The driver dropped immediately, hands still raised. Tank released his man, who crumpled to the floor gasping. I zip-tied the one I'd taken down first—wrists behind his back, cinched tight enough to bite—then moved to the driver while Tank secured the third.
Thirty seconds later, all three were on their knees in a row, hands bound, faces pale with fear. Tank stood over them like a wall of muscle and barely contained violence.
"Here's how this works." I crouched in front of the middle one—the driver, the one who'd begged. "You stay exactly where you are. You don't move. You don't speak unless we ask you a question. If any of you so much as shifts your weight wrong, my friend here knocks you unconscious. Clear?"
Three rapid nods.
"Good." I stood and turned to Tank. "Let's see what they're hiding."
The filing cabinet against the far wall was heavy, industrial, with a combination lock that had seen better days. Tank crossed to it, one eye still on our prisoners, and kicked the lock mechanism free with a single hard strike. Metal screamed in protest. The drawers slid open to reveal stacks of files, folders, documents that rustled like dry leaves as he began pulling them out.
"Irish, Blade—main floor secured?" I spoke into my earpiece while sorting through the first stack of papers.
"Secured. Counting crates now—there's enough product here to supply half the western states." Irish's voice carried a hint of grim satisfaction. "Federal seizure codes on everything. These bastards have been recycling confiscated drugs for years."
"Document everything. Photos of every crate, every label. We'll need it for later."
I turned my attention back to the files, my eyes scanning the contents with the speed of long practice. Shipping manifests. Invoices. Account numbers that led to offshore banks. The architecture of a criminal enterprise, laid out in neat columns and careful handwriting.
And then I found it.
The folder was red—bright, arterial crimson, the only splash of color in the sea of manila and white. No label on the outside. Just a small symbol stamped in the corner: a wolf's head, stylized, with somethingthat looked like a crown. I stood up, allowing the office's dim light to shine on it for better legibility.
The first page was a list of names.
My blood went cold.
"Tank."
Something in my voice made him turn. He crossed to where I stood, looked over my shoulder at the document in my hands, and went very still.
PRIORITY TARGETS — NETWORK SECURITY
The header was clinical, bureaucratic, as if this were just another administrative task to be completed. Below it, names arranged in order of priority, each one followed by status codes and dates and notes that read like death sentences.
REYES, SARAH — FEDERAL CUSTODY (PENDLETON) — SCHEDULED TERMINATION: SUICIDE — DATE: 09/01/2025
My stomach dropped through the floor.
The date. I knew that date. It was the same date that had been on Cross's envelope—the deadline I'd been dreading for seven days.
Tomorrow.
Cross hadn't been threatening me with something vague. He'd been telling me exactly when he'd kill Sarah. A taunt. A power move.I know you care about her. Here's the date she dies. And there's nothing you can do about it.
And those Wolves who'd mobilized tonight, destination unknown—now I knew where they'd gone. To Pendleton. To be in position when Sarah was transported. To stage her death at dawn.
"Tyler." Tank's voice was rough. "Keep reading."
I forced my eyes to move down the page.
COLTON, JONATHAN — RESOLVED — DATE: 03/15/2024 MARTINEZ, ELENA — RESOLVED — DATE: 07/22/2024 NAKAMURA, KAI — PENDING — PRIORITY: HIGH — NOTES: TRAFFICKING WITNESS, PHOENIX AFFILIATE
Kai. They had Kai on a kill list.
My foster brother, the only family I'd ever chosen, the man who'd rebuilt himself from the ashes of what human trafficking had done to him—they wanted him dead because he'd testified against Chen's network, because he knew too much, because he was a loose end they couldn't afford.
"There's more." Tank's voice had gone hollow. He reached past me and turned the page.
