I kept my face neutral. “Anything I should know about? Does it affect sales?”
“Nothing that concerns you. At least, not for right now.” Oliver turned to greet another arriving buyer, dismissing me.
I moved back to the weapons crates, but my mind was racing. Bishop gone. Oliver too calm. The militia men around the warehouse seemed different too—on edge, but not the nervous energy of a high-stakes sale. More like anticipation. Like they were waiting for something to happen.
Every instinct I’d honed—eight years in Marine special ops, three more with Warrior Security—was screaming.
Movement at the warehouse entrance caught my eye. New buyers arriving—a man in an expensive suit flanked by two bodyguards, creating the usual commotion of greetings and security protocols.
But that wasn’t what had my attention.
Someone else was using the distraction. A figure slipping through in the shuffle of bodies, moving with the kind of deliberate invisibility that came from years of training. Not militia—wrong build, wrong posture. Not one of the buyers’ security teams either. This was someone who knew how to infiltrate a hostile space without being seen.
Nobody noticed him but me. My hand drifted toward my Glock. Whoever this was, they were good. Too good to be here by accident. This was someone dangerous.
Then he turned just enough for me to catch his profile.
Beckett.
Fuck. There were zero circumstances that would have Beckett skulking through that door right now that didn’t involve the shit hitting the fan.
This was supposed to be a simple op. In and out. Plant the trackers, get out, let the feds handle the rest later. There were a few agents the next town over waiting for my signal that the trackers had been successfully planted.
Beckett wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this warehouse. Which meant something had gone catastrophically wrong.
In an instant, every instinct I had was on high alert. Whatever the planhadbeen, it had just changed.
Our eyes met for half a second across the warehouse floor. Beckett’s hand moved—fingers spreading, then closing into a fist. Tapping twice against his thigh.
A signal we’d developed years ago. One that meant only one thing.
Extraction. Now.
I didn’t react. Kept my expression bored, my body language loose. The exact opposite of what was going on in my head.
I picked up a rifle and pretended to examine it. I let my gaze drift casually around the warehouse, trying to gather all the intel I could to figure out what was going on.
Hunter. Near the east exit, wearing coveralls and a trucker cap, looking like he belonged with the delivery crews. His position gave him a clear line to the main floor.
Aiden. Somehow he materialized among the militia guards near the north wall, his massive frame blending with the hired muscle. Close enough to act. Close enough to kill.
This wasn’t a check-in. This wasn’t backup arriving for a scheduled extraction.
This was a rescue.
I didn’t know what the team’s plan was. Didn’t know how they’d gotten here or what had gone so badly wrong to bring them. But I knew one thing for certain: you won a hundred percent of the firefights you didn’t have.
If I could walk out of here before Oliver made his move—whatever that move was—we all went home breathing. Lived to fight another day.
I set down the rifle I’d been examining. Stretched like a man who’d been standing too long. Started drifting toward the main entrance, casual as a smoke break.
“Going somewhere, Ryan?”
Oliver’s voice stopped me ten steps from the door.
Ryan. I turned. Given the fact that my whole team was here, the smugness on his face made sense now. The amusement. The way he’d been watching me all morning like a cat with a cornered mouse.
He knew.
