27. Cupid
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CUPID
Never would I have guessed my evening would have ended with me sitting in one of the Mercy Ravens MC tactical trucks in the dark a few pole buildings away from the location Artem told us Kirill uses as a holding area for the women they abduct until they’re transported elsewhere.
Yet, here I am with Oaks sitting beside me as we watch the Raven’s ranger—Triple—on a tablet showing his bodycam footage as he creeps toward the location without making a sound.
The cam footage shows a handful of men standing outside the building, smoking and talking to each other in Russian.
Triple’s voice comes through the comms. “Three men outside the front and four more guarding the perimeter of the building. Over.”
“Roger that,” Atlas’s voice comes next. “Any signs of Kirill or Mikhail? Over.”
“Negative. But they may be inside. Over.”
Fucking figures they wouldn’t show their faces out in the open. They haven’t avoided capture this long by being stupid.
“Artem said Kirill prefers staying in his van unless dealing with transportation,” I say into the speaker attached to my headphones, reminding the group. “The van may be inside the pole building.”
“Thermal is picking up multiple heat signatures inside the building,” Chase says from the front seat, where he is typing on his laptop. “Some are smaller. Over.”
My eyes dart to Chase. “Women? Children?”
“Possibly.”
Oaks leans back in his seat with a shaky sigh, his fingers lacing behind his head. “Damn. Here I was excited about taking out some trafficking scum with some serious arsenal. But now it’s a rescue operation where kids could get hurt—I don’t like this.”
The Mercy Ravens biker with the shaved, tatted head—Punk, if I remember correctly—sitting in the back of the tactical van loads his gun, unbothered. “No worries. We’re trained for this shit. If there are captives inside, they’ll be fine. The rest will die tonight.”
It’s hard to take the guy seriously after hearing him sing Madonna karaoke at my bar. Yet, looking at him preparing to overthrow a trafficking ring as he robotically handles military-grade weapons and his icy blue eyes devoid of emotion, I can see how dangerous he is.
Triple’s voice comes back over the comms. “Do I move forward to investigate? Over.”
“No. If there are captives inside, we can’t risk you getting exposed,” Atlas says through the comms. “Stay where you are until I give the order. Over.”
“Roger that.”
A voice I don’t recognize comes over the comms. “Road tack strips are laid out at all exits of the industrial park. No vehicles are coming in or going out. Over.”
“Roger that. Cupid, is half your crew at the north exit of the industrial park? Over.”
“Yes,” I answer Atlas. “And the other half in at the South exit with me.”
“Roger that,” Atlas says before giving orders to his team. “I want the perimeter surrounded. Punk and Chase, take the west side of the building. Flay, join Triple in the front. Reaper and Brass, take the east side. Gauge and I will take the back. We move in as a unit on my signal. Over.”
Punk and Chase exit the tactical van soundlessly, disappearing into the shadows.
Multiple bodycams connect to the laptop we’re watching as the team takes position.
“Move in.”
The air in my lungs stalls while I watch the former Navy SEALs move in with weapons raised. Seconds later a shot is fired, followed by more in quick succession. The guards outside the building drop like flies, never having time to reach for their weapons.
The gunfire intensifies as the team enters the building, followed by men yelling in Russian and screams of panic filling the evening air. Multiple people run in front of the bodycams, some of whom are clearly not guards.
“Goddamnit,” Oaks mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “If there are kids inside…”
…they must be terrified.
A woman’s cry for help outside has me tearing my eyes away from the camera. Through the front windshield, a slight woman comes sprinting down the road toward us with a small child in her arms. A man who is not from the team chases after her and is hot on her heels.
Jumping out of the van, I grab my Glock from the waistband of my jeans, pointing it at the man in pursuit.
The woman freezes when she sees my gun, her eyes filled with horror as she clutches the child closer to her chest.
With the frightened woman no longer at risk of running into my shot, I pull the trigger, hitting the guard in the chest. The woman screams, ducking to the ground with the crying child. The guard stumbles back on the gravel road, clutching at his abdomen and hollering in pain.
