Page 34 of Lone Wolf

The rain beats down as we all approach the warehouse, moving in tight formation. Scarlett’s voice comes through the comms, calm and measured.

“Alpha Team, east entrance. Beta Team, loading bay. Look alive, people.”

I check my weapon one last time and then we start creeping forward. The warehouse looms ahead, dark and anonymous in the downpour. I make sure I take my place directly behind Sunny, where I can keep my eyes on her.

The Syndicate moves like a well-oiled machine—the loading bay is cleared silently and we slip inside. The warehouse is divided into an open area with several parked trucks, and then multiple corridors with rooms coming off of them. There’s a mezzanine level as well, which is where Sunny and I will be searching. The air smells of mildew and fear.

“Clear,” Scarlett murmurs into her comm. “Moving in.”

We all split into twos as planned. I stay close to Sunny, watching her scan each doorway, each shadow, as we make our way down one of the corridors, checking each room. But the mission-focused mask she wears is slipping—her eyes dart frantically, searching and searching…

Sunny rounds a corner too quickly, nearly running into a guard. But before I can move, she has him in a choke hold, knife at his throat. Her eyes are wild.

“Where are they?” she hisses, pressing the blade deeper. “The women.Where?”

“Hey,” I whisper. “Protocol.”

She ignores me, and even the guard looks afraid at her intensity. When he points toward a large truck on the open floor of the warehouse, she slides the knife up through the soft underside of his chin and into his brain with brutal efficiency, then starts moving toward the nearest staircase—away from our assigned route.

“Santiago,” I hiss after her. “Return to the route.”

But without a backward glance, she starts to move quickly down the stairs.

Fuckinghell.

I move after her, keeping to the shadows as we hit the ground. I can hear Sunny’s footsteps, quick and purposeful—and that means the guards will all be able to hear her, too. But whatever ghost she’s chasing, she’s determined to find it.

I catch up to her just as she reaches the truck. It’s padlocked shut, but she’s working on the lock, fingers quick but trembling slightly as she works her lock-picking tool around in it.

“You’re compromising the entire operation,” I say, voice low. “We need to return?—”

The lock clicks open, and Sunny swings open the doors without acknowledging me. I raise my weapon, ready for whatever’s on the other side.

But nothing could have prepared me for what we find.

Women. Girls, really. At least a dozen of them, huddled together or sitting against the walls. Some look up at our entrance, eyeshollow with despair or glassy from drugs. Others don’t move at all.

“Oh my God,” Sunny whispers, her voice breaking.

I’ve seen horrors before. I’vecausedhorrors before. But this—the deliberate cruelty of it—hits me somewhere I thought had died long ago.

Sunny moves forward, speaking in soft Spanish to the closest woman, who only shrinks back in fear. I scan the interior, counting heads, assessing our exit options. We need to move these women quickly, but safely. Many look malnourished, some injured.

“We need backup,” I say, reaching for my earpiece. “I’m calling in?—”

“Behind you!” one of the women suddenly cries out.

I spin, weapon raised, as five men run down the same staircase we just did—Mancini Family muscle. They weren’t expecting us; their surprise is clear as they register our weapons, our tactical gear.

For a split second, nobody moves.

Then everything happens at once.

Sunny and I move in perfect synchronization, as if we’ve fought together for years instead of weeks. We both move well away from the truck, not wanting to endanger the women. I take the two on the left; she handles the two on the right. Sunny’s movements show all the control and precision I taught her, but with an edge of savagery I recognize from my own darkest days. She shoots dead the first man with brutal efficiency, thenengages the second in hand-to-hand combat, striking deep into his neck with her knife.

The fifth man, caught in the middle, hesitates just long enough between the two of us for me to put a bullet in his kneecap after dispatching my own targets. I run back to the truck to check on the women.

“What’s going on?” Lyssa’s voice is sharp in my ear, and I pull out the comms link, needing all my concentration.

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