"And if they shoot first?" Reno's voice, nervous but trying not to show it.
"Then we shoot back." I adjusted my grip on the Glock, feeling the familiar weight settle into my palm. "But we take prisoners if we can. Dead men don't answer questions."
The night pressed in around us, thick with the smell of sage and dust and the faint chemical tang of whatever the Wolves were storing inside. A coyote called somewhere in the distance—a lonely sound that made the darkness feel bigger, emptier. The desert didn't care about our plans. It would be here long after we were gone, indifferent to the violence we were about to commit.
"Thirty seconds." Axel's countdown began.
I drew a breath. Let it out slowly. Felt my heartbeat steady into the rhythm I'd learned at Quantico, the controlled calm that came before action.
Tank's hand found my shoulder. One squeeze—brief, deliberate. Not romantic. Something else.I'm here. We do this together.
I didn't look at him. Didn't need to.
"Go."
The side door gave way with a single kick, the lock shearing off with a sound that seemed too loud in the stillness. I was through before the echo faded, sweeping left while Tank covered right, our movements synchronized without discussion.
The hallway beyond was dark, lit only by the red glow of exit signs and the ambient light bleeding through grimy windows. Concrete floor, metal walls, the smell of machine oil and something else—something chemical that made my sinuses burn. The acrid scent of pharmaceutical processing, maybe. Whatever the Wolves were doing here, it wasn't just storage.
Two doors on the left. One on the right. Stairs at the far end leading up to what looked like a mezzanine office—the command center, if this operation followed standard cartel structure.
I signaled:left first, then right, then up.
Tank nodded and moved to the first door. I stacked behind him, hand on his shoulder, feeling the coiled tension in his muscles through the fabric of his shirt.
Three. Two. One.
He went low. I went high.
The room was empty—storage, mostly, shelves lined with cardboard boxes that bore shipping labels in Spanish. I scanned the corners, checked behind the door, gave the all-clear signal.
Next room.
This one had a desk, a filing cabinet, the detritus of administrative work scattered across every surface.No guards. The Wolves' overconfidence was going to cost them.
"Offices clear." I spoke into my earpiece. "Moving to the mezzanine."
"Copy. Loading dock is hot—two guards, both down and restrained. Blade's securing the main floor." Axel's voice was clipped, efficient. "Watch yourselves up there."
The stairs creaked under our weight despite our careful steps. Tank took point this time, his bulk blocking my line of sight but also any potential threat from above. I watched his back—the broad shoulders, the controlled way he moved despite his size—and felt something twist in my chest that had nothing to do with fear.
Focus.
The mezzanine opened onto a larger space than I'd expected—a proper office suite, glass walls looking down over the warehouse floor below. I could see Blade and Irish moving between shipping containers, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like searching fingers. Below them, crates stacked bore familiar markings—the same pharmaceutical codes we'd seen in the intercepted shipment. This was it. The distribution hub.
Three men sat at a table in the center of the office, playing cards. Maps on the walls showed delivery routes across three states. A whiteboard listed shipment dates and quantities. They'd gotten comfortable here, confident no one would touch them.
They looked up as we entered.
Time slowed.
The closest one went for his gun—a mistake. I closed the distance in two steps, grabbed his wrist, twisted until I heard the joint pop. His weapon clattered to the floor. I swept his legs and put him down hard, knee in his spine before he could recover.
Tank had the second man against the wall, forearm across his throat, lifting him onto his toes. The third scrambled backward, hands up, terror written across his face in capital letters.
"Please—" The word came out strangled, desperate. "Please, I'm just a driver, I don't know anything?—"
"On your knees." I kept my voice flat, commanding. "Now."
