"It's a threat." But she's smiling when she says it.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my mouth against hers. She responds with equal intensity, her body molding to mine like we were made to fit together.
"I have to go," I say, even though I don't want to. "Hustler's going to stay with you. Don't give him too much shit."
"No promises."
I leave her reluctantly, heading back downstairs where the club's preparing for tonight's operation. Zip's checking weapons, Sterling's on the phone with Robert, and Rook's going over maps with Condor. It's controlled chaos, everyone knowing their role and executing it with precision.
This is what we do best. Operating in the gray areas, handling problems that can't be solved through legal channels. Tonight we're doing it for a good cause, but that doesn't change the fact that we're criminals working with law enforcement to take down other criminals.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"You good?" Vulture asks, appearing at my elbow.
"Yeah. Ava's secured, Hustler's on babysitting duty." I check my weapon, making sure the magazine's full and the safety's on. "Let's do this."
The hours crawl by as we prepare. By the time the sun sets, we're ready. Three bikes, full tanks, weapons concealed but accessible. Vulture, Zip, and me. A small team for a big operation, but that's how we work best. Small, fast, mobile.
We pull out of the compound just after ten, leaving behind the safety of our walls and heading into enemy territory. The warehouse district's quiet at this hour, most businesses closed for the night, only a few security lights breaking up the darkness.
Vulture leads us to a position three blocks from the target warehouse. We kill our engines and move on foot, sticking to the shadows, using the industrial landscape as cover. Condor's voice comes through our earpieces, guiding us to the best vantage point.
"You've got eyes on the east side. Second floor, abandoned office. Window overlooks the warehouse loading dock."
We make our way inside an old factory building, carefully navigating debris and broken glass. The office Condor directed us to is exactly where he said it would be, and through the grimy window we have a perfect view of the Reapers' operation.
The warehouse is lit up, activity visible through the open loading bay doors. Motorcycles are parked outside, at least a dozen, and I recognize several Reapers moving around inside. They're setting up, preparing for the shipment's arrival.
"FBI's in position," Sterling's voice comes through the earpiece. "They're waiting for your signal."
"Copy that," Vulture responds. "We're going dark. Radio silence unless it's an emergency."
We settle in to wait, the three of us watching through the window like predators stalking prey. Zip's got a camera with a telephoto lens, documenting everything. Faces, license plates, movements. All evidence that'll be used to prosecute these assholes.
At eleven forty-five, a semi-truck pulls up to the loading dock. The back doors open, and my stomach turns when I see what's inside. Girls. Young women. Huddled together in the back of the truck, terrified and exhausted. It brings back memories of when Falcon found Cara. That was a bittersweet moment.
"Jesus," Zip mutters, his camera clicking rapidly.
They're herded out of the truck like cattle, Reapers surrounding them, keeping them contained. One girl tries to run and gets backhanded so hard she goes down. Another Reaper hauls her up by her hair, and I have to force myself not to go down there and put a bullet in his skull.
"Easy," Vulture warns, sensing my rage. "We stick to the plan."
At twelve thirty, expensive cars start arriving. Sedans and SUVs that cost more than most people make in a year. Men in suits climb out, surveying the girls with the cold calculation of buyers at an auction. This is it. This is the evidence we need.
"Sterling, signal the feds," Vulture says quietly. "It's time."
"Copy. Feds are moving in. ETA three minutes."
Those three minutes feel like hours. The buyers are examining the girls, discussing them like merchandise, and every second they're in there is another second of hell for thosevictims. But we wait, because rushing in now would blow the entire operation.
Then there are sirens, lights, and FBI vehicles converging on the warehouse from three directions.
The Reapers react exactly like we expected. They panic, and there’s chaos. Some try to run, and others try to fight. The buyers scatter like roaches when the lights come on, but the feds are ready. Agents pour out of vehicles, weapons drawn, and shouting commands.
"That's our cue," Vulture says. "Let's move."
We exit the building the same way we came in, circling around to where we left the bikes. My phone's buzzing insistently in my pocket, and I check it as we run.
