront. Surveillance and tracking put Kovalev's operation here—where they process and ship their human cargo.
Where they're holding my woman.
"Three guards at the north entrance," Ghost murmurs into his comm. "Two more patrolling the eastern perimeter."
"I count four armed men by the loading dock," Hawk confirms. "Automatic weapons. Military-grade."
"Cameras on the main gate and warehouse entrances," Cipher adds. "I've looped the feed. They won't see us coming."
The rage inside me is a living thing. Not the hot, blind fury that leads to mistakes. This is cold and calculating. A deadly focus that's made me the club's enforcer, the executioner, the monster they unleash when something needs to be destroyed beyond recognition—or someone.
"Remember," Ghost says quietly, his eyes meeting mine. "Primary objective is extraction. Get Luna and any other captives out safely.”
I nod, though we both know there's a secondary objective I won't compromise on—Kovalev doesn't leave this place alive. Not after touching what's mine.
We move with practiced precision. Years of operating in the shadows have made us effective, lethal. The first two guards don't even have time to raise their weapons before they drop—each receiving a silenced bullet to the head. The others react quickly, shouting alerts, but it's too late—we've breached the perimeter.
Gunfire erupts, sporadic at first, then steady as Kovalev's men organize their defense. We've planned for this. Hawk and his team lay down suppressive fire while Blade leads the flanking maneuver. I move with Ghost directly toward the central warehouse where Cipher's intelligence indicates the shipping container we’re looking for is staged.
A guard appears from behind a forklift, gun raised. I put him down with two center-mass shots before he can squeeze his trigger. Another rushes from a side door—this one I take with my combat knife, driving the blade up under his sternum and giving it a vicious twist. His eyes widen in shock as I lower him to the ground, already focusing on the next target.
"Saint, on your three!" Blade shouts.
I pivot, dropping to one knee as bullets ping off the container behind me. The shooter is positioned on a catwalk above, raining fire down on our position. I line up my shot and take it—clean, efficient. He tumbles over the railing, body hitting the concrete with a sickening thud.
We push forward, clearing rooms, eliminating resistance. My vision narrows to target acquisition, threat assessment, neutralization. The part of me that registers emotion is locked away. Right now, I'm a lethal weapon with one purpose.
"Command center ahead," Cipher reports through the comms. "Thermal shows six bodies inside."
"Breach in three," Ghost orders, positioning himself on one side of the door while I take the other.
The flashbang disorients Kovalev's men just long enough. We enter in a choreographed assault that leaves no chance for recovery. I take down two before they can clear their vision, Ghost and Blade handle the rest. Only one is left alive—a tech operator cowering under a desk.
Cipher immediately takes his place at the computer station, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Container manifest, security protocols, shipping schedules—it's all here," he says, downloading data to his secure drive. "Container 237—that's our target. Northeastern quadrant, ready for loading. Scheduled for departure in..." he checks the screen, "forty-three minutes."
My blood runs cold. Forty-three minutes and Luna would have been gone—loaded onto a ship bound for who knows where, disappeared forever.
"Kovalev?" I demand, grabbing the surviving tech by his collar and lifting him to eye level. "Where is he?"
"Checking...checking the merchandise," the man stammers, eyes wide with terror. "Container area. Please—I just work the computers. I don't touch the girls."
I release him with a shove. "If you're lying, I'll come back for you."
Ghost nods to Diesel. "Watch him."
We move quickly through the facility, encountering scattered resistance. Most of Kovalev's men are falling back, regrouping around what must be their most valuable asset—the human cargo they're preparing to ship.
"Ahead," Cipher directs through our earpieces. "Storage area C. Container 237 is the third from the left."
As we approach, I see him—Ivan Kovalev, surrounded by four heavily armed guards, standing near a row of shipping containers. He's barking orders, clearly agitated by the attack.
"I want that shipment moved now!" he shouts at a subordinate. "The buyers have already paid. If we lose this product?—"
He doesn't finish the sentence because he spots us. For a moment, our eyes lock across the warehouse floor. His widening with recognition, mine narrowing with deadly intent.
"Kill them!" Kovalev orders, ducking behind his men as they open fire.
We take cover behind stacked crates, returning fire methodically. One guard drops, then another. The remaining two are better trained, their movements suggesting military or specialized police background. They advance tactically, covering each other, making it difficult to get clean shots.
"I need to get to that container," I tell Ghost, ejecting an empty magazine and slamming in a fresh one.
He nods once. "Cover fire in three."
The coordinated barrage gives me the opening I need. I sprint toward the containers, rolling behind a forklift as bullets trace my path. Twenty more yards.
