Page 74 of Coveted By Cupid

“Roger that,” Atlas’s voice comes next. “Any signs of Kirill or Mikhail? Over.”

“Negative. But they may be inside. Over.”

Fucking figures they wouldn’t show their faces out in the open. They haven’t avoided capture this long by being stupid.

“Artem said Kirill prefers staying in his van unless dealing with transportation,” I say into the speaker attached to my headphones, reminding the group. “The van may be inside the pole building.”

“Thermal is picking up multiple heat signatures inside the building,” Chase says from the front seat, where he is typing on his laptop. “Some are smaller. Over.”

My eyes dart to Chase. “Women? Children?”

“Possibly.”

Oaks leans back in his seat with a shaky sigh, his fingers lacing behind his head. “Damn. Here I was excited about taking out some trafficking scum with some serious arsenal. But now it’s a rescue operation where kids could get hurt—I don’t like this.”

The Mercy Ravens biker with the shaved, tatted head—Punk, if I remember correctly—sitting in the back of the tactical van loads his gun, unbothered. “No worries. We’re trained for this shit. If there are captives inside, they’ll be fine. The rest will die tonight.”

It’s hard to take the guy seriously after hearing him sing Madonna karaoke at my bar. Yet, looking at him preparing to overthrow a trafficking ring as he robotically handles military-grade weapons and his icy blue eyes devoid of emotion, I can see how dangerous he is.

Triple’s voice comes back over the comms. “Do I move forward to investigate? Over.”

“No. If there are captives inside, we can’t risk you getting exposed,” Atlas says through the comms. “Stay where you are until I give the order. Over.”

“Roger that.”

A voice I don’t recognize comes over the comms. “Road tack strips are laid out at all exits of the industrial park. No vehicles are coming in or going out. Over.”

“Roger that. Cupid, is half your crew at the north exit of the industrial park? Over.”

“Yes,” I answer Atlas. “And the other half in at the South exit with me.”

“Roger that,” Atlas says before giving orders to his team. “I want the perimeter surrounded. Punk and Chase, take the west side of the building. Flay, join Triple in the front. Reaper and Brass, take the east side. Gauge and I will take the back. We move in as a unit on my signal. Over.”

Punk and Chase exit the tactical van soundlessly, disappearing into the shadows.

Multiple bodycams connect to the laptop we’re watching as the team takes position.

“Move in.”

The air in my lungs stalls while I watch the former Navy SEALs move in with weapons raised. Seconds later a shot is fired, followed by more in quick succession. The guards outside the building drop like flies, never having time to reach for their weapons.

The gunfire intensifies as the team enters the building, followed by men yelling in Russian and screams of panic filling the evening air. Multiple people run in front of the bodycams, some of whom are clearly not guards.

“Goddamnit,” Oaks mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “If there are kids inside…”

…they must be terrified.

A woman’s cry for help outside has me tearing my eyes away from the camera. Through the front windshield, a slight woman comes sprinting down the road toward us with a small child in her arms. A man who is not from the team chases after her and is hot on her heels.

Jumping out of the van, I grab my Glock from the waistband of my jeans, pointing it at the man in pursuit.

The woman freezes when she sees my gun, her eyes filled with horror as she clutches the child closer to her chest.

With the frightened woman no longer at risk of running into my shot, I pull the trigger, hitting the guard in the chest. The woman screams, ducking to the ground with the crying child. The guard stumbles back on the gravel road, clutching at his abdomen and hollering in pain.

A gut shot. Good. I hope it hurts like a sonofabitch.

With the man still armed, I rush forward, kicking his weapon clear of his grasp. It skitters across the gravel, no longer a threat.