Page 96 of Wings
Four.
The weight of brothers beside me, counting on me.
Three.
The pendant warm against my chest.
Two.
Freedom, just out of reach.
One.
"Go," I whispered, and the night exploded into motion.
Thor moved like controlled thunder, all that Viking rage channeled into precise violence. The first gate guard never saw him coming—one massive arm around the throat, cutting off air and scream in the same motion. The prospect's eyes went wide, hands clawing at Thor's forearm, but it was already over. Zip ties secured wrists and ankles while the kid was still seeing stars.
The second guard managed half a shout before Thor's fist connected with his jaw. The sound of bone meeting bone cracked through the night, followed by the dull thud of abody hitting gravel. More zip ties, duct tape across the mouth. Efficient. Professional. Alive but neutralized.
"Gate clear," Thor's voice rumbled through the earpiece.
Tank and I were already moving, staying low as we crossed the killing ground between the containers and the warehouse wall. My prosthetic performed perfectly—all those hours of training paying off as we flowed through the darkness. Behind us, Tyson's van crept forward, lights off, Duke riding shotgun with the assault team ready to deploy.
The ladder rungs felt like ice under my gloves. We'd identified this access point during surveillance—an old maintenance ladder that put us twenty feet from Bones' position. The sniper hadn't moved, still focused on the main approaches while we came from his blind spot.
I crested the roof edge silent as smoke. Bones sat in a lawn chair—a fucking lawn chair—rifle propped against the air conditioning unit while he scrolled through his phone. The cigarette dangled from his lips, cherry bright in the darkness.
The gravel under my boots made the faintest crunch. Bones' head started to turn, hand reaching for the rifle. Too late. The stun baton caught him just below the ear, voltage dropping him like a puppet with cut strings. His phone clattered across the roof, screen showing some game with cartoon birds.
"Overwatch down," I reported, zip-tying the unconscious sniper.
Tank had already moved to the nearest skylight, lock picks working their magic. These old industrial skylights were built for ventilation, not security. The lock gave way with a soft click that sounded like opportunity.
I eased the panel open, careful not to let the hinges squeak. Below, the Serpents' laughter echoed off concrete walls. Someone had brought beer—bottles clinked as they toastedtheir profits. Through the gap, I could see everything Alex had promised.
Venom stood at the head of the counting table, gray hair slicked back, wearing that same leather cut I'd seen at every meet. His hands moved through stacks of bills with practiced ease, sorting them into three piles. Tomb worked the left side—massive black man with ritual scars across his shaved skull. Slash had the right, his name earned from the Glasgow smile someone had carved into his face years ago.
"—new route through Pueblo," Venom was saying, voice carrying clear in the warehouse acoustics. "ATF's been sniffing around the old one. Lost a shipment last month to those federal fucks."
More laughter. More beer. Nine men total, just like the intel promised. Two soldiers per officer, all focused inward on the money. None watching the roof where death prepared to rain down.
"In position," Duke's voice crackled. "Perimeter team confirms no additional contacts. Execute on your mark."
I pulled the first smoke grenade, feeling the weight of it. In Syria, we'd used these to mark landing zones, to screen movement, to signal extraction. Tonight they'd signal something else—the moment the Heavy Kings stopped playing defense.
The pin came free with that distinctive metallic ping. I counted down the fuse in my head, waiting for the perfect moment. Tank had the second skylight open, his own grenade ready. Across the roof, I could see our other teams moving into position. Everything synchronized. Everything perfect.
"Smoke out," I whispered, and dropped the grenade through the gap.
It hit the concrete with a hollow thunk that made Slash look up, confusion creasing his scarred face. Then purple smoke billowed out like a living thing, thick and chemicaland immediate. I was already moving to the second position, dropping another grenade through Tank's skylight.
"What the fuck—" Venom's shout cut off as the smoke engulfed him.
Inside, chaos erupted. Chairs scraped and toppled. Someone knocked over the beer bottles—glass shattered across concrete. The counting table flipped as men scrambled for weapons they couldn't see to use. Coughing, cursing, the sound of bodies colliding in the purple haze.
"Go, go, go!" Duke's command launched the ground teams.
The flash-bangs went off simultaneously—Thor's at the front entrance, Tyson's team at the rear. Even from the roof, the concussion punched through my chest. Inside, the screaming started. Disoriented men firing blind, muzzle flashes lighting up the smoke like purple lightning.
