Chapter Nine
CITY
It’s eerily cold in the early hours of the morning.
Having a coordinated strike starting at midnight on the West Coast means it’s always going to be later for us. I rub my hands up and down my goose-bump-riddled arms as I crouch, sitting in wait for the countdown.
Hurricane has been on some kind of manic high since he found out Kaia and he are having twins. I swear the man likes making babies more than anything in this world. I have to admit, though, being a father suits him. The way he is with Immy has changed him.
He was always such a loose cannon.
A little unpredictable.
Having a daughter has softened him.
And Kaia? Well, that woman certainly knows how to tame him.
Let alone Lani, the apple of his eye. I’ve never known a man whose sister-in-law can control him as much as his wife.
But that’s Hurricane for you.
When it comes to women, he really is a pushover.
Just look at Ingrid. Even though we were deep in planning mode for this attack, because he knew South and Ingrid were losing Bella, Hurricane demanded that he, Bayou, and Novah leave and take off for LA right away while we were in the depths of figuring all this shit out.
And he left it all to me to plan.
I guess that’s my job as VP, step up when the president can’t be there, but sometimes, I just wish Hurricane would take his presidential role a little more seriously.
Operation Darkfire has been fucking hectic to organize, and I am no fucking president. And yet I have organized the whole damn thing, then he swoops in and runs the fucking thing on the night.
Typical Hurricane.
Shaking my head, letting out my frustrations, because I can’t carry them with me into this, I glance out.
The shipping yard stands beneath the New Orleans morning like a predator ready to strike.
Still, silent, and deadly. Container stacks rise around us like metal monoliths, casting long shadows under the moonlight.
My finger rests against my pistol trigger as Hurricane’s voice cuts through our internal comms, calm and commanding.
“Everyone in position?”
“Check,” I whisper, checking the chamber of my Glock one last time.
“Locked and loaded,” Bayou radios from the southeast.
“All set,” Raid calls in from the north.
“Good to go,” Grit signals from the west.
Hoodoo’s voice is calm. “Ready.”
“Perimeter secured,” Jarred, our prospect, calls down the line.
Hurricane’s voice tightens as he reminds us all why we’re here.
“This isn’t just an everyday, run-of-the-mill Cartel.
Intel confirms the women they’re movin’ aren’t being sold, they’re bein’ programmed.
Drugged, conditioned to enter prison systems voluntarily.
Once inside, they’re inserted into a breedin’ program.
They don’t even know what they’re volunteerin’ for until it’s too late. ”
I clench my jaw. “They’re manufacturing assassins for the Nest.”
“Exactly. And tonight, we end that shit,” Hurricane states.
“Movement,” Raid murmurs down the line. “Van on east approach. No lights.”
My scope catches a matte-black panel van driving incredibly slow between the containers. It pulls to a stop, and a hidden door slides open. Two guards step out with a young woman between them, barely conscious, her eyes glazed. The poor thing can barely walk.
“Fuck,” I murmur. “They’re loading the next batch.”
“All units,” Hurricane commands. “Move in. We go silent. We go fast. Bayou, City, flank east with me. Hoodoo and Grit cover the north. Jarred, Keith, hold the exit.”
We move as one, silent and precise, through the stacks like smoke in the dark. Years in this life have taught us how to disappear in plain sight. Hurricane takes point, eyes locked on the disguised hatch near the container. Raid overrides the lock with a flick of his wrist, and it hisses open.
Our eyes widen as we look down inside, seeing a metal staircase plunging into the darkness.
This is it.
This is what we came here for.
“Radio silence,” Hurricane orders. “Hand signals only.”
He gestures for us to enter, and one by one, we descend the staircase into hell. The corridor reeks of bleach and sweat. Fluorescent lights buzz above, the occasional one flickering like you’d see in some insane asylum. I’m sure the women here feel like that is where they are.
I peer through the window of the first door. Dozens of women sit in sterile rows, packaging drugs with practiced, robotic motions. They’re all zoned out. Dead eyes. No awareness. No fight left.
They have been turned into ghosts, a version of themselves with nothing left to fight for.
Bayou signals to another room. This one is worse. Needles, restraints, clearly it’s a conditioning room. Screens loop propaganda, a way to make the women pliable to the Cartel’s needs. A Cartel soldier looms over the women with a cattle prod, shouting commands.
