“We move in ninety minutes,” I announce.
Grayson uploads the building schematics Derek provided to our tactical displays. “Power grid override codes are working. We’ll have full control of their systems.”
“Once we’re inside,” I continue, “we maintain strict radio discipline. Jax will have signal jammers, so we’ll use mesh network comms. If you get separated, regroup at the extraction point.”
Penn approaches, voice lowered. “You know Jax won’t let them go without a fight. His reputation?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about his reputation,” I growl, sliding a serrated blade into my boot sheath. “Anyone standing between Aurora and me dies. Simple as that.”
Ari, arm in a sling from taking a bullet meant for me, looks grimly determined as he checks his gear one-handed. Blaze distributes specialized ammunition—hollow points modified for maximum tissue damage.
“This isn’t just a rescue,” I tell them, my voice ice cold as I address the room. “This is war. Jax made his choice when he took what’s mine.”
I slide the final magazine into place with a satisfying click.
“No prisoners. No mercy. We’re not coming back until they’re safe and Jax is dead.”
The van reeks of gun oil and adrenaline as we pull away from my building. Derek’s connections bought us a clear path—traffic diverted, police patrols redirected. Every second matters now.
I check my watch: 20:47. Thirteen minutes until the power surge creates our window.
“Timeline?” I demand.
“Satellite shows minimal external movement,” Blaze replies, eyes on his tablet. “Heat signatures still present in the lower level.”
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. Seven days. Seven fucking days she’s been in Jax’s hands. Seven days I’ve failed her.
The van hits a pothole, and weapons clatter against metal. No one speaks. They know better. The rage building inside me has nowhere to go but forward—into Jax’s men, into anyone standing between Aurora and me.
“Two minutes,” Penn announces as we approach the facility’s perimeter.
The abandoned psychiatric hospital looms ahead, a grotesque monument to suffering. I imagine Aurora in one of those cells, terrified, waiting, wondering if I’ll find her.
I will find her. I fucking will.
“Now,” Grayson says, triggering the power surge.
We move in perfect synchronization, breaching the maintenance tunnel entrance exactly as planned. The facility’s lower levels smell of mildew and disinfectant as we methodically clear corridors, eliminating three guards who never get the chance to radio for help.
We reach the secure area in the east wing. The door is partially open.
Wrong. Something’s wrong.
I signal the others to cover me as I move forward, gun raised. The room beyond is empty—clinical, sterile, recently occupied. A discarded water bottle, still wet. A blanket on the floor.
“Hunter,” Penn calls from the adjoining room. “You need to see this.”
On the wall, written in what looks like lipstick.
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, HUNTER.
My fist slams into the concrete wall. Blood sprays from my knuckles, but I feel nothing except the hollowness of failure and white-hot rage. We missed them by minutes. Fucking minutes.
“I’ll kill him,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I swear to god, I’ll tear him apart.”
The words on the wall blur as red washes over my vision. Jax is toying with me. Making this personal. A game where Aurora is the prize and I’m always one step behind.
14
