Bayou signals me toward another room.
This one turns my blood to acid.
Needles. Restraints bolted into the floor. Screens mounted along the walls loop the same propaganda on repeat, images and words designed to grind resistance into dust. A Cartel soldier stalks between the women with a cattle prod, barking orders, jolting anyone who hesitates.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. I don’t need to look at my brothers to know they feel it too. I see it in their posture, in the way their hands tighten on their weapons.
This place isn’t just a nightmare.
It’s a factory.
The Cartel didn’t build a safe house to stash captives. They built a machine, a system, something designed to chew through women and spit out weapons for the Nest.
And we are here to smash every fucking gear.
I don’t waste another heartbeat.
I give the signal.
We surge forward as one, boots hammering cracked concrete in synchronized fury. I take point, charging the far door. The metal screams when my boot hits it, rust and dust exploding outward as it caves in with a thunderous clang.
Fluorescent light floods the room.
A guard spins, eyes wide, panic already winning as his hand scrabbles for the pistol at his hip.
But he is too late.
My Glock is up. Two shots punch through his chest. His body jerks, slamming back into the wall, then slides down it slowly, painting the concrete red.
I sweep the room, my weapon high.
No more threats.
Just women.
Battered and cowering, pressed against the walls like they’re trying to melt into them. Arms wrapped around themselves, trembling. Those hollow eyes hit me square in the chest, and something in me fractures.
I lower my weapon carefully, raising my hands so they see I’m not a threat. My voice stays steady, even though it takes effort. “We’re here to help,” I tell them. “You’re safe now. We’re gonna get you outta here.”
A woman near the center whimpers, rocking with her knees pulled tight to her chest. Another stares straight through me like I’m a hallucination. One flinches at a boot shifting behind me and lets out a raw, feral scream, launching herself forward.
Her fists slam into my chest.
I don’t stop her.
I let her hit me. She needs this outlet. Every punch is rage, terror, survival clawing its way out.
After a few seconds, her strength gives out, and she folds, sobs ripping from her throat like they’ve been trapped there for years.
I catch her before she hits the floor, crouching with her, holding her steady.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, anchoring her, keeping my voice low and real. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Behind me, Bayou and Raid move carefully, clearing corners, stepping around the women like they’re made of glass. Oneretches at the sight of the dead guard. Another woman starts praying in rapid-fire Spanish, fingers shaking as they trace an invisible rosary.
These women were trained to survive.
Not to hope.