One of Kovalev's men steps into view, aiming not at me but at the lock on container 237. He's going to execute the captives—eliminate the evidence. I don't hesitate. My bullet takes him in the throat before his finger can squeeze the trigger.
I'm almost at the container when Kovalev himself steps into my path, a pistol in one hand and a remote detonator in the other.
"Stop!" he shouts, backing toward the container. "I have explosives placed throughout this facility. One press and we all go up."
I slow my advance but don't stop completely. "You'll die too," I point out, my voice deadly calm.
He laughs, the sound brittle and humorless. "Perhaps. But my operation is already compromised. Better to destroy everything than let you seize it."
My eyes flick to the shipping container behind him. My whole world is locked inside that metal box.
"Let the women go," I negotiate, buying time as I assess options. "Your quarrel is with us, not them."
“Women?” Kovalev's face twists with genuine confusion. "They're product. Merchandise. Some worth quite a lot."
Red clouds my vision at his words. "You're going to die today," I tell him, my voice as cold as winter midnight. "The only question is how much it hurts before you go."
Something in my tone must convince him because fear flickers across his face for the first time. He raises the detonator higher.
"Stay back. I'll press it. I swear I will!"
I can tell he means it. Men like Kovalev, they'd rather destroy everything they’ve built than lose it to someone else. I need to be faster—and I am.
My hand moves with almost preternatural speed, the throwing knife leaving my fingers before he can blink. It embeds in his wrist, causing him to scream and drop the detonator. I'm on him before it hits the ground, driving him backward with the force of my tackle.
We crash to the concrete, my weight pinning him as my fist connects with his face once, twice, a third time. Blood sprays from his broken nose, his split lip. He's a skilled fighter—he gets a knee up between us, pushing me back enough to land a solid blow to my ribs.
The pain barely registers. I'm beyond feeling anything but the need to destroy him for touching what's mine. As we grapple, rolling across the concrete, I catch glimpses of the battle around us—Ghost and the brothers methodically eliminating the remaining guards, Cipher rushing to the container, Blade covering his approach.
Kovalev manages to get his good hand on a knife from his belt, slashing wildly. The blade catches my arm, slicing through leather and skin. I ignore it, focusing on controlling his knife hand, twisting it until the bones in his wrist grind together. He howls in pain, but even injured, he's dangerous. He headbutts me, stars exploding behind my eyes as his forehead connects with my nose.
I roll with the momentum, using it to fling him off me. We both scramble to our feet, circling each other like predators. Blood drips from my arm, from his face.
He spits crimson onto the concrete.
I watch his body language, waiting for the tell that will telegraph his next move. It comes when his eyes flick briefly to something behind me—a distraction tactic. I anticipate his lunge, stepping into it rather than away. The move surprises him, disrupting his timing just enough for me to catch his knife hand and drive my knee into his solar plexus. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, and as he gasps for breath, I twist his arm with brutal efficiency until the knife clatters to the floor.
I grab him by the throat, lifting him until his feet barely touch the ground.
"You took my woman," I tell him, tightening my grip as he claws ineffectively at my hand. "You put your hands on what's mine."
"Business," he chokes out, face purpling. "Just business."
Something snaps inside me at the casual dismissal of Luna's humanity, his lack of concern for her suffering. With a roar that barely sounds human, I slam him against the nearest container, once, twice, his head bouncing off the metal with sickening force. His eyes roll back, but I don't release him.
"Saint! We got her, brother,” Blade's voice cuts through the red haze of my rage. "Container's open. We've got Luna and four other females.".
I look at the pathetic figure dangling from my grip, barely conscious now. I don't think. I need to get to my woman. I press my weapon under his chin.
"For Luna," I whisper, and pull the trigger.
Inside the container, I find Cipher and Blade helping women out one by one. They're all in rough shape—dirty, bruised, dehydrated—but moving under their own power.
And then I see her. Luna, my Luna, supported by a blonde girl as they step hesitantly into the light. One of her eyes is swollen nearly shut, dried blood cakes her temple, and she moves with the careful steps of someone in pain. But she's alive.
Our eyes meet, and the world stops spinning. Everything—the gunfire still echoing in distant parts of the facility, the moans of the wounded, the shouts of my brothers securing the area—fades away. There's only Luna, battered but unbowed, her good eye filling with tears of relief as she sees me.
"Saint," she whispers, her voice cracking.
I cross the distance between us in three long strides, gathering her gently into my arms, mindful of her injuries. She melts against me, her small body shaking with silent sobs.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head. "I've got you, preciosa. You're safe now."
"I knew you'd come," she says against my chest, her fingers clutching my cut like she'll never let go. "I told them you'd find me."