We're not done fighting yet.
Not even close.
Chapter 9
Ice Pick
Condor finds it three hours after Castellano's call. A property registered under one of the deeper shell companies, buried so far in the corporate structure that it took cross-referencing six different databases to locate. It's a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, supposedly used for industrial storage but with utility usage that suggests someone's living there.
"That's it," Ava says, leaning over Condor's shoulder to study the satellite imagery. "It's isolated, secure, easy to control access. It’s the perfect place to hold a hostage."
"Or it's a decoy." Falcon's studying the layout with tactical eyes. "Castellano knows we're looking for him. This could be another trap."
"We can't afford not to check it out. Sarah's been missing for four hours. Every minute counts." Ava's voice is tight with desperation, and I can see her unraveling at the edges. "If there's even a chance she's there, we have to go."
"We will. But we do it smart." I pull up building schematics that Condor managed to hack from the city's permit database. "Two entrances, front and back. Windows on the second floor but they're barred. If Sarah's inside, they'll have her somewhere secure, probably the basement level."
"The FBI should handle this," Agent Forrister says through the conference call Sterling set up. "You're civilians. Going in armed could compromise any prosecution."
"With respect, Agent Forrister, your people walked into a trap last night. You’re three agents down." Vulture’s tone is hard. "We're not risking more federal casualties. We'll scout the location, verify if Sarah's there, and then we'll coordinate with you on extraction."
"That's not how this works."
"It's how it's working tonight." He ends the call before she can argue further. "Alright, brothers. Falcon, Zip, Rook, you're with me and Ice Pick. Sterling, you coordinate here with Condor. Hustler, you're on perimeter watch. I want to know if anyone approaches this compound."
"What about me?" Ava asks, already knowing the answer but asking anyway.
"You stay here. No arguments." I catch her arm before she can protest. "I can't do what needs to be done if I'm worried about you. Please, Ava, let me bring Sarah home."
The war on her face is visible. She wants to argue, wants to demand to come along, wants to be part of rescuing her friend. But she also knows I'm right. Bringing a civilian into what's essentially a combat situation is asking for casualties.
"Fine," she says finally. "But you call me the second you have her. I don't care if you're in the middle of a firefight, you let me know she's okay."
"Deal."
I kiss her hard, pouring every promise I can't voice into the press of my mouth against hers, and then I'm pulling away before I can change my mind about leaving her behind.
We gear up in silence, each of us knowing this could go sideways fast. Body armor under our cuts, weapons checked and loaded, comms tested. Zip's carrying enough firepower totake down a small army, and Rook's got his usual assortment of knives and improvised explosives that technically aren't legal but definitely get the job done.
The ride to the warehouse takes twenty minutes through evening traffic. We park three blocks away and approach on foot, using the industrial landscape as cover. The building looks exactly like the satellite images showed, dingy and forgotten, but there are lights on inside and a black SUV parked near the loading dock.
"Someone's home," Zip mutters through the comm.
"Condor, you getting anything on thermal?" Falcon asks.
"Four heat signatures inside. Two on the ground floor, one in the basement, one on the second floor." Condor's voice crackles through our earpieces. "Based on movement patterns, the basement signature's stationary. Could be your hostage."
"Could also be a guard taking a shit," Rook points out.
"Only one way to find out." I move toward the back entrance, my weapon up and ready. "Falcon, you and Zip take the front. Vulture, Rook, you're with me. We go in quiet, neutralize any hostiles, and secure Sarah."
"And if it's a trap?" Zip asks.
"Then we shoot our way out and regroup." Vulture’s voice is grim. "Let's move."
Rook and I reach the back door, and he makes quick work of the lock with tools that probably started life as legitimate locksmithing equipment. The door swings open silently, revealing a dark hallway that reeks of mold and old concrete.
We move through the building like ghosts, clearing rooms as we go. The first guard's on the second floor, smoking a cigarette near a window and completely oblivious to our presence until Rook's got a knife to his throat.
