Walls of Built of Ice #2
“She’s not a liability,” Hunter growls, his voice low and dangerous. “She’s—”
“Enough!” James' voice cuts through the tension like a whip. “Don’t start again.”
We both turn to him, startled by the sheer force of his tone.
“I said no drama,” James snaps, his golden eyes flashing. “Do you want to solve this problem or beat each other to a pulp?”
Hunter glares at me one last time before stepping back, his shoulders tense. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Glad to hear it,” James says dryly. “You leave in an hour. Don’t screw it up.”
Hunter storms out of the room, and I follow at a more leisurely pace, my smirk firmly in place.
“You’re enjoying riling him up,” James says as I reach the door.
“No, I am standing up for our principles,” I correct him. “Don’t worry, James. We’ll handle it.”
“You better,” James mutters, reaching for another tissue.
Hunter goes out first, slamming the door behind him as if that will prevent us from going on the mission together.
I gather a couple of our members and hop into the SUV, heading for the docks.
“I’ll drive,” I announce before Hunter turns this into a fight as well.
The drive to the west docks is silent, except for everyone locking and loading their guns in the back.
Hunter is fuming. I can tell by the way his eyes are fixed on the road ahead as if staring hard enough will make me disappear.
Good. Let him stew.
The docks come into view, sprawling and dimly lit, the shadows from the towering shipping containers stretching like claws across the asphalt. This place always smells like salt and rust.
We park the car a good distance away, keeping it out of sight, and step out into the cold night air. Hunter pulls his gun from his holster, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
“Try not to do anything stupid just because you’re emotional right now,” I say, my voice low.
“Funny,” he mutters. “I was about to tell you the same thing.”
I smirk, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. If we blow this then James' neck will definitely be on the line.
We move through the maze of containers, sticking to the shadows, our footsteps muffled against the damp ground. The tension is thick, the kind that settles deep in your bones and makes every sound seem louder than it is.
Hunter signals for me to stop, his hand raised as he listens intently. Voices drift toward us—low, gruff, and unmistakably members of the Armadas.
We inch closer, peering around the corner of a container. Three men stand near a stack of crates, their guns slung casually over their shoulders. They’re relaxed, too much so, as if they think they own the place.
“They’re guarding the shipment,” Hunter whispers.
“Let’s take them out quietly,” I reply, pulling my knife from its sheath.
Hunter nods and we move in tandem, years of practice making our steps fluid and soundless. I circle the left while Hunter takes the right, the dim light casting shadows across the ground.
The first man doesn’t even see me coming. I grab him from behind, my arm locking around his throat as I drag him into the darkness. He struggles, but I finish him off with a single slash to the neck.
Hunter takes down the second with a single, brutal strike, the man crumpling to the ground without a sound.
The third turns, his eyes widening in surprise, but I’m on him before he can raise his weapon. My knife finds its mark across his jugular, and he drops, his gun clattering to the ground.
We stand there for a moment, catching our breath, the silence around us deafening.
“Shipment’s clear,” Hunter says, his voice low.
“Good,” I reply, wiping the blade of my knife on my sleeve. “Let’s finish this and get out of here.”
We spend the next hour securing the shipment, making sure everything is accounted for. The Armadas won’t be happy when they realize we’ve hit back, but that’s their problem, not ours.
By the time we’re done, the sky has turned dark and it is nighttime already.
Hunter drives us back to the mansion, the tension between us simmering but unspoken. Neither of us has the energy to argue.
The mansion is quiet when we return, the halls dimly lit and empty. Most of the men are either asleep or out on other assignments, leaving the place feeling still.
I head to my room, peeling off my jacket and tossing it onto the chair. My knuckles ache from earlier, and I flex my fingers.
I’m about to sit down when I hear it—a soft sound, faint but distinct.
Curious, I step into the hallway, following the noise until I reach Lina’s room upstairs. I hesitate for a moment before pushing the door open just enough to see inside.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The soft glow of the bedside lamp highlights her chocolate hair and dewy skin, and when she sighs, it’s heavy, like she’s carrying the weight of the world.
There’s a sadness in her voice when she mutters something to herself, too quiet for me to make out.
What a drag.
I step back, closing the door as quietly as I can. I don’t want her to know I was there.
As I head back to my room, I force myself to shake off the lingering feeling. She’s not my problem.
Don’t get attached, Callum.
But the words feel empty, even as I repeat them in my head.