Chapter 14 Luka
LUKA
The house feels too quiet, even with a dozen men on the grounds and cameras covering every angle. A quiet that crawls under my skin and claws for a way out.
I sit at my office desk with the monitors lit in front of me, a grid of pulsing images.
Front gate. Drive. Perimeter fence. Interior halls.
Guest wing, where Sage is supposed to be resting.
She is not on any of the feeds, which means she is either in her room with the curtains closed or in one of the blind spots she has already figured out.
Vega lies at my feet, his broad head on his paws. His ears twitch whenever a car passes on the road outside, but he does not lift his head. He feels it too, this pressure in the air. Waiting has a taste, metallic on the tongue, like pennies or old blood.
I drag in a breath and rub the heel of my hand along my jaw.
On one of the feeds, Sage appears at the end of a hallway, just a glimpse of her profile as she crosses from one wing to another.
She moves like she’s bracing against something unseen.
Her arms are wrapped around her middle, her head bent.
Vega’s ears prick, as if he can sense her from all the way down here.
I reach for the keyboard, thinking about pulling up her wing cameras closer, when the office door opens without a knock. Misha steps in fast, his expression taut, phone in his hand. “We have something,” he reports, his accent roughened by the pace of his breathing. “A hit on the number we flagged.”
I push back from the desk so hard the chair rolls into the credenza behind me. “Ray.”
“Unless he handed his phone to someone else for fun.” Misha crosses the room and drops a printed map on the desk, then taps his phone.
One of the screens on the wall changes to a satellite image, all gray and muted green.
“The last ping came from the industrial docks on the south side. This warehouse here. It fits with the traffic we tracked earlier. Two vehicles tied to his associates appeared in the area within the last hour.”
Energy spikes through me, cold and fast. “You are certain?”
“As certain as I am that you will ignore me if I try to talk you out of going,” he answers.
Vega rises from the floor in one smooth motion, his body tense and eyes fixed on me.
I move around the desk, already reaching for the weapons cabinet along the wall. “Get Kolya and Albert. I want two more men from the second rotation and the van ready in five minutes. If Ray is there, I want him boxed in before he realizes how close we are.”
Misha nods once and heads back toward the door. “On it, pakhan.”
“And Misha,” I call after him.
He pauses, one hand on the handle, his gaze lifting to mine.
“We take him alive,” I instruct. “If the chance exists.”
His mouth twists. “I will remind you of that when he starts talking about Hope like she is a bargaining chip.”
That image pours into my gut like ink spreading through clear water, darkening everything it touches. I grip the cabinet handle with unnecessary force and drag it open. “I do not need reminding.”
He dips his head and disappears into the hall.
Vega presses against my leg, warm and solid. I rest my hand briefly on his neck, my fingers sinking into his thick fur, then pull my focus to the work in front of me. Vest. Holster. Extra magazines. Knife. Radio. I move through the motions with seasoned speed, every strap and buckle familiar.
When I step out into the main hall, the house hums with movement.
Men I trained fall into place as if drawn by a magnet.
Kolya leans against a column near the front doors, his rifle in a soft case slung over his shoulder.
Albert is beside him with a compact shotgun in his hand.
A pair of guards from the second rotation joins them, their faces set in the hard lines of men who know what kind of night this will be.
Misha meets me by the door, wearing a headset and a small device already clipped to his vest. “Comms are up,” he notes as he passes the earpiece. “Channel three. I brought backups.”
I hook the piece to my ear and test the mic with a low, clipped word. The men around me nod as they hear my voice in their own earpieces.
“Where is Sage?” I ask quietly, almost despite myself.
“Guest wing, last I checked,” Misha replies. “Do you want to tell her where you are going?”
“No,” I answer. “Not until I have something real to give her. She deserves more than maybes.”
Misha studies me for a moment, his eyes searching, then gives a short nod. “Fine. Then let us bring her something more than maybes.”
We step out into the cold night. The air has a damp bite to it, and the clouds are hanging low over the city, muting the stars.
The convoy waits at the base of the front steps.
Two SUVs and the modified van, their engines rumbling softly, and their headlights off.
Vega moves ahead of me, jumping easily into the back of the lead vehicle when I open the door.
