I take great pleasure in reminding her about whose name she wears when her little ass smiles one too many times in his direction. Last night left us both wrung out and exhausted. She still has to learn she shouldn’t bait the beast.
Dreamy-eyed and sleep-deprived, she clung to me this morning before we headed out. That was the only thing that kept me from tearing into that gray-eyed menace.
“Is everyone in place?” I ask, though I can see the last team led by Bahir Carrington getting into formation at their mark insertion point.
When the infiltration of the building begins, it all goes smoothly with each team taking down the guards at their designated insertion points with stealth. Moving the bodies out of the way so as not to interfere with extracting the kids.
Then the flash-bangs start. Paramilitary corps flood in as if forewarned or trained just to always be ready. There are more than fifty once reinforcements are called.
We get hemmed in on one side for a few short critical minutes. By the time teams two and three make it to the sub-basements where we think kids are being held, the rooms are already evacuated.
Floor by floor, we search, coming up empty. Then Oz finds the false wall made of reinforced concrete and lead, which makes it undetectable to infrared scans.
“Now we know how they hid and took the kids out,” he says over the comm, showing us the long dark tunnel leading out of the facility.
Before we can say stop, and not heeding my command to wait for us, he charges forth flanked by his men on all sides.
Hustling to follow, we are ten minutes into the pursuit when we finally catch up with him and his men. The fighting is silent and vicious.
Men on both sides lie around dead or dying. Ozymandias Love in the center of it all, fighting like a raging fallen angel hell-bent on retribution. He is fury incarnate. I have to acknowledge with grudging respect. The man takes on all comers with a vicious, eager smile. The sheer joy he seems to have with every kill is chilling.
We join him without hesitation, Angel to my right, Padre to my left, and Rocco at my six. We move as one, taking on groups of unfortunate souls and sending them to hell. The action goes fast. Soon the opposition dwindles to less than a dozen.
In my periphery, I see kids of varying ages and races huddled together in fear, making something snap in me. All I can see in Saban tied to that fucking bed at nine, and I want nothing more than to kill every repulsive motherfucker who would dare harm the sweet soul of a child.
Many of them beg for their lives. I give them no mercy. None. There can’t be when they profited off the sale of a human soul.
We dead them all. Some give up useful intel, but for the most part — they die how they lived — like craven little bastards.
Soaked in sweat and other men’s blood, we turn for the long walk back to where we have vans waiting to take the kids to care facilities and then to hopefully reconnect them with their families.
We are about a quarter of a mile from the vans station out of sight of the building, when I first see Oz stumble. We're allcarrying at least two kids. He has one on his back and another cradled in his arms. He rights himself, continuing on until he stumbles again, this time falling to his knees. Managing to protect the kids from the fall, he positioned his body so that he takes the brunt of the impact. Padre rushes over, then Rocco followed by me and Angel and more of his own guys.
“Dammit,” he groans, his eyes squeezed tight and pain. Two of the guys pull the kids away, taking away his burden. That's when we see the fresh blood soaking high on the right side of his abdomen.
“It’s a flesh wound.” Waving a limp hand in the air dismissively, he gives a rough chuckle, then tries to sit up, which he manages to do successfully. It’s when he tries to stand that it becomes apparent that there’s way more going on than just the flesh wound.
“Hey man, you look like you need some help.” Angel steps forward.
“Never from you, motherfucker.” Comes a hiss from lips pressed together in pain.
“Too fucking bad, man.” Stalking over to his group, I take one arm, pulling it over my shoulder. “I’ll carry you if I have to, because I don't wanna hear about Mama-Pete being upset.”
The good thing about having an international syndicate at your banking call is the transportation. You need six vans to rescue the kids? Done. Need a military-style helicopter to metal back a surly syndicate boss out of an almost botched rescue? Done.
We’ve reached UAB in Birmingham in record time, and Oz is taken into surgery immediately. I was able to do a quick and dirty triage on the helicopter.
Angel and the rest of the guys stuck to the plan. Take the children to a safe location where they can be seen medically, then meet with the child psychologists we have on hand.
We don't know what to expect other than the worst. We know there will be lasting trauma. These kids will probably carry for the rest of their lives. I know firsthand what it's like to have someone young and vulnerable screaming for their lives in the middle of the night. I can't imagine being the one who has to endure the nightmare of being haunted and forced, and having the people they trusted betray them in the worst way.
After two and a half hours, Oz emerges from surgery. Dr. Kristi Carrington, a young woman who seems barely out of high school, comes to inform me of his condition.
“He’ll make a full recovery, but he’ll need to take it easy for the next few weeks. Bahir told me to keep this quiet, so I need you to secure safe transport for him before our chief of staff gets wind of this.”
“Gotcha.” I turn to the man still dozing under anesthesia, waiting for her to leave — plausible deniability and all that.
“Aye,” I say, getting Rocco on the line. “Send someone this way with an ambulance, or a van with a gurney. We need to get him out of here before it gets too hot.”
