22. Henry
Henry
Locked and loaded.
Focused, calm.
One objective, one outcome…
I slow my heartrate and look around me. The pier stretches into the night like a jagged scar, its weathered planks bathed in the sickly yellow glow of sodium lamps.
The ocean’s a restless beast tonight, waves slamming against the pilings, their roar drowning out the distant hum of nearby bars and boardwalks.
I’m crouched behind a rusted shipping crate, my gun steady in my hands, the weight of it an old friend.
Cole’s to my left, his massive frame coiled like a panther, his suppressed rifle scanning the shadows.
Connor’s up high, perched on the warehouse roof, his sniper scope glinting faintly as he sweeps the approach.
The air’s thick with salt and tension, the kind that hums before a firefight. We’re ready to end this—Vince, his men, the cartel’s grip on Bodie’s life.
But my gut’s twisting, and it’s not just the op.
It’s him .
Bodie.
My Little One… out there in Shred, playing bait to draw that bastard into our trap.
I check my watch—22:47. The leak we spread through Cole’s contacts—bars, surf shops, shady docks—worked like a charm.
Word’s out that Bodie’s camping by the pier, alone, vulnerable.
Vince’s ego won’t let him sit this out. He’ll come, thinking he can snatch him, silence the boy before he spills his dirty secrets to the feds.
But he’s walking into a Night Ops ambush, and we don’t miss. Still, Cole’s intel from this afternoon burns in my mind: the cartel’s done with Vince’s screw-ups. They’ve sent muscle to clean the house, do what needs to be done, and Bodie’s the loose end they want tied.
If they’re here tonight, this isn’t just a takedown—it’s a war.
“Eyes on Shred,” Connor’s voice crackles through my earpiece, low and clipped. “He’s parked fifty meters out, driver’s side facing the pier. No movement yet. Over.”
I nod, though Connor can’t see it, my jaw tight. We’ve been in this position too many times before, our trust is grounded in something deeper than most men will ever comprehend. If Connor says it’s clear, it’s clear. No response required.
Bodie’s in position, his van a beacon under the pier’s lights, just as we planned. He’s supposed to show his face—briefly, from a distance—then peel out, straight to the safehouse.
Connor’s got Bodie in his crosshairs, Cole’s covering the approach, and I’m ready to move the second Vince shows.
But letting the boy be bait, even for a second, goes against every Daddy instinct screaming to lock him down, keep him safe. His words on the beach this morning echo in my head, his blue eyes fierce, trusting.
He’s brave, my Little One, but bravery doesn’t stop bullets.
“Stay sharp,” I mutter into the comms, my voice a low growl. “Vince won’t come alone. Cartel’s in play. I can sense it. This isn’t going to be an in and out job.”
“Copy,” Cole rumbles, shifting slightly, his rifle trained on the pier’s entrance. “Got movement—two vehicles, black SUVs, rolling slow. No plates.”
My pulse kicks up, senses sharpening. “Connor, confirm.”
“Visual on SUVs,” Connor says. “Four per vehicle, armed. Submachine guns, body armor. Pros. No sign of Vince.”
“Hold position,” I order, my mind racing…
Eight cartel heavies, and Vince’s still a wildcard. We’re outnumbered, but we’ve faced worse. The pier’s layout is our advantage—choke points, cover, Connor’s high ground. If we hit fast, we can thin their numbers before they spread out.
But Bodie’s out there, exposed, and every second he’s in Shred is a second too long…
The SUVs creep closer, their engines a low snarl as they pull into the lot, stopping thirty yards from Shred.
Doors open, and eight men spill out, moving with the precision of cartel enforcers who’ve done this dance before.
They fan out, weapons up, their silhouettes sharp against the pier’s lights. My eyes lock on a ninth figure stepping from the lead SUV—tall, lean, board shorts and a cocky swagger I’d know anywhere.
Vince .
That bastard’s here, and it’s personal now.
“Vince’s on deck,” I say, my voice cold steel. “Bodie, you’re up, Little One. Showtime. Quick in, quick out.”
“Got it, Daddy,” Bodie’s voice comes through, soft but laced with that surfer boy grit.
I hear Shred’s door creak open, and my chest tightens. Bodie steps out, his hoodie up, his small and athletic frame silhouetted against the van’s headlights. He lingers just long enough to be seen—five seconds, tops—then ducks back inside, the engine roaring to life.
“Good boy,” I murmur, relief flickering. “Now get the hell out of here.”
But Vince’s already moving, his head snapping toward Shred, his hand gesturing sharply.
Two cartel men break off, sprinting toward the van, their MP5s glinting. My blood runs cold. They’re too fast, too close. Bodie’s peeling out, tires screeching, but they’re gaining, and Vince’s barking orders, his voice carrying over the waves.
“Stop him!” Vince shouts, his tone venomous. “He doesn’t leave this pier!”
“Connor, take the runners,” I snap, already breaking cover, my boots pounding the gravel. This wasn’t the plan—Bodie was supposed to be gone before they got close—but I’ll be damned if they touch him. “Cole, cover me!”
“On it,” Connor says, and a suppressed thwip cuts the air. One goon drops, clutching his leg, his weapon clattering.
A second thwip , and the other stumbles, blood spraying from his shoulder.
Connor’s precision is surgical, but the other six are closing, their submachine guns spitting fire, rounds chewing into the crate where Cole’s hunkered.
“Moving!” Cole grunts, rolling to new cover, his rifle barking.
A cartel thug screams, hitting the ground, but the others scatter, using the pier’s pillars for cover. Bullets ricochet, sparking off metal, the air alive with chaos.
“Fresh cartel SUV incoming,” Connor says over the comms. “We ain’t close to being done with these sonsofbitches yet.”
I sprint toward Shred, my Glock up, firing controlled bursts. A cartel hitman pops from behind a piling, his MP5 trained on me, but I drop him with a double-tap to the chest before he can squeeze the trigger.
My heart’s hammering, not from fear but from the need to get to Bodie.
The boy’s weaving Shred through the lot, dodging crates, but Vince’s running now, cutting an angle to intercept, a pistol in his hand.
“Bodie, floor it!” I roar into the comms, my voice raw. “Don’t stop, no matter what!”
“I’m trying, Daddy!” Bodie cries, panic edging his words. Shred fishtails, clipping a barrel, but he keeps going, heading for the exit road. Vince’s too close, raising his pistol, and I see red. No way in hell he gets a shot off.
I change course, barreling straight for Vince, my shoulder slamming into him like a freight train. We hit the ground hard, gravel biting my skin, his pistol skittering across the pavement.
Vince snarls, swinging a fist, but I block it, driving my elbow into his jaw. Bone crunches, and he howls, but he’s a slippery bastard, scrambling back, reaching for a knife at his belt.
“You’re dead, Night Ops Asshole !” Vince spits, blood dripping from his mouth. “That’s right, I know all about you now. And the boy? He’s mine!”
“He’s mine,” I growl, lunging, but a burst of gunfire forces me to dive behind a crate.
Cartel men are closing, their rounds tearing through the air, pinning me down. Vince scrambles up, bolting for cover, and I curse, my eyes flicking to Shred…
Bodie’s almost clear, the van’s taillights fading as he hits the road, but two more cartel thugs are peeling off, piling into an SUV to give chase.
“Connor, cover the exit!” I bark, popping up to fire, dropping one of the goons with a headshot. “They’re going after him!”
“Got ‘em,” Connor says, his rifle cracking. The SUV’s windshield shatters, the driver slumping, but the vehicle swerves, crashing into a stack of crates. The second man bails out, firing wildly, and Cole’s rifle answers, silencing him.
“Shred’s clear,” Connor reports, and I exhale, relief cutting through the adrenaline.
Bodie’s out, heading for the safehouse, just like we planned. But the fight’s far from over...
Vince’s ducked behind a piling, shouting to his remaining men—all cartel pros, moving to flank us. We’re outnumbered, and they’re not backing down.
“Cole, tighten the net,” I order, reloading my Glock, my mind shifting to Guard mode. “Push ‘em toward the pier’s end. Connor, keep their heads down.”
“Copy,” Cole says, moving like a ghost, his rifle picking off targets with lethal precision.
Connor’s sniper fire keeps them pinned, their return shots wild, desperate.
I break cover, advancing, using the crates and shadows to close the distance. My training kicks in—years of ops, from desert raids to jungle extractions, every move muscle memory. I spot a cartel man trying to flank Cole, and my Glock bucks, dropping him before he can fire.
But Vince’s still out there, and he’s the prize.
I catch a glimpse of him, slipping toward the pier’s far end, where the shadows are thickest. He’s trying to run, but I’m not letting him escape. Not after what he’s done to Bodie, not after his threats to his Little side.
