Page 67 of Run Omega Run
Even though I was beyond raging about what had happened to my family, I kept my breathing steady and controlled for the sake of the children, who needed to feel safe rather than sensing the violence that simmered just beneath my calm exterior. They'd seen enough terror for several lifetimes; what they needed now was the absolute certainty that their guardians were strong enough to keep them safe.
But beneath the tender care we were all providing, I could feel something darker building among my pack brothers. The same fury that burned in my chest was reflected in the set of Bennett's jaw, in Angus’s clenched fists, and in the clinicalprecision that had characterized Cole's handling of Heather's mom’s body. We were all thinking the same thoughts, making the same predictions, reaching the same inevitable conclusions about what needed to happen next.
The soft sound of the bedroom door opening announced Cole's return from his grim errands. He moved with the quiet precision that characterized everything he did, his toffee scent carrying undertones of finality that suggested important arrangements had been completed.
"Everything's handled," he said quietly, settling into the remaining chair with movements that spoke of exhaustion carefully controlled. "She will be honored properly. The funeral home understands our needs, and the arrangements are both dignified and true to her life story... at least what she had told me when I looked after her each evening." His head lowered, and he kicked off his shoes.
Heather stirred slightly at the sound of his voice, but didn't wake. It was probably the first real rest she'd managed in days. Her fingers twitched against the blanket, as if reaching for something that wasn't there, and my grip on her hand tightened in response.
Cole's gaze found mine across the room, and I saw something shift in his expression. His clinical mask gave way to something harder, more personal. "The medical examiner confirmed cause of death as smoke inhalation," he said. "She didn't suffer. The medication kept her unconscious throughout."
The information should have been comforting, but it only fed the fire burning in my chest. Heather’s mom had died peacefully, but she'd died because Jude and his pack had set a fire specifically designed to kill everyone in that house. The fact that she'd been spared suffering didn't change the reality that her death had been murder, calculated and cold.
Bennett's phone call concluded with sharp efficiency, his attention shifting fully to our group as he processed Cole's words.
"It's now or never, lads," Cole said, his voice carrying a quiet finality that preceded irreversible action. "Every hour we wait gives them more time to cover their tracks, more time to hurt Susie and more time to think they've won."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications that went far beyond simple justice. This wasn't about legal proceedings or official channels; no, this was about the kind of retribution that left no room for mercy or second chances. The men who'd burned our Omega’s home, murdered her mom, and stolen Susie had crossed lines that couldn't be uncrossed, had earned consequences that would be delivered without mercy.
I felt my free hand curl into a fist that could crush steel, every muscle in my massive frame coiling with anticipation of violence that would finally, properly, address the wrongs done to our family. Around the bed, I could sense similar tension building in my pack brothers. The careful control that had sustained us through hours of crisis was giving way to something darker and more primal.
“I’ve had a ‘friend’ watch them. They’re downtown in the warehouse district,” Cole said, his lips pursed into a sly smile.
“Well, what are we waiting for!” I said, trying not to yell the words.
Bennett stood up. “Gear up men, we’re going hunting!”
Chapter 29
Cole
Ipressed my back into the corrugated metal until its cold teeth bit through my coat, breathing shallow so the night wouldn’t learn my shape. My breath fogged and vanished, small clouds that felt like promises I had no intention of keeping. Moonlight skittered across broken concrete and oil-slick puddles, painting the industrial graveyard in silver and rust. Construction equipment stood unused until dawn brought another day. But tonight, we weren't here to build anything. Tonight, we were here to tear something apart.
The warehouse hunched ahead like a concrete tumor; its corrugated metal siding streaked with rust and graffiti that spoke of years without maintenance or care. Its windows were like blind sockets, painted black from the inside. The sight made my jaw tighten; the thought of what waited inside made my fists clench. It was the perfect place for men like Jude to conduct business that required screams to go unheard, a place where questions were left and never asked.
I’d rubbed acetone and bleach into my sleeves until the toffee that usually clung to me was buried beneath the smell of cleaning chemicals. The disguise sat on me like a second skin: anonymous and clinical. To anyone catching traces of my presence, I would smell like a janitor or maintenanceworker, someone who belonged in places that reeked of cleaning supplies and antiseptic. I flexed my fingers inside latex gloves, and the snap as they settled over my wrists sounded to me like finality, a last farewell. My pulse tapped at the base of my throat; my heart pounded, not with fear, but with the cold, precise anticipation of someone about to perform a task they’d rehearsed in a thousand quieter moments.
Through the night-vision lenses, the world simplified into green shapes and pinprick embers where cigarettes glowed like fireflies in the darkness. Two men at the main door, one on patrol, tire tracks at the loading dock. I narrowed my eyes and catalogued weaknesses the way I used to list causes of death; ventilation too high for gas, an ancient electrical box begging to be killed, thick walls that would swallow sound. Each discovery tightened something in my chest; I felt a lump in my throat and swallowed it down like a pill.
My medical training painted the scene in terms of vulnerabilities rather than obstacles. The guard at the main door favored his left leg, probably an old injury that would make him slower to react. His companion held his rifle with the casual grip of someone who'd grown comfortable with routine, dangerous complacency that could be exploited.
“The east side is weaker than it looks,” Dante murmured, sliding into position. “I’ve got visual on the northern patrol.” His tone was calm, precise, almost clinical, but the way his fingers flexed against the concrete suggested the undercurrent of tension we all felt.
Inside that concrete box, Susie was depending on us to find her before Jude's entertainment grew terminal. The thought of her wild red hair matted with blood, her lemon scent soured by terror, sent something cold and implacable through my chest. She was family now, one of ours, and the men who'd taken herhad signed their own death warrants the moment they'd laid hands on her.
