Page 31 of Salvation

As the minutes ticked down toward departure, I found myself standing before the wall of photos in the main room of the clubhouse. My eyes fixed on one particular image -- Yulia, Clover, and me at Clover’s sixteenth birthday earlier that year. We were smiling, Clover in the center with birthday cake frosting on her nose, Yulia and I on either side of her. A family portrait in everything but name.

I touched the photo briefly, a promise without words. Then I turned and walked out to the line of bikes waiting in the compound, the weight of guns and knives nothing compared to the weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.

The sun was rising into the sky as we mounted up. No colors -- just black leather and deadly purpose. Beast gave the signal, and engines roared to life in unison.

It was time to bring my family home.

* * *

We approached the concrete block building like shadows. No engine noise for the final quarter mile. Hawk, Cyclops, and I led the way, our boots silent on the cracked pavement as we closed in on the warehouse. I felt the weight of my Glock against my thigh, the knife at my ankle, tools that would soon be slick with blood. Somewhere inside that building, behind those weathered walls, Yulia and Clover waited. My family. The thought sharpened my focus to a razor’s edge, the world narrowing to this moment, this mission, this kill.

“Three heat signatures on the first floor,” Shield murmured into our earpieces, his voice flat and technical from his position in the surveillance van. “Two near the front entrance, one patrolling the east corridor. Upper floor shows four more, plus the two smaller signatures in the northeast corner.”

I caught Hawk’s eye, a silent confirmation passing between us. Yulia and Clover were still here. Still alive. The relief that flooded through me lasted only a second before hardening back into deadly purpose.

“Confirm positions,” Beast’s voice came through the comm.

“Perimeter team in position,” Prospero responded. “All exit points covered.”

“Surveillance is go,” Drifter added. “Street’s clear. No movement.”

I pulled my Glock from its holster, screwing the silencer onto the barrel with practiced fingers. Around me, my brothers did the same, their movements fluid and precise in the gathering darkness.

“On my mark,” Beast said, his voice steady as a heartbeat. “Three, two, one. Execute.”

We moved as one, splitting into our assigned teams. Hawk, Cyclops, and I approached the side entrance while Beast led his group toward the loading dock. The third team circled to the rear fire exit. The building loomed before us, its windows dark and empty, like eye sockets in a skull.

Cyclops reached the door first, testing the handle. Locked. He pulled a set of picks from his cut and went to work, his good eye focused intensely on the task. Ten seconds later, I heard a soft click. He nodded once, tucking the picks away.

I took position, weapon raised. Hawk and Cyclops flanked me, their breathing as controlled as my own. With my free hand, I gripped the door handle, then pulled it open.

The hallway beyond was dim, lit only by emergency exit signs that cast a sickly red glow over peeling paint and concrete floors. The scent of mildew and cigarettes hit me as we slipped inside, the door closing silently behind us. For a moment, we froze, listening.

Footsteps approached from around the corner. Slow, casual. A guard making his rounds. I pressed my back against the wall, signaling to Hawk and Cyclops to hold position. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the soft crackle of a radio.

“Perimeter check. All clear,” a male voice reported into the radio. “Next check in thirty.”

The guard rounded the corner, a pistol held loosely at his side, completely unaware of what waited for him. I moved before he could register our presence, my hand clamping over his mouth as I slammed his head into the concrete wall with enough force to daze him. His radio clattered to the floor as Cyclops caught his weapon arm, twisting until something snapped. The man tried to scream, the sound muffled against my palm.

“Where are they?” I hissed into his ear, easing the pressure on his mouth just enough to allow an answer.

His eyes, wide with terror, darted toward the ceiling. “Upstairs,” he gasped. “End of the hall. Please --”

I cut off his plea by slamming his head into the wall again, harder this time. His body went limp. I lowered him to the ground as Hawk retrieved the fallen radio, silencing it before any alarm could be raised.

“One down,” I murmured into my comm. “Moving to the stairwell.”

“Copy,” Beast responded. “We’ve cleared the loading dock. Two tangos neutralized. Moving to join you.”

We advanced through the corridor, weapons ready, each of us scanning different angles. The building was older than it had appeared from outside, the interior a maze of narrow hallways and storage rooms. Most doors stood open, revealing empty spaces filled with dust and forgotten debris. This place had been abandoned long before the kidnappers chose it as their hideout.

The stairwell door appeared ahead, marked by a faded exit sign. Hawk moved forward, checking the push bar for any wires or triggers. Finding none, he eased it open just enough to peer through.

“Clear,” he whispered. “Stairs go up to the second level. I hear voices.”

I took point, leading the way into the stairwell. Our boots made no sound on the concrete steps as we ascended, the silence broken only by our measured breathing and the soft creak of leather. At the top landing, I paused, ear pressed against the metal door.

“-- time’s running out,” a voice said from the other side. “They’ve had long enough. If they don’t make the drop in the next hour --”

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