A gut shot. Good. I hope it hurts like a sonofabitch.
With the man still armed, I rush forward, kicking his weapon clear of his grasp. It skitters across the gravel, no longer a threat.
The guard grits his teeth, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are clenched shut in pain, but spring open when he hears me approach. His eyes grow rounder, staring at me like I’m Death himself.
Behind me, I can hear Oaks trying to calm the frightened woman and child, telling them they are safe. He’s taking care of them, allowing me to handle the sick fuck in front of me.
“Ты за это заплатишь,” the dying man seethes, his body and voice rattling in agony.
“I may not speak Russian, but that didn’t sound too nice.” Pulling the trigger, I shoot him between the eyes, ignoring the blood splatter along my face and front.
The sounds of gunfire are dying off at the pole building, the mission wrapping up.
Looking over my shoulder, I spot Oaks helping the woman and child to their feet. The child continues to cry, and the woman is sobbing with what I assume is relief.
“You good?” I ask my VP.
“Sorta,” Oaks says, sounding overwhelmed. Concern lines his face. “I think they’re fine. But I can’t say for certain. She speaks only Spanish.”
Not surprised. At our first meeting at Whiskey Wheelers, Atlas mentioned traffickers often targeted immigrant communities.
“Get them in the van. Keep talking gently to them.”
“Got it, Prez.”
The walk toward the pole building is nerve-wracking. In case anyone tries to make a run for it, I keep my gun at the ready. I hear Atlas inside giving orders to his men and groans of pain.
Inside, a group of three women and one young man cluster together with two more children. All of them are crying and speaking Spanish rapidly to Atlas.
“Estás a salvo. Nadie va a ir a ningún lado. Vamos a sacarte de aquí y llevarte a casa antes de que lleguen los federales,” Atlas says before having two of his men move the group to a tactical van outside.
“Two abductees are in our van,” I say, approaching Atlas. “The guard chasing them is dead.”
“I’ll go get them. Their family will want to see they’re okay,” Gauge says to Atlas before heading out of the building.
I raise an eyebrow. “Family?”
“The captives were all taken from the same household,” Atlas explains. “The traffickers targeted them, probably knowing they were illegal and using it to their advantage. We’re moving them.”
Christ. A whole family traumatized. The world is cruel.
“Where are you taking them?”
“After everything they went through, my medic will look them over in the safety of their home. Once we know they’re not in need of more invasive medical assistance, we’ll help them find a secure place to recover.”
“Wait. I thought you worked with the Feds. Don’t they need to question them?”
Atlas pauses with a glower on his face, as if my question has struck a nerve and he needs a moment to collect himself.
“Yes, we alert the Feds after completing a mission. However, my crew helps victims, and we’re not about to let them be victimized another way by the legal system.
As the product of immigrant parents, it would be pretty fucking hypocritical of me to turn over victims who are immigrants to the authorities, legal or not. ”
For a hardened biker, Atlas has an empathetic soul.
Giving him a friendly slap on the back, I say, “Mad respect for you, Atlas. You’re a good man.”
He brushes off my compliment. “Don’t hit on me. My wife will get jealous.”
I snort out a laugh. “Asshole.”
We’re chuckling when Punk approaches, looking more relaxed with the mission over. “Status update: All team members safe and accounted for. Cupid’s crew members at the North and South exit points of the industrial park reported no incidents. No one got through.”
“What about the guards? Are any of them Kirill or Mikhail? What about that Riley chick? Was she inside?”
He shakes his shaved head. “Negative. No sign of the van used in the abductions either. My guess is they were nowhere near here when shit went down. For all we know, they could be hunting for their next victim.”
“Fuck.” Frustrated, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“We’ll clean the area after the Feds are done and keep our scouts here on-site. If Kirill or Mikhail returns, we’ll be alerted.”
Considering the two men who have been recruited to abduct my woman are still at large, I’m not okay with waiting around for them to turn up.
Remembering there are others we can interrogate, I ask, “What about the guards? Are any of them alive for questioning?”
Again, Punk shakes his head. “We had one. But he bled out.”
Double fuck.