Chapter One
FALCON
Darkness always brings the monsters out to play. Tonight, I'm the bigger monster.
The salt air bites my face as I scan the abandoned port, checking my watch for the third time in five minutes. We're cutting it close. Intel says they're moving the women at dawn—six hours from now. But instinct tells me our window is shrinking fast.
"Jesus, it's cold," Hustler mutters, rubbing his gloved hands together. His breath forms clouds that dissipate into the dense fog blanketing the wharf. He’s one of our newest prospects; he's eager but green.
I smack the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make a point. "Don't be such a chick, Hustler. Prospects need to be hard to get into the Saints Outlaws." I fix him with the stare that earned me my road name years ago. "Are you up for it? Or not?"
He straightens immediately, shoulders squaring. "I'm in, Falcon. You know that. I'll do whatever it takes. Won't complain about the cold again." He turns and walks back toward the van we brought, our transport for the women, assuming we find them alive.
Hustler's right though—it's fucking freezing, the kind of damp cold that seeps through leather and settles in your bones. The fog is so thick I can barely see twenty feet ahead, but that works in our favor as much as theirs. Visibility cuts both ways.
The industrial area surrounding the port is a maze of abandoned warehouses and shipping containers, perfect for our needs, and for sick bastards trafficking human cargo. We left our bikes half a mile back with Harrier standing guard. The rumble of Harley engines carries too far in the night.
Five years in Special Forces and three years running rescue ops with the Saints has taught me to embrace the pre-mission tension coiling in my gut. It keeps you sharp. Keeps you alive.
"Right," Vulture says, his voice low as he approaches. Our president is pushing fifty but moves like a man half his age, all controlled energy and calculated risk. The scar bisecting his left eye glints in the distant security light. "Everyone ready?"
He doesn't wait for answers. We wouldn't be here if we weren't ready.
"Falcon, Ice Pick, Zip, you clear the area first. Once you signal, I'll bring Condor and Osprey. Then we find the container and extract the women."
Ice Pick checks his weapon, the silver blade at his hip catching what little light filters through the fog. His real specialty isn't the knife but the lock-picking skills that earned him his name. We'll need those tonight.
"Hustler has the van," Vulture continues, "and he'll wait for the signal to approach. Remember, these women have seen nothing but the worst of humanity. They won't trust us. Be gentle. Be understanding."
"Of course," I say, checking my SIG one last time. "We've done this rodeo before."
What I don't say is how each rescue tears something loose inside me. How each terrified face reminds me of my sister Katie in those last days before we found her—too late—in a basement in Chicago. How each mission is penance for the promise I couldn't keep.
"Get in, get out," I add. "Back to the clubhouse where Doc has the medical space ready."
"Just like we planned," Vulture agrees, but the look he gives me says he knows what I'm not saying. He was there when we found Katie. He helped me bury what was left of her.
A distant clang of metal against metal silences us all. We freeze, weapons ready, but it's just a loose chain whipping against a container in the wind coming off the water.
"Move out," I whisper, motioning to Ice Pick and Zip to follow me.
We move silently through the port, a maze of shadows and steel containers that loom like giants in the night fog. The salt air carries the scent of rust and fish, but underneath it all, there's something else, something wrong that makes my skin crawl. My brothers fan out behind me, their movements precise, practiced. Years of running ops together means we barely need signals anymore.
The container we want sits isolated on the dock, illuminated by a single flickering light. As we approach, the tension in the air shifts. The hairs on my neck stand at attention.
This is bad. Real bad.
I raise my fist, and everyone freezes. Something's off. The dock should have more security for a shipment this valuable. I scan our surroundings, my hand resting on my SIG under my cut. Shipping containers create a labyrinth of blind corners and ambush points. Perfect for an attack.
"Something's wrong," I murmur into my comm. "Security's too light."
Ice Pick's voice comes back, tight with tension. "Think they moved the merchandise early?"
"Or they're expecting us," Zip adds, his voice barely audible.
A chill that has nothing to do with the weather runs down my spine. Katie's face flashes in my mind. Her body wasn't the only thing broken when we found her. They'd broken her trust first, made her believe help was coming when it was just another trap.
"Change of plans," I say. "Ice Pick, check the container first. Zip, watch his six. I'm going to circle around and make sure we're not walking into an ambush."
