Bane sits closest to the door, and even seated he dominates the space. He’s a titan with broad shoulders and coiled power in his lumberjack frame that makes other alphas step aside without thinking. So does the forked scar carved down the left side of his face, one branch cutting through his lip and the other stretching toward the broken nose from his police days that makes him resemble a giant Roman statue that got in a huge bar fight and won.
His hazel eyes scan the approach vectors on his tablet, that perpetual five o'clock shadow making him look like he just rolled out of bed ready to fuck someone up. He catches me looking and gives a curt nod.
No words needed. We've done this dance enough times to know our parts.
Beside him, Elias—or "Doctor" as we call him in the field—methodically checks his medical kit for the third time. Where Bane is all brute force, the Doc is precision incarnate. That silver hair of his catches what little moonlight filters through the windows, making him look older than his thirty-one years. But those blue eyes? Sharp as scalpels and twice as cold when he's working. The lean muscle under his tactical gear speaks to his military background, though, every movement economical and purposeful.
He's muttering under his breath, probably running through triage protocols. The man's seen more trauma than any person should, but it never stops him from trying to save everyone. Evenwhen it's impossible. Even when it breaks something inside him each time he fails.
"You good, Doc?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Always." His voice stays conversational, like we're discussing the weather instead of preparing to rain hell on human traffickers. That's his thing, supernatural calm in the face of chaos. Sometimes I wonder what it cost him. That's not the kind of thing you just come by.
And then there's Carlisle. Carlