60. Cam
She’s perfect—curled into the shape I folded her into, panting, flushed, and trembling. Her body’s still clenched around me, twitching with aftershocks, waiting for the stretch to ease as I pull free.
There was no fear in her eyes.
She wanted it.
I showed her the bit—offered control laced with restraint—and she opened for me without hesitation. Whether she’s familiar with this kind of intensity, or simply trusts me with everything… I’m praying it’s the latter.
I needed her this way—and she knew it.
Knew it without a single word exchanged.
I reach for the towel I laid out before, the one I’d placed with intent, and press it gently against her ass as I ease out. She winces sweetly, body too raw to resist the touch, then watches me pad to the bathroom for a rinse.
She trails behind me a moment later, towel held close like a shield—yet her arm still slides around me, fingers clinging like she doesn’t want even this distance between us.
“How was that?”
I ask softly, catching her reflection as she peeks around me in the mirror—cheeks glowing with that irresistible shade of post-orgasm pink.
“Perfect,”
she breathes, snaking her grip tighter across my waist.
I kiss her temple, let the weight of her body fold against mine.
“Good. Because that was just the beginning. You’ve got a lifetime of it coming.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.”
This woman is something else entirely.
Game time.
Not having Nell by my side tightens something in my chest, but she’s where she needs to be—deep in the belly of this hellhole, feigning sedation, quietly rallying the other girls.
She’s not just surviving anymore. She’s building something real.
For years, I worked in the shadows. Always a ghost. I stayed on the outside, watching, gathering scraps of information, and taking down threats one at a time.
But this time is different. I’m on the inside now. I’ve stepped into the heart of the enemy’s world, wearing their mask, speaking their language.
This isn’t just surveillance.
It’s infiltration.
We will wait until the room is full—every player in place. Then I’ll slip out, lock the doors, and the real mission begins. Talia and the team will hit the perimeter. I’ll take it apart from the inside—clean, precise, ruthless.
I could have done this months ago.
But back then, I didn’t have Nell.
I was just circling the chaos—observing, reacting, always one step removed.
Now? I’m the fuse inside the powder keg.
And tonight, everything goes up.
“Decided to ditch that feisty one already?”
one of the familiar faces jests, clapping my back like we’re lifelong mates.
I take a slow sip, hyperaware of the chatter weaving through the room—every conversation filed and clocked.
“Too right,”
I reply, letting the smirk settle while burying the grit in my voice.
“Time to upgrade to a newer model.”
He laughs, clueless. I’ll savour watching that laugh choke into silence later.
Another man joins us, glass drained like water, posture rigid and eyes hard.
“Evening, lads. Some prime lots on offer tonight.”
My fingers curl tight inside my pocket, knuckles pale and trembling beneath the fabric.
He’s next. I bet he shrieks when the knife meets bone.
“Got your eye on anything special?”
Their words hang like meat in a butcher’s window. Absolute vultures.
“Lot forty looks promising. Just need to beat the Broker to it. Heard he’s sending someone to represent tonight.”
Would’ve been satisfying to strike him off tonight’s list, but I doubt he’d grace this cesspit with his actual presence. That piece of the plan will wait.
They call us forward, and I release a sharp breath—like clearing carbon from a rifle barrel. The crowd funnels into the chamber, all eyes pulled toward the circular stage like moths to a kill zone.
We file into position, seats hugging the perimeter. Remotes in hand—not weapons, but close enough.
Talia lets the first bids roll—all part of the plan. We wait, silent. Tactical patience. I’ve got five minutes to slip out and gear up.
The first girl stumbles onto the stage, eyes glassy, ribs threatening to puncture her skin. But there’s no guilt tonight—only the burn of righteous fury. She’s getting out. They all are.
The bidding begins. I slip from my seat, heading for the corridor marked ‘Toilets’—the designated extraction route.
The guard posted there doesn’t speak, just gives a crisp nod, completely unaware that he’s just signed his own death sentence. He opens the door, and we’re in the green.
I cough—the signal. The black duffel breaches through the window, exactly on schedule.
Within minutes I’m kitted; sidearm holstered, vest secure, earpiece active. Guns racked. Mind locked.
Talia’s steady voice crackles in my left ear.
“Nice of you to join us.”
I answer low, clipped.
“Hope you bastards are locked in. Everyone green on orders?”
“They’re tight. Bravo’s shadowing your flank. Charlie’s posted for breach support. Team’s running on your orders Alpha.”
