Page 22 of Edge of Desperation

Our guns are equipped with silencers, but the guard falls from the roof of the container. Immediately, boots stomp across the pavement toward the dead body. We duck into another row as shouts in Russian fill the air and bright flood lights penetrate the darkness that hovers over the giant box.

So much for the element of surprise.

“That pissed them off. They’re fanning out,” Thomas translates quietly. “There’s at least six on the ground. Three coming from the north and three from the east.”

“Roger that.” I duck to the south, lift my hand, and wave forward for everyone to follow. We circle around so we’re on the backside of the unit a few rows down. The floodlights are sitting on each of the four corners of the container holding the victims. “Bennett, can you get close enough to take those bulbs out?”

Bennett grins. “I thought you were gonna ask me to do something hard.”

Before I can deck him, he takes off. The shattering of glass reaches our ears, and sudden blackness descends upon us again.

Thomas chuckles. “They’re going back to the front of the box.”

“We could cut a hole in the back of the container and get people out that way,” Carver offers.

“Too loud,” Hudson interjects. “Plus, we have no idea what shape they’re in. Are they gonna be able to walk on their own, let alone be quiet?”

“Hudson’s right,” I agree. “They know we’re here. Might as well have some fun.”

Bennett jogs back to my side. “Oorah,” he whispers. “There are six hostiles total.”

“Thomas, you and Carver take the left,” I order. “Hudson, you’re with me. Bennett, get your ass on the roof and cover us.”

“Roger that,” they say in unison.

We edge closer to the unit, our backs plastered to the wall. Carver cups his hands, and Bennett slips his foot in. With a push from Carver, Bennett scales the eight-foot wall with ease. I give the signal, and we make our way toward our targets.

I step around the corner first and come face to face with a giant behemoth Russian.

“Who the fuck ar?—”

I pull my arm back and strike with my fist in his carotid artery. His eyes roll into the back of his head before he falls forward, landing flat on his face.

“That was anticlimactic,” I mumble, pulling out my marine-issued Cold Steel SRK from its sheath. I lift his head off the concrete and slice his neck like a hot knife through butter.

Blood pounds in my ears, and adrenaline pushes me to seek another target to destroy. Carver is grappling with someone but seems to have the upper hand. A shot rings out, and a body drops behind me. I look up to Bennett, who is saluting me behind his sniper rifle. Thomas stabs another man in the heart repeatedly before putting a bullet in his head. Two more shots ring out, courtesy of Bennett. Bodies litter the ground, but we don’t have time to focus on cleanup.

“Hudson, get those doors open,” I command.

Hudson pulls the bolt cutter out of his pack and cuts the padlock off. Bennett flips off the roof, ready to assist with the victims. Thomas and Carver lift the latches and swing the doors open.

The rancid stench of urine and feces hits us like a brick wall. One girl stands, clutching her torn shirt around her while everyone else is slumped against the wall. Hudson shines a light into the container, and the female places her hands in front of her face to shield her eyes.

“Please,” she begs. “I want to go home.”

I move forward slowly. “We’re here to take you home. What’s your name?”

“Alexis,” she sniffles.

“How old are you, Alexis?”

“Fourteen.”

Red clouds my vision. Growls from my men penetrate the air, and Alexis shrinks back.

Hudson rushes to her side. “We didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart. We’re Marines, the good guys. Don’t worry, we’ll take you home.”

“Promise?” she asks, hopeful.

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