There can be no other way.
This ends tonight .
“Vince’s bolting,” I say into the comms, my voice steady despite the chaos. “I’m on him. Cole, hold the line.”
“Watch your six,” Cole warns, his rifle barking as another goon drops. “They’re not quitting.”
I move fast, weaving through the pier’s maze of crates and netting, my Glock up, eyes scanning. The cartel’s fire is relentless, rounds zipping past, splintering wood.
I dive behind a stack of barrels, catching my breath, my mind flashing to Bodie…
My darling boy’s face on the beach, his tears, his confession— I’m falling for you . My chest aches, my Daddy side roaring to protect him, to come back to him. He’s safe now, speeding toward the safe point we agreed, but I need to finish this to keep him that way.
A shadow moves—Vince, darting for a boat moored at the pier’s end.
I sprint, closing the gap, but a cartel goon steps into my path, his submachine gun blazing. I roll, rounds chewing the ground, and fire back, catching him in the shoulder.
Vince staggers, but another’s on me, his knife flashing. I block his wrist, twisting hard, bones snapping, and drive my knee into his gut. The thug crumples, but the delay’s enough—Vince’s almost at the boat.
“Connor, pin him! Do it! Now!” I shout, but a burst of gunfire from the remaining goons forces Connor to shift focus, his rifle covering Cole.
I’m on my own, and Vince’s slipping away.
I charge, ignoring the bullets, my focus razor-sharp. Vince’s climbing onto the boat, his knife in hand, his eyes wild with desperation.
I leap, tackling him onto the deck, the boat rocking under us. Vince slashes, the blade grazing my arm, blood welling, but I don’t feel it. I slam my fist into his face, once, twice, his head snapping back.
Vince’s tough, I’ll give him that.
But I’m a Night Ops Daddy, and this is what I do.
“You’re done, Vince,” I snarl, pinning him, my knee on his chest. “Bodie’s free.”
Vince laughs, bloodied and manic.
“You think this ends with me?” Vince screeches. “The cartel won’t stop. He’s dead, asshole.”
Rage flares inside me, but before I can answer, gunfire erupts behind me…
Cole’s voice crackles through the comms, strained.
“Henry, they’re rushing us! Two down, two left, but they’re heavy!”
I glance back, the pier a warzone, Cole pinned behind a crate, Connor’s rifle still firing. The remaining cartel goons are closing, their firepower overwhelming. Vince squirms, trying to break free, and I tighten my grip, my mind racing…
I could end him now, snap his neck, but that won’t stop the cartel. We need him alive, for the feds, for leverage.
I haul Vince up, dragging him toward cover, my Glock pressed to his spine.
“Move, or you’re dead,” I hiss, shoving him toward the crates.
Vince stumbles, cursing, but complies, his knife lost in the scuffle. We dive behind a stack of netting, bullets pinging off metal, the air thick with cordite.
“Cole, status!” I bark, keeping Vince down, my gun trained on him.
“Holding,” Cole grunts, his rifle answering the cartel’s fire. “Connor’s got one in his sights. We can take them, but it’s tight.”
“Copy,” I say, my eyes flicking to the pier’s end, where the boat bobs, tempting. If we can push the goons back, we can regroup, get Vince to the feds. But the odds are brutal, and every second feels like a lifetime.
In the brief lull, as Cole and Connor keep the goons pinned, my mind drifts to Bodie once more...
His van speeding through the night, his hands tight on Shred’s wheel, Poot and Billy on the seat beside him. I picture his face, his freckles, his defiant grin, and whisper a prayer to whatever god’s listening.
Please, let him be safe.
Let him make it to the safe point.
My Daddy heart aches, needing him to be okay, needing to hold him again, to tell him he’s mine, always.
Vince shifts, smirking despite the blood on his face.
“He’s not safe, you know,” Vince taunts. “The cartel’s got eyes everywhere.”
“Shut up,” I snap, pressing the Glock harder against him, but his words dig in, fueling the fire.
I won’t let Vince win.
Not now, not ever .
Gunfire erupts again, closer, the cartel goons advancing.
Cole’s rifle sings, Connor’s sniper shots echoing, but we’re still outnumbered, the pier a deadly chessboard.
I grip Vince, my resolve iron, ready to fight to the end—for Bodie, for us .
The showdown’s far from over, and the night’s about to get bloodier than anyone had ever imagined...