Page 62 of Scornful

I smile, appreciating how concerned she is:

Always am.

I can’t hold back the laugh:

Liar.

This woman is made for me:

See you when I get back. We need to talk.

Her reply is like lightning:

Yeah, we do. I love you.

The words on the screen make my chest tight:

Love you too, Princess.

I pocket the phone as Magnus appears. "Time to roll."

Outside, bikes are already rumbling.

I swing onto my bike, feeling that familiar settledness that comes before all hell breaks loose.

Runes leads us out, Fenrir beside him, the rest of us falling into formation.

The ride to Highway 20 takes forty minutes, the city fading away into an industrial wasteland.

Abandoned factories and empty lots—perfect place for Patriot to set up shop.

The warehouse sits back from the road, surrounded by chain link and razor wire.

Looks abandoned from the outside, but I notice fresh tire tracks in the dirt.

We kill the engines a quarter mile away, coasting the rest of the way.

No lights, no sounds—just shadows moving through darkness.

"Tor, Magnus, take the back," Runes whispers. "Emil, Geirolf, you're with me and Fenrir on the front. Kraken, find high ground and cover us."

Emil arches a brow, "You want me goin’ with you? I thought you wanted me staying back here."

Runes looks him right in the eye, "Did I fuckin’ stutter? I changed my mind. Sue me."

We split up, Emil and I flanking Fenrir as we approach the main entrance.

The lock's already been cut—recently, by the look of it.

Kraken breathes. "Trap?"

"Or someone beat us here," I respond.

Fenrir signals for silence, then eases the door open. The hinges don't make a sound—recently oiled.

Inside, the warehouse is dark except for emergency lighting casting everything in red.

Crates are stacked everywhere, some marked with Russian, or maybe Ukrainian, others with serial numbers.

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