I've killed before.
Many times, in many places, for reasons both justified and questionable.
But I've never wanted to kill anyone as badly as I want to kill Solveig.
Not for money, not for duty, not for the Brotherhood.
For love.
For the woman who carries my child.
For the future this monster is threatening to destroy.
"Teams in position," Runes says through the radio, his voice tight with controlled fury.
Confirmations crackle back.
Twenty men, spread out around the property, ready to rain hell down on anyone who stands between us and Dalla.
I scan the farmhouse one more time.
Two stories. Multiple entry points. The intel says four guards plus Solveig.
Could be more. Could be traps. Could be anything.
Doesn't matter. I'm going through that door, and nothing short of death is going to stop me.
"On my mark," Runes says.
I check my rifle one last time. Safety off. Round chambered. Finger resting beside the trigger, not on it. Not yet.
"Three. Two. One. Go."
We move.
The front door splinters under the battering ram, wood and metal exploding inward.
I'm through the gap before the debris settles, rifle up, scanning for threats.
The entry hall is dim, wallpapered in some faded floral pattern, a coatrack by the door holding jackets that haven't been worn in years.
The smell hits me—dust and mildew and something metallic underneath.
Blood.
Movement to my left.
A guard, stepping out from behind a doorframe, bringing his weapon around.
Time slows. I see his finger tightening on the trigger, see his eyes widen as he realizes he's too slow.
I put two rounds in his chest before he can fire, and he drops like a puppet with cut strings.
The shots echo through the house, announcing our presence to everyone inside.
So much for stealth. Now it's time for action.
Behind me, club members pour through the breach, spreading out to clear the rooms.
