Chapter Fifteen
HAVEN
Unleash the Birds
Let the fun begin…
Knowing that the guys have secured the prison, it’s time for the birds to fly.
Bikers are great when it comes to explosions and going in all gung-ho. But when you need stealth, when you need to ensure the task is carried out with precision and accuracy that cannot be matched, you need nothing but the elite.
If you want to catch a puppeteer at his own game, you have to send in the very puppets he created to break those chains.
With Loki, Theo, and the Martinez twins working their geek magic, we were able to hunt down the adult birds I set free when Alpha and I liberated The Nest. We brought them in, and with Nighthawk’s help, told them everything Javier was doing behind Rico’s back.
They were instantly in.
Birds train together. We move in sync like the chorus of a beautiful ballet, but we hardly ever go into the field together.
All our lives, we’re taught not to form attachments.
To always work alone.
To never trust anyone.
But now, everything we knew about our past lives was a lie, and the only thing we can trust is each other.
As I lead these strong, fierce women through the dead of night, moving like stealthy silk, a fire grows inside me that I haven’t felt for a long time.
Being with the club is my life now.
Being Alpha’s wife is my dream.
Being Poppy’s stepmother is what I’m supposed to do.
But this last chance at being a bird, and this, is giving me a purpose.
And I’m fucking thriving right now.
The remote estate sprawls beneath us like a fortress carved from the Hollywood Hills, its modernist architecture gleaming under the moonlight.
From our perch on the ridgeline, I count twelve separate buildings connected by covered walkways, each one strategically positioned to provide overlapping fields of fire.
Motion sensors sweep the perimeter in predictable patterns, while armed guards patrol with military precision.
This isn’t just Javier’s personal compound. It’s a fortress to keep him safe.
But there’s one thing Javier didn’t count on when training elite assassins.
If you piss off assassins, we know all his tricks.
So, we know exactly how to get into his compound. How it will be safeguarded and all the ways to break the protocols.
Because he used us to put them in place.
Now his birds are coming home to roost.
Nighthawk lies flat beside me, her breathing controlled and steady. The former bird’s transformation has been remarkable to witness. Where once she moved with the cold efficiency of a trained killer, now there’s something else, a purpose beyond mere survival.
“Movement, southeast corner…” she murmurs. “Two guards, both armed. Standard patrol pattern.”
Like wings slicing through silence, the elite team I’ve assembled trails me through the vegetation in perfect formation, sharp-eyed, deadly, and unseen.
Eight former birds, each one personally recruited.
Women who, like us, escaped the Nest’s programming and chose to forge their own paths.
Each with a skillset honed in darkness, now aimed at the light.
Tonight, they’ve returned not for redemption, but revenge.
Kestrel leads the breach team, small and sharp-eyed, a sniper in spirit and movement. She’s already gauging wind speed, terrain slope, and kill zones without a word.
Beside her, Egret waits with serene precision. She’s calm as a still lake, but when she strikes, it’s with lethal grace. Most of the time, you don’t see her coming. She’s our silent assassin.
Starling, our strategist, keeps low but alert, quietly directing field positioning with a glance or a signal. Every move she makes is part of a larger play already unfolding in her mind.
Grinning beneath black smudged paint, fingers the hilt of her blade like it’s a punchline she’s waiting to deliver, Magpie thrives on misdirection and mayhem. If chaos theory were a person, Magpie would be your girl.
Barn Owl doesn’t speak. She rarely does.
But she’s already disappeared once tonight and returned with schematics, two guard codes, and a broken nose that doesn’t belong to her, just dangling aimlessly from the tips of her fingers.
I have no clue whose nose it was, and I don’t care.
All I know is that she got what we needed, and she had fun doing it.
Even if she doesn’t smile, I know she loved every second of it.
Rosella, however, whispers something vulgar under her breath as she adjusts her comms. Vibrant, volatile, and absolutely unpredictable.
Her rage is the type that has always made her the kind of bird we send into missions that involve maximum carnage.
If you think ADHD teamed with the aggression of the Hulk, but in a tiny, petite version, you have Rosella.
Peacock checks her reflection in the blade of her knife because she can.
Dressed to distract, built to destroy, she’s the siren who turns heads before she slits throats.
She’s as stunning as she is lethal, but she always likes to make sure she looks good doing it.
