It’s how we stay invisible.
“I want her to search for us.” I shrug, leaning back with a grin. I want her to panic. To dig. To bleed for answers.
That’s how she’ll fall: face first into obsession.
Just like I did.
We get into the SUV, Beau behind the wheel, for a new mission, not a paid one this time.
Some fuckers are running a club just outside of town, but it’s not just a club, it’s a front where they force girls and boys into prostitution behind neon lights. We’ve been getting emails for weeks from survivors, relatives looking for loved ones and some anonymous tips. It took time to dig through it all, to find the leaders, the ones who mattered but we’ve got them now.
“Another hour and we should be there,” Beau says, eyes on the road.
I lean back and pull out my phone, and open the app. The screen lights up and there she is.
Hellcat.
Long black hair, curves that make me insane. Fuck me… I shift in my seat. One stretch, one glimpse of ink, and I’m hard enough to kill someone.
Tamsin’s friend is still there. It’s two in the morning and they’re drunk on cheap wine, watching some shitty horror flick on the couch. Tamsin’s on the floor, legs crossed, wearing a tank top and shorts that show too much skin. She stretches, and I catch it, a hint of ink. A small tattoo peeking under her hip bone.
I can’t see what it is, but I want to. I want to lick it, trace the lines with my tongue, bury my face between her thighs and—
Nope.
I shut the app and force a breath through my nose. No way I’m walking into a kill with a hard-on.
I count to two hundred, but it doesn’t help.
“Twenty minutes,” Beau mutters.
Thank fuck.
I need out of this car and to move, break bones, paint the floor red just to take the edge off.
Beau pulls into the lot, and we gear up. We’re already in black; we add the balaclavas.
Mine’s marked with one crimson slash. Beau’s is navy. Caleb’s is golden, because of course the dramatic bastard needs to look like royalty at a bloodbath.
We slip around the back in silence, no lights and nosound but our boots on dirt. Caleb punches in the door code we cracked two nights ago.
I take point.
We trained for this. Spent two years with ex-military contractors; paid extra to have them live at the estate so they could teach us everything from guns to close combat, knives, and tactics. Caleb calls it torture. I thought it was fun, bloody as hell, but made me feel alive.
We breach the building as shadows, the hallway lit in flickering red, walls lined with guards who think they’re hard; they don’t even get a second to react.
I move first. My elbow slams into one’s face, bone crunching beneath the blow. He drops before he can scream, another reaches for a weapon—too slow—I twist his wrist, snap it clean, drive my knife into his neck. Blood sprays warm against my glove. Behind me, Beau’s silencer pops twice, and Caleb’s blade whispers across skin.
We clear the floor in under a minute.
Room after room, we sweep through like a storm. No mercy. No hesitation.
We reach the cells where we see women, girls, and young boys. Three big cages, buckets and blankets on the floor. They whimper when they see us.
“Easy. We’re here to help.” My rifle’s behind myback, palms up. I’m six-five, over two hundred pounds, trying to look non-threatening while wearing a balaclava with a dripping blood-eye symbol is not easy.
One woman, older than most but still no more than twenty-five, steps forward. “The keys.” She points left, toward a desk, and Beau’s on it while Caleb watches the hallway.
