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Of course, a lot of that might have had to do with Cassandra and him hardly being able to keep their hands off each other for the past thirty-six hours. But he couldn’t let himself think about that right now since every time he did, it wrecked him in ways—the best ways—he didn’t even know were possible.

He eased his weight onto his left side and kept his eye on the gap and prayed this thing would hold. The bolted scaffolding around an old loft office on the west wall didn’t scream any sort of structural reassurance. Sheets of plywood hung from the outer rail. Two of them didn’t quite meet, and the space between them gave him sight of the whole floor.

The Diehls and their crew would come through the main entrance that was straight across from him on the east wall. The loading bays were down to his right on the south side, where the suppliers would bring the kids in.

Fallon was on the far side of the building, in the corridor that ran along the north wall. A cinder-block holding room sat between her team and the main floor. Isaac had his people stacked behind the fire door at the east end of that same corridor. Ryder’s own team, three Rogue operatives, sat on the floor of the loft office behind him with their rifles across their knees.

If they put the kids in that room, this works. If they don’t, we’re improvising in a room full of guns.

“Service road is empty. Nobody on the cross street either.” Cassandra’s voice filtered through his earpiece, steady and even. “No movement for more than eleven minutes.”

“Roger that,” Isaac said.

Arlo had called at noon, happy as hell. Tonight’s the night, brother. Give it a couple hours and we move. Just be ready. Ryder had told him he’d be ready.

But he omitted the part about showing up four hours early—or that he was already perched in the rafters, waiting to end this whole thing permanently.

“Okay, we’ve got vehicles,” Cass said. “Pair of dark SUVs heading down Ferris from the north, driving tight.”

Only last night, that same voice had cracked when she’d said his name. Her palm had cupped his jaw, her eyes staring straight into his, completely refusing to blink.

Get out of the bed, Sutton. Right fucking now.

Focus. He needed his mind entirely on the mission. Yet for the first time in years, surviving the night actually mattered. There was someone waiting for him on the other side.

He clicked his comms. “That’s the Diehls.”

“Both vehicles turning in. They’re parking out front.” Cassandra monitored the feeds from the cameras they’d rigged along the approach roads. “I count five men.”

Outside, headlights cut through the gaps in the bay doors. The beams tracked across the concrete floor before going dark. Car doors slammed. Then came a laugh.

It figured Arlo would be laughing. The bastard was minutes away from buying six kids, and he couldn’t be happier.

The main door creaked open. Arlo led the way, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets as his gaze scanned the ceiling and the vacant floor. Right on his heels was Johnson, a duffel slung over his shoulder, followed by two more crew members.

Bringing up the rear, Heath halted just two steps past the threshold. Instead of checking the floor, his gaze traveled straight up. He scanned the overhead rafters, tracked past the pallets stacked along the south wall, and swept over the plywood on the scaffolding.

Ryder didn’t move a muscle. Nothing up here but some iffy plywood, asshole. Keep on going.

Heath’s eyes moved on. Ryder let his breath out through his teeth.

“Diehls are in,” he murmured. “Heath’s staying by the main door. He’s jumpy tonight.”

“Copy,” Fallon said from the other side of the building.

Jumpy meant trouble. Back in the briefing room, Ryder had explicitly flagged this exact scenario. If a single detail felt off, Heath wouldn’t pause to analyze it. He’d just start shooting.

“Box truck pulling to the south bay.” Cassandra’s voice came through his earpiece. “White, no markings.”

The bay door groaned as it rattled upward. The box truck’s reverse alarm blared until a fist pounded the side panel accompanied by a stream of Spanish curses, cutting the noise dead. Seven men piled out of the cab and cargo hold. The leader was short, thick-chested, and walking with purpose. Arlo stepped forward to greet him, hand extended.

“Good to see you, my friend.” Arlo grinned at Kyle Rooney, current head of the supply chain, and soon to be wearing an orange jumpsuit for the rest of his fucking life.

“You’re early.”

“I’m eager. That’s a good thing in a business partner.”

Business partner. Jesus fucking Christ.