I’ve never known any assassin whose hair remains pristine perfect while high-kicking.
I don’t know if it’s hairspray or simply impeccable genes.
And Kite, hovers at the rear with eyes sharp as lasers. Every angle, every shadow, every window accounted for. She’s lethal, but she sees everything way before everyone else. There’s twenty-twenty vision, and then there’s this freak. I often wonder if maybe she’s psychic.
They are not just soldiers. They are the ghosts of every war Javier thought he’d won.
“Birds of Prey…” I whisper. “We’re going hunting.”
My voice is so quiet, not even the wind dares carry it.
Nighthawk and I belly-crawl forward, using the natural cover of the hillside to mask our approach.
The compound’s security is impressive but not impenetrable.
Years of training in environments like this have taught me to find the gaps, the blind spots, the moments of human error that even the best systems can’t eliminate.
Plus, we were trained on systems like this.
Hell, we built them. It’s honestly a walk in the park.
“Guard change in thirty seconds,” Nighthawk whispers, her eyes never leaving her watch.
“Egret, Starling, be ready to move on my mark.”
The guards below us shift positions like clockwork, their professionalism evident in every movement. But professionalism also means predictability, and predictability means opportunity.
“Mark.”
We flow down the hillside smoothly, each movement calculated to avoid the sensor sweeps. The former birds move with a synchronization that speaks to shared trauma and shared purpose. We understand each other’s signals, each other’s methods, because we were all forged in the same fire.
The perimeter fence is ten feet of reinforced steel topped with razor wire, but Kestrel produces a set of wire cutters that slice through it like butter. Military grade, probably liberated from one of Javier’s own operations.
“Breach complete,” I whisper.
“Motion sensors coming online in fifteen seconds,” Nighthawk murmurs, her eyes flicking over the tablet’s readout with surgical focus. “Sweep pattern, Blue Jay. We’ve got a narrow window.”
We don’t run.
We vanish.
Each bird moves as if born from the earth itself, shadows melting into the terrain, every step placed with purpose, every breath timed to avoid detection. The sensor beams sweep through the night like silent sentinels, slicing lines of deadly light through the air.
One by one, we signal ‘all clear’ and regroup just beyond the main house.
That’s when I see them.
Through a ground-floor window, dimly lit and half-obscured by steel bars, a room unfolds like a nightmare.
Children, varying in ages, but no older than ten, sitting hunched in rows, eyes vacant, clad in gray uniforms. At the front, a woman in combat fatigues jabs a pointer at a whiteboard showing diagrams. Firearm anatomy, battlefield psychology, crowd control tactics.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, the words sandpaper in my throat.
Nighthawk inches beside me, catching the view. Her breath stutters. “Birds in training.”
A tight, sick twist coils in my gut. These kids aren’t students, they’re assets.
Just like we were.
Just like Poppy.
Another generation fed into the grinder.
“Additional mission,” I murmur into the comms, voice sharp as a blade. “Primary objective is child extraction. We need to get these girls out of here.”
Nighthawk hesitates, her eyes focusing on me. “If we shift motivation, Javier might escape.”
I meet her gaze, my voice firm. “Then we don’t let him.”
She nods, and behind us, the rest of the birds flicker into view, awaiting orders.
I lower to one knee to fill everyone in.
“Egret, Starling… take the children’s wing.
Priority is safe evac. Kestrel and Kite, secure our exit routes and provide cover fire.
Magpie, Peacock, and Barn Owl, you’re on internal disruption.
Rosella, you’re with me and Nighthawk. Javier won’t know what’s hit him. ”
“Copy,” they reply in unison, and the ground seems to shift with them as they flutter off.
The main house looms as if it’s a fortress carved from vanity and blood money. Floodlights scan the grounds in lazy arcs, and two guards circle the perimeter, rifles slung and eyes sharp.
Nighthawk signals left, I nod in understanding.
There are guards that need to be taken out for us to gain entry.
Quietly.
Kestrel is the first to strike.
She glides behind the first guard, slips her blade under his ribs, and lowers him silently to the ground. Magpie distracts the second with a soft whistle from the trees. He turns, and I’m on him, wrapping my arm around his throat, squeezing until he crumples. We catch the body before it falls.
“Clear,” Nighthawk whispers.
Taking off, we reach the side entrance, a reinforced steel door embedded in stone.