Page 2 of Make Them Pay

1

Render

The warehouse smells like a problem no one has bothered fixing for years. Old motor oil mixes with stagnant water in the dips and the faint sour tang of guards who stopped caring long ago. Underneath it all lingers that sharp chemical bite of fear. Not mine. I haven’t felt the useful kind in ages. It simply clings to places like this like an unwanted guest that refuses to leave.

I crouch behind a rusted shipping container fifty yards from the south entrance and check the video feed on my phone one last time. Two warm bodies linger near the main door on the ground floor and one more paces along the metal walkway above. Three total. Serafina’s crew has grown cocky, which means tonight’s my shot.

Enley’s in the third container on the left. My chest tightens the moment I spot that faint orange glow on the heat map. Plastic cuffs at least, probably a chair. She’s been here for days since they killed the tracker Poe gave her.

A few days can break someone.

I shove the phone into my pocket. My hands are steady as I check the gun and the knife at my ribs, along with two extra magazines, a cheap burner, and the keys. I ran the numbers the whole drive over and they haven’t changed. Three guards. One way in. One way to get her out.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the night air cold and damp against my neck. The rain stopped twenty minutes ago, but the asphalt still gleams under a busted streetlight down the block. Somewhere in the city, Serafina loops that hostage video and waits for Poe to crack. She thinks Enley is the key to keeping her brother in line.

She’s right about that part. Dead wrong about the rest.

I move.

The first stretch is wide open ground with no cover at all, just wet concrete and dripping gutters. I stay low and quick, slipping through the shadows between the broken light and the warehouse flood lamp. My heart slams harder than it should. Dean Maddox trained me, but this is real, not some drill I can laugh off later.

The door is old steel with hinges rusted to hell. I kick it hard. The frame shudders and the door flies open with a crash that echoes like a wrecking ball through the empty space. Dust swirls everywhere. Good. Let them look this way.

Both ground guards spin toward the noise. The one on the left reaches for his pistol. I squeeze off a shot. The silencer coughs and he drops. My hands stay steady enough, but my breathing is a complete mess. I’m not some polished professional. I’m not ex-military. Dean gave me the basics through private work and plenty of bruises, enough to get by but far from perfect.

The second guard hesitates for half a second. That’s all I need. I throw the knife and it sinks high into his throat. He goes down, his pistol skittering across the floor like it wants nothing to do with this mess.

I yank the blade free and keep moving, my pulse thundering in my ears.

The guy on the walkway becomes the real problem. He scrambles down the stairs instead of holding the high ground, a classic panic move. The metal clangs under his boots like an off-key alarm. I track the noise, lift the gun, and wait for him at the bottom. Two shots. The first hits center and the second goes a little high. He slumps over the railing.

The warehouse falls silent except for the soft clink of shell casings settling and the distant thrum of the flood lamp outside. I don’t stop to check the bodies. The feed showed three. If someone is hiding back there, they can hear me coming anyway.

I reach the third container and grab the handle. Most of the red paint has rusted away. A padlock hangs there. I shoot it. The clang bounces around like a startled cat. I rip the door open.

Stale air hits me first, thick with cheap soap and the coppery bite of blood. Then the warehouse light pours in and I see her.

Enley sits zip-tied to a metal chair in the middle of the space. Her wrists are pinned behind her back and her ankles are secured to the legs. The plastic has cut deep. Pink hair sticks to her forehead with sweat and a nasty bruise spreads across her jaw toward her eye. Her lip is split and crusted. She wears the same gray hoodie and jeans from the photo Knight showed me, though they look filthy now.

But her eyes, those moss-green ones I’ve avoided for years, lock onto mine. Recognition flashes first, then disbelief, and finally something closer to anger than thanks.

My chest squeezes tight. She’s alive. Breathing. Looking at me like I might be her salvation or the start of even more trouble.

I’ve watched her from across rooms for years, in crowded lofts after jobs and at that little diner where she would steal my fries and grin like she knew exactly what it did to my stupid heart. Poe’s little sister. That was always my line. The one solid rule that kept my hands to myself and my eyes mostly safe.

The line feels paper-thin tonight.

“Render?” Her voice cracks. She tries to stand and the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “What the hell…”

I cross the space in three strides, drop to a knee, and cut the ties. Wrists first. She hisses as blood rushes back. Then the ankles. She stands but her legs give out immediately. Days in a chair will do that to anyone.

I catch her with an arm around her waist. The contact hits me like a live wire. She feels warm and alive, shaking so hard her teeth click together.

I should say something smart and reassuring. Instead I blurt, “I’ve got you.”

Her fists twist into my shirt. She’s not pushing me away. She’s holding on like I’m the only steady thing left in her world right now.

“Poe,” she says against my chest. “They’ve got Poe. The whole crew. Serafina…”