I watched Oliver’s face.
The smugness cracked. His head whipped around, tracking the falling bodies, trying to process what was happening. For one perfect second, Julian Oliver—the man who orchestrated everything, who always held every card—realized he was the one in the trap.
Then his expression twisted into fury, and he started retreating toward the back of the warehouse, his remaining men scrambling to provide cover.
All hell broke loose.
The Warrior Security team had already eliminated half of Oliver’s advantage, but there were still a shit-ton of armed people around. Everyone ran everywhere. Buyers dove for cover. Their security teams drew weapons. Shouts echoed off concrete walls.
I fired twice, but he was already behind a stack of crates. I started after him.
“Coop! Down!”
Beckett’s voice. I dropped as a burst of automatic fire shredded the air where my head had been from some of Oliver’s men in the opposite corner. I rolled behind a concrete pillar, came up shooting.
Oliver’s men opened up with live rounds. The team answered with rubber bullets—incapacitating, not killing. My Glock only had live ammo. I holstered it when I could, used my hands instead.
One of Oliver’s guys charged my position. I grabbed the barrel of his rifle, yanked him off balance, drove my elbow into his temple. He crumpled. Another came around a crate on my left. I sidestepped his swing, drove my fist into his throat, felt cartilage give. He went down choking.
Beckett appeared at my six, covering my flank. He shoved a secondary weapon into my hands—Glock with an extended mag. “Rubber rounds.”
“Oliver’s heading for the back.”
“We’ll deal with Oliver later. Right now, we fight our way out.”
He was right. The warehouse had turned into a kill box—Oliver’s men regrouping, buyers’ security teams drawing weapons, too many variables to track. Getting out alive came first.
We moved as a unit, the way we’d trained for years. Beckett covering high while I took low. Advancing through the chaos with muscle memory guiding every step.
I caught movement at my three o’clock. I pivoted before thinking, years of training taking over. Two of Oliver’s men coming around a stack of crates. I took out their knees—harder shots, but rubber rounds to center mass didn’t always stop a man hopped up on adrenaline.
But a shot to the knee fucking did; rubber bullets still hurt like hell. They dropped, screaming. Not dead. Not getting back up anytime soon either.
Aiden materialized beside us, breathing hard but steady. “Buyers are scattering. Their security teams are panicking—shooting at anything that moves.”
“Where’s Oliver?”
“Back exit. Moving fast.”
I broke into a sprint. Through the maze of crates and bodies and screaming men. A militia member stepped into my path, swinging a rifle butt at my head. I ducked under it, drove my fist into his solar plexus. He went down gasping. Another one grabbed my arm from behind. I spun, trapped his wrist, hyperextended his elbow until something snapped. His scream cut off when my knee found his face.
I reached the back exit, slammed through the door into harsh daylight.
An engine roared. Tires screamed against asphalt.
Oliver’s black SUV was already fifty yards away, accelerating down the access road.
“Fuck!”
My fist connected with the doorframe hard enough to split skin. Pain shot up my arm, but I barely felt it.
Gone. The bastard was gone.
A single federal SUV pulled into the lot—the handler team that had been staged nearby, monitoring from a distance. They’d been expecting a quiet check-in, not a warehouse full of bodies and bullet holes. They were already calling for backup.
The floor was chaos. Oliver’s men groaning on the ground, zip-tied with flex cuffs Aiden had produced. The B-list buyers fled, on foot, by vehicle, any way they could. Crates of weapons stood open, evidence nobody had planned to collect today.
I found Hunter near the east exit, his scarred hands checking his weapon with automatic precision. Beckett and Aiden flanked him.