As I climb in after him, I glance back at the house. A single light glows in the guest wing on the second floor. My chest pulls tight, but I force my eyes away and tap on the seat twice. The driver recognizes the signal, and we roll out through the gates.
The ride to the south side takes twenty minutes, but it feels longer.
Seattle at night is a mix of reflections and shadow, streetlights washed across wet pavement, and neon signs bleeding color onto sidewalks.
In the backseat, Vega leans against my thigh, his body warm and breath slow.
I rest my hand on his shoulder and let my fingers move through his fur, grounding myself in the familiar feel of him.
Misha sits across from us, his tablet balanced on his knee. “Ray’s phone has not moved since the last ping,” he reports. “Either he turned it off or he likes this warehouse very much.”
“Any cameras in the area?” I ask.
“City traffic cams two blocks over. Private ones on nearby buildings. We hacked what we could. We saw two men who match the build of his known associates enter the warehouse. No one has left since.”
Good. Trapped rats are easier to catch.
Kolya shifts next to Misha, adjusting the strap on his rifle. “We go quiet or loud?” he asks.
“We go quiet until they give us a reason for loud,” I answer. “We surround, cut off exits, and corner Ray. If they start shooting first, we finish it.”
No one argues.
We leave the main streets for narrower roads choked with old warehouses and forgotten lots. The city feels different here, the buildings crouched closer together, windows dark, graffiti spreading over brick and corrugated metal. The smell of salt and oil creeps in through the car vents.
“Two more blocks,” the driver announces.
I straighten and peer through the windshield.
Ahead, the hulking silhouette of the target warehouse rises near the water, a long rectangle of shadow against the faint glow of the docks.
A chain-link fence surrounds the lot, broken in places with sections bent inward where trucks have cut corners for years.
“Lights?” I ask.
“Minimal,” Misha answers, checking the tablet. “Security is a joke. One camera on the front door that might not even work.”
“Perfect,” I mutter. “We use the fence break on the east side. Park two streets back and go in on foot. I do not want them hearing engines.”
The driver nods. He kills the headlights and eases the SUV onto a side street. The other vehicles mirror the move. Engines cut one by one, leaving us in thick silence broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the faint rush of the nearby highway.
We spill out into the night. The cold bites into my cheeks and nose. I inhale it and let it sharpen my focus. Vega jumps down at my side, landing without a sound, his muscles taut, and nose lifted as he tests the air. His lips peel back just enough to show teeth.
“Smell something?” I murmur, my fingers curling briefly into the fur behind his ears.
He gives a low rumble in his chest, then fixes his gaze toward the direction of the warehouse, as if answering.
We move quickly. The team spreads out, dark shapes threading through darker alleys.
Boots crunch lightly on gravel and broken glass.
The fence looms up ahead, the gap in the east section just where Misha’s satellite image promised.
Someone had peeled the chain link back long ago, leaving a ragged opening big enough for a man to step through.
Kolya goes first, slipping inside and scanning the lot with his rifle raised, the scope glinting faintly as it reflects a distant light. He lifts two fingers, signaling clear. One by one, we follow.
The ground inside is a mix of cracked asphalt and puddles that mirror slices of the warehouse walls.
Rusted shipping containers sit haphazardly near the perimeter, stacked two high in some spots, left single and forgotten in others.
A loading dock runs along the front of the warehouse, a crumbling concrete lip stained with oil and old tire marks.
Vega stays tight to my leg until I signal him forward. He slips ahead, built for this, clearing corners and checking shadows, pausing once near a stack of pallets when something draws his attention.
Misha comes up behind me, his voice low against the whisper of the wind. “Two heat signatures inside, maybe three,” he reports, checking a small handheld device. “Near the back corner. If Ray is here, he is not alone.”
“Good.” My voice comes out quiet and rough. “Let him watch what happens when you touch what belongs to me.”
We approach the loading dock steps. Vega halts, his muscles tight and ears forward. He stares at the closed metal door, then gives a short, low growl that rolls through the quiet lot.
Kolya moves toward the service entrance on the side, while Albert and the others fan out to cover windows and potential exits. Misha peels off to circle to the rear, his gun drawn, his movements tight and quick.