Now? I’m the fuse inside the powder keg.
And tonight, everything goes up.
“Decided to ditch that feisty one already?” one of the familiar faces jests, clapping my back like we’re lifelong mates.
I take a slow sip, hyperaware of the chatter weaving through the room—every conversation filed and clocked.
“Too right,” I reply, letting the smirk settle while burying the grit in my voice. “Time to upgrade to a newer model.”
He laughs, clueless. I’ll savour watching that laugh choke into silence later.
Another man joins us, glass drained like water, posture rigid and eyes hard.
“Evening, lads. Some prime lots on offer tonight.”
My fingers curl tight inside my pocket, knuckles pale and trembling beneath the fabric.
He’s next. I bet he shrieks when the knife meets bone.
“Got your eye on anything special?” Their words hang like meat in a butcher’s window. Absolute vultures.
“Lot forty looks promising. Just need to beat the Broker to it. Heard he’s sending someone to represent tonight.”
Would’ve been satisfying to strike him off tonight’s list, but I doubt he’d grace this cesspit with his actual presence. That piece of the plan will wait.
They call us forward, and I release a sharp breath—like clearing carbon from a rifle barrel. The crowd funnels into the chamber, all eyes pulled toward the circular stage like moths to a kill zone.
We file into position, seats hugging the perimeter. Remotes in hand—not weapons, but close enough.
Talia lets the first bids roll—all part of the plan. We wait, silent. Tactical patience. I’ve got five minutes to slip out and gear up.
The first girl stumbles onto the stage, eyes glassy, ribs threatening to puncture her skin. But there’s no guilt tonight—only the burn of righteous fury. She’s getting out. They all are.
The bidding begins. I slip from my seat, heading for the corridor marked ‘Toilets’—the designated extraction route.
The guard posted there doesn’t speak, just gives a crisp nod, completely unaware that he’s just signed his own death sentence. He opens the door, and we’re in the green.
I cough—the signal. The black duffel breaches through the window, exactly on schedule.
Within minutes I’m kitted; sidearm holstered, vest secure, earpiece active. Guns racked. Mind locked.
Talia’s steady voice crackles in my left ear. “Nice of you to join us.”
I answer low, clipped. “Hope you bastards are locked in. Everyone green on orders?”
“They’re tight. Bravo’s shadowing your flank. Charlie’s posted for breach support. Team’s running on your orders Alpha.”
I trust her with my six. She served under me back in command, Lieutenant General. Would’ve taken fire without hesitation. Has, multiple times.
“Operational go,” I say. “Mobilise. Rendezvous at breach point. Let’s clean this place out.”
Suppressor locked in place, I move with precision—light on my boots, cheek welded to the stock of my rifle, my good eye aligned through the optic. My Glock rides snug in the thigh holster, backup if things turn messy.
Intel pegged twenty personnel on site. Ten guarding the auction floor and girls. The rest are staged by the entrance, prepping transport for the aftermath—assuming there is one.
I round the corner and fire without hesitation—two controlled bursts. The suppressed pops barely register, quiet enough to keep the chaos contained.
They crumple fast. No warning, no last words. Blood pools in lazy circles beneath them, but I don’t break stride. Eyes forward. Route locked.
