Page 95 of Wings
When we finally separated, she reached for something on the nightstand. The St. Christopher pendant caught the light—small, silver, worn smooth from years of handling.
"This was my granddad's," she said quietly, fastening it around my neck with careful fingers. "Tuck it in your cut tonight? For luck?"
The medal settled against my chest, still warm from her hands. Another piece of her to carry into darkness. Another reason to make it through.
"Thank you, baby girl."
We lay entwined under the blanket for a few more precious minutes, her head on my chest, my fingers in her hair. But time moved forward whether we wanted it to or not. Thursday had arrived, and with it, choices that would reshape everything.
The watch glowed 11:47 PM, the time synced to match the Serpent’s operations down to the second. I crouched in the overgrown weeds outside the Stanton warehouse, knees protesting against the cold ground, grateful for the prosthetic that at least didn't feel the chill. Tank breathed steady beside me, each exhale turning to mist. Thor flanked my other side, still as stone.
The old furniture distributor was in the center of the industrial district. It was two stories of corrugated metal and dirty skylights, surrounded by chain-link topped with lazy loops of barbed wire. Through my scope, I tracked the roving guards—fifteen-minute cycles, just like Alex promised. They moved with the bored confidence of men who'd done this too many times, who'd forgotten that complacency killed more soldiers than bullets.
"Northeast rover just passed," Tank whispered, voice barely carrying over the distant hum of highway traffic. "Right on schedule."
I lowered the scope, checking our positioning again. We'd bellied through the grass from the abandoned lot two blocks south, slow enough that the motion sensors wouldn't trigger. Now we waited in the dead zone between camera sweeps, invisible in the shadows cast by the rusted shipping containers.
A block behind us, Duke and Tyson held position with the rest of our strike team. Eight Heavy Kings total—small enough to move fast, large enough to overwhelm. Their bikes sat silent behind the old train depot, ready for the extraction that would either save us or damn us.
The plan lived in my bones now, rehearsed until it flowed like muscle memory. Two smoke grenades through the skylights to blind the money count. Flash-bangs at both exits to trap and disorient. In the chaos, we'd drop through the roof, grab the cash, and vanish before the Serpents knew what hit them. Quick, clean, professional.
Through the grimy windows, yellow light spilled across stacks of money. Venom's laugh carried on the wind—I’d heard that distinctive bark before, from every territorial dispute we'd weathered. Tomb and Slash flanked him at the counting table, their soldiers spread throughout the warehouse floor. Nine men inside, focused on dividing Houston's quarterly payment.
"Two at the gate," Thor reported, scope trained on the main entrance. "Prospects. Young and stupid."
"Two rovers, one sniper," I added, marking Bones' position on the roof. The Serpent sniper had claimed the northwest corner,best vantage point for the approaches. His cigarette flared orange in the darkness—another sign of complacency. Light discipline mattered, even on home turf.
My hand found the St. Christopher pendant through my cut, metal warm against my chest. A talisman now, carrying her faith that I'd return.
"Five minutes," Tank said, checking his own watch.
"Masks," I ordered, pulling the black balaclava over my face. The others followed suit, transforming from men into shadows. Anonymous instruments of violence.
Through the earpiece, Duke's voice crackled with command authority. "Strike team in position. Perimeter team ready. On your signal, Wings."
The weight of leadership settled across my shoulders heavier than any pack I'd humped through Afghan mountains. These men trusted my brother's intel, trusted my judgment that this wasn't a trap. If Alex had lied, if this went sideways, their blood would paint my hands.
But the money was there, stacked neat on tables just like he'd described. The guard positions matched his drawings down to the meter. Even Venom's presence—the Serpent president rarely showed for counts, but Alex had promised he'd be here tonight. Everything aligned too perfectly for coincidence.
"Two minutes," Tank breathed.
I pulled the smoke grenades from my vest, feeling their weight. Military surplus, purchased through channels that didn't ask questions. Purple smoke that would fill the warehouse in seconds, turn their secure count into blind chaos. The flash-bangs hung from Thor's belt—his contribution to the party, sourced from a cousin in demolitions.
One minute.
The rovers passed again, footsteps crunching gravel in lazy rhythm. Bones lit another cigarette on the roof, ruining hisnight vision for crucial seconds. Inside, someone told a joke that had the Serpents laughing, guard down, focused on money and brotherhood instead of the darkness beyond their walls.
Thirty seconds.
My team shifted subtly, muscles coiling for action. Tank's breathing changed, dropping into the steady rhythm of impending violence. Thor rolled his shoulders, loosening up for what came next. We'd all been here before—that moment when planning became action, when careful became kinetic.
Ten seconds.
I thought of Kiara, safe in our bed. Of the life we were building. Of the threats that needed to be eliminated for that life to flourish. My finger found the pin on the first smoke grenade.
Five.
Duke's voice in my ear: "Execute, execute, execute."
