Page 15 of Saint's Preciosa
"Back corridor clear," Hawk adds. "Two rooms secured. No resistance."
"Police scanner quiet," Cipher informs me, monitoring a separate program. "No chatter about our location. Closest patrol is fifteen blocks away and heading in the opposite direction."
So far, so good. I lean forward, scanning each monitor for potential complications, mentally calculating egress routes if things go south. Most operations veer a bit sideways at some point—that's just the nature of the beast—but tonight seems smooth as butter.
Ghost's voice fills my earpiece, tension evident despite his controlled tone. "Target acquired. Repeat, target acquired.”
He’s got Popov.
"Copy that," I respond. "Status on civilians?"
There's a pause, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
"Eight workers located," Ghost replies. "Being evacuated now. No customers present."
I breathe a sigh of relief. We'd timed the raid for after-hours, hoping to minimize collateral damage.
"Charges being set," Hawk reports. "T-minus ten minutes until we're ready to light this place up."
I'm about to acknowledge when Blade's voice cuts through, lower and more urgent than before. "Saint, brother, you there?"
"Go ahead," I respond immediately, recognizing the tone that means trouble.
"That woman from the clinic is here. The one you were with today. She’s..um…one of the workers."
The world stops rotating on its axis. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else for a moment. Luna? Luna is inside a building we're about to blow to kingdom come? Luna is working for a human fucking trafficker?!
"Say again," I demand, needing to confirm what I've heard.
"The chick from the vet clinic. The one with the little dog."
Red washes over my vision, hot fury rising so fast I can barely breathe through it. The thought of my sweet precious in that place, of men's hands on her delicate skin, of strangers viewing her as merchandise... That fucking Russian will die a slow, painful death. Really slowly and excruciatingly painful.
"I'm coming in," I announce, already on my feet, chair crashing backwards to the floor.
"Negative," Ghost's voice cuts through. "Stay at your post. We've got her. She'll be evacuated with the others."
"Like hell," I growl, grabbing my cut and strapping on my shoulder holster. "That's my woman in there. My ol’ lady.”
"Your ol’ lady?” Ghost sounds genuinely surprised. "Since when?"
"Since fucking now.” I'm already moving toward the door, adrenaline and protective rage coursing through my veins like liquid fire. "Cipher, you've got comms. Keep Ghost updated on police movement."
Cipher merely nods, knowing better than to try to stop me. In our world, when a brother claims an ol’ lady, that's that. Even the Prez won't interfere.
"Saint, we're on a timetable here," Ghost warns through the earpiece. "Charges are set. Ten minutes until detonation."
"Understood," I reply, not slowing my pace. "Just make sure she's safe until I get there."
I disconnect the comms, pocketing the earpiece as I stride through the clubhouse. Two prospects look up as I pass. Reading my murderous expression, they wisely stay out of my way. Outside, I swing onto my Harley, the engine roaring to life beneath me like a beast awakening to hunt.
The ride to the spa takes four and a half minutes. Wind tears at my face as I weave through cars, running red lights, focused solely on reaching Luna. I've killed men before, felt their life drain beneath my hands, but never have I felt this overwhelming need to protect someone. It's a foreign sensation—half maddening, half exhilarating.
When I arrive, the scene is relatively quiet. The brothers have the chaos under control as they escort women from the building—some crying, some stoic, all looking shell-shocked. The stench of fear hangs heavy in the air.
I dismount, roll my bike into a nearby alley, and return, scanning faces until I spot Blade near the side entrance.
"Where is she?" I demand without preamble.