My stomach rolls with anger, and the clear look of disgust crossing my brothers’ faces tells me they’re racing through the same emotions I am.
This place is a goddamn nightmare.
The Cartel didn’t just build a safe house to hold their captors, they built a machine, churning out victims like parts on a production line. And we’re here to break every damn gear.
Without another heartbeat wasted, Hurricane gives the signal, a silent, sharp gesture, and we surge forward, boots pounding across cracked concrete in synchronized fury.
I lead the charge toward the far door. The metal groans under my weight as I slam my boot into it, splinters of rust and dust raining down as it crashes inward with a deafening clang.
The room inside is a fluorescent-lit hell.
A single guard snaps his head toward the door, his eyes going wide, hand fumbling for the pistol at his hip.
But it is too late.
My Glock is already up, and I punch two rounds through his chest, his body jerking as he stumbles backward and collapses against the wall, then slides down it, leaving a trail of blood as he goes.
I sweep the space, weapon raised, but there are no more threats, at least not in this room. Just rows of battered women crouched on the floor, backs pressed against the walls, arms trembling. Their eyes, those hollow, vacant eyes, make my stomach turn.
I lower my weapon slowly and raise both hands, as Hurricane approaches them, his voice steady but soft. “We’re here to help. You’re safe now. We’re gonna get you outta here,” he urges.
A woman near the center whimpers, pulling her knees to her chest, rocking like she’s trying to disappear inside herself.
Another stares through me like I’m not even real.
One flinches so hard at the sound of a shifting boot behind me that she lets out a raw, feral scream and lashes out blindly, her fists colliding with my chest in a furious tantrum.
I don’t block her. I let her pummel me. She needs to get it out.
Her punches lose strength after a few seconds, her body folding forward as sobs tear from her throat like they’ve been trapped there for years. I catch her, steady her trembling frame before she collapses into my arms.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, crouching with her, anchoring her to something solid in this chaotic storm. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Behind me, Bayou and Raid move cautiously through the room, checking corners, stepping gently around the women. One of them is physically ill at the sight of the dead guard. Another starts praying in rapid-fire Spanish, her fingers trembling as they mimic the motion of a rosary.
These women, they’ve been conditioned to survive, not to hope.
But tonight, hope is kicking in their fucking door.
Grit’s voice crackles through the comms. “Hurricane. They have fucking bird assassins here, female operatives. They’re fast. One just knocked out Jarred.”
I curse. “Shit.”
Hurricane snaps his head around to look at the rest of us, apprehension in his eyes. “Can you confirm, Grit. Bird operatives are in the buildin’?”
“Confirmed. Tactical suits, knives, silent entries. I barely got away from the one who got Jarred.”
“Pres, we’ve got a bigger issue,” Hoodoo interrupts. “They’ve ruptured a water main. This whole level’s flooding. Looks like they’d rather sacrifice these women than let their secret get out.”
“Fuck! How long do we have to get these women out?” Hurricane demands.
“Twenty, maybe less. And we’ve got over thirty women to extract, while fightin’ the Cartel and fuckin’ bird assassins,” Hoodoo states.
A scream tears down the hallway, high-pitched and raw, slicing through the mixture of sounds like a warning bell. Bayou doesn’t hesitate. He bolts, boots pounding across the flooded floor.
I lock eyes with Hurricane.
His jaw is clenched, but he gives the barest nod.
We don’t have time to overthink this.
Every second lost is another life we can’t save.
I take off after Bayou, heart hammering, gun raised, not knowing what the hell we’re about to walk into.
We round the corner and dive headfirst into chaos.
The air in the chamber is thick with the chemical stink of processed drugs and blood.
Tables have been overturned, crates shattered.
In the center of it all, Grit is locked in a brutal brawl with one of the bird assassins.
She’s small but lethal, her movements precise and fluid, like she’s dancing with death itself.
Her blade slices through the air in tight, elegant arcs, each swing aimed to maim or kill.
Grit dodges the first strike, barely blocks the second with the butt of his Glock, but she’s relentless.
She goes low, tries to slash his thigh. He grunts, catches her wrist mid-swing, and slams his forehead into hers with a bone-crunching crack.
She stumbles, dazed, but not down. Blood spills from her temple, and she bares her teeth in something between a snarl and a smile. Then she lunges again, knife flashing toward his gut.
“Grit!” I roar, but he’s already moving.
Before the blade can land, a blur crashes into her side as Hoodoo body slams her.