Thewarroomfeelssmaller tonight.
Too many bodies, not enough air. A map of the docks is spread across the table with pins, notes, and red circles where bad shit lives. Malachi is at the head, palms braced on the wood, eyes darker than usual.
Victor taps the shipyard schematic with a pen. "Source says Pier Four. Container marked with Vassallo Foundation's logo. We've got confirmation girls are being moved out tonight. They hit international waters, they're gone."
A low curse rolls around the table. Mine's one of them.
Nash crosses his arms beside me, shoulder brushing mine. James leans back like he's at some casual staff meeting, but his jaw's tight. East is stone-still, eyes on the map like he can will the whole place to burn. His knuckles are still raw from last week. Trent Moreland got discharged from the hospital on a Tuesday and never made it to his car. East was waiting in the parking garage, alone, and whatever happened between the elevator andthe concrete took less than three minutes. Nobody asked for details.
Malachi's voice is calm. Too calm. "We keep it clean. We get them out. We don't engage Donovan if he shows his face, not unless there's no other option. The girls are the objective."
He looks around the table, making sure that lands. It does. It also hurts.
"That container's a magnet," James adds quietly. "If he's there, he wants you to shoot at him and not at the locks."
I glance past them toward the back wall.
The women stand together; Maggie, Sloane, Ruby, Frankie, Candace, Darla. Off to the side, quiet and watchful, ready to step in the second they're needed.
Sloane's got her hair twisted up, stray pieces falling around her face, hoodie sleeves shoved to her elbows. Stethoscope around her neck, pen tucked behind one ear. She looks like she's about to walk into a hospital shift, not a war.
Malachi gives the logistics: teams, timing, routes. East and Nash on breach. Me and James on secondary perimeter and transport. Victor running comms with Rider on overwatch. James and I break from the table first, heading straight toward Maggie and Sloane.
"We need you two here," I tell them, voice low but leaving no space for argument. "If this goes sideways, those girls are gonna need a medic and a safe place to land. Set up triage in the back. Blankets, fluids, whatever you can scrounge."
Maggie nods, already mentally rearranging half the clubhouse.
Sloane straightens, hands sliding into her hoodie pocket like she's checking what she has to work with. "I'll set up in the common room. We'll need fluids, blankets, anything high-calorie. And quiet. They're going to be terrified." The word we hits harder than it should. It feels like a promise.
East turns to the other four. "Ruby, Candace, Frankie, Darla—you're the diversion. You take Ruby's obnoxiously expensive sports car and hit the main access road. Four rich girls—drunk, lost, loud—arguing with the guards."
Ruby grins as if she's been waiting her whole life for this.
"The second you hear my signal," he continues, "you get the hell out. No questions. No hero shit."
Candace lifts her chin. Frankie nods once. Darla cracks her knuckles.
"We can do that," Darla promises.
"We move in forty," Malachi says. "Gear up."
Chairs scrape. Voices rise. The room breaks into motion.
I hang back long enough to track Sloane as she peels off toward the kitchen, already walking through her checklist. Problem is, the world keeps reaching further into ours every time we think we've drawn a line.
The docks smell like rust and old water and bad intentions.
We cut the engines half a mile out, coasting the last stretch in a rolling hush. The shipyard rises ahead. Towers of containers are stacked like Tetris blocks, cranes frozen mid-reach. Floodlights paint everything in harsh white.
My boots hit asphalt, body slotting into mission mode without asking permission. James at my shoulder. Victor ahead. Nash and East slip off toward the far side, shadows swallowing them.
Rider's voice crackles in my ear. "Overwatch set. Eight visible bogeys, two possibles in the blind spot on the far side of the target container."
Another voice, smooth, controlled, familiar. "Leo here. Eyes on the north access. Two more tangos, heavily armed. Arden's moving to intercept." Victor's guys. Of course he brought them.
I shift position, scanning my sector. The movement to my left is Nash sliding into cover. On my right, East is already lining uphis approach. A flicker near the container stack. Too fast. Too silent. Arden.
He drops one guard before the guy knows he's there. Silent. Efficient. Then he's gone again, melting into shadow like he was never solid.