I trust her with my six. She served under me back in command, Lieutenant General. Would’ve taken fire without hesitation. Has, multiple times.
“Operational go,”
I say.
“Mobilise. Rendezvous at breach point. Let’s clean this place out.”
Suppressor locked in place, I move with precision—light on my boots, cheek welded to the stock of my rifle, my good eye aligned through the optic. My Glock rides snug in the thigh holster, backup if things turn messy.
Intel pegged twenty personnel on site. Ten guarding the auction floor and girls. The rest are staged by the entrance, prepping transport for the aftermath—assuming there is one.
I round the corner and fire without hesitation—two controlled bursts. The suppressed pops barely register, quiet enough to keep the chaos contained.
They crumple fast. No warning, no last words. Blood pools in lazy circles beneath them, but I don’t break stride. Eyes forward. Route locked.
Talia and the team are closing in from the alternate entry. I check my watch—synced perfectly. She should’ve killed the CCTV feeds just before I stepped out.
I push the door open a fraction and scan the opposite end of the foyer. The main entrance creaks, just enough to give me warning that my team are waiting.
Then it detonates.
Our squad floods the room. I lock down the exit, bottling them in. Some reach for sidearms but they’re too slow. My team runs hot and tight, trained on contact drills and stacked body counts.
Within minutes, the floor’s a canvas of silence—bodies in black sprawled, their weapons unspent.
“All clear,”
crackles through my comms—two voices, calm.
We reload. Magazines racked, chambers cycled. No hesitation. Formation tight, purpose colder than steel.
We move as one, sweeping through the hall toward the final breach.
“Four at three,”
a voice snaps through the comms, and me and Talia react without hesitation—double-tap each target before their hands even brush steel.
We reach the viewing chamber and split formation. Half peel off with Talia to breach the secondary entry. The rest of us drop into a crouch, rifles raised, waiting on her mark.
“Team Bravo ready,”
she transmits.
“Let’s put these bastards down,”
I reply, low and cold.
One teammate swings the door open and we sweep in like a current, covering flanks, eyes locked, weapons live—firing at will into a nest of corruption.
Chaos detonates. They stampede like animals scrambling over each other in blind panic, torn between flight and fight.
I prioritise the guards. Gunfire snaps through the chamber, ricocheting off marble and bone. Light flashes white-hot and the smoke thickens fast. A round grazes my arm, but I don’t blink. I re-centre on the runner who slipped past and land a round dead between his eyes. His skull paints the stage—a macabre arc beside the frozen silhouette of a girl too terrified to cry.
Then I spot the two I’ve been waiting for.
The men are scattering like rats, eyes wild, hands fumbling for cover or weapons—salvation always one step out of reach. But I see them first. Mark, breathe, fire. Two rounds in half a second. Clean kills.
Would’ve preferred to make them bleed slower, but tonight’s about precision, not pleasure.
“Targets eliminated,”
Talia confirms, her voice steady in my ear.
I rise from cover, rifle still raised, sweeping once more to confirm there’s no movement. All threats neutralised.
“All clear, team. Moving.”
We push toward the hallway where the girls are held—the next stage of the op. I need to know if Nell held up her end.
The black balaclava chokes with heat, breath fogging the fabric, sweat clinging beneath the helmet. But it’s familiar. This gear’s not just uniform—it’s history. Twisted threads of our military past reforged into something more brutal, more righteous. I’ve worn it long enough it feels like skin.
The guards must’ve heard the chaos—when we breach the doors, they’re already positioned, pressed tight to the walls, invisible until it’s too late.
Gunfire erupts, sharp and immediate. We take cover behind concrete and steel, plaster raining down in powder bursts. We wait—count their shots—until they hit the reload window. Then we move.
Bullets tear through the corridor. Bodies follow. We push forward, inch by inch, leapfrogging from one column of wall to the next. One of my men goes down to a rogue gun shot. He’s breathing, so we stay on protocol. No breaks. No detours.
I sight the shooter.
Breath. Aim. Fire.
A clean headshot drops him flat, but before I can relax I swing to the next—dropping him before his rifle clears the corner.
Minutes pass like seconds. Now it’s quiet. The building is purged, bodies strewn in broken poses, smoke lingering in the air.
Only the girls remain—tucked behind a reinforced metal door. I see the craters and warps on its surface, dents pressed deep by stray rounds. Had it not been sealed tight, there would be casualties stacked on the other side too.
But my girl’s safe, and now, so are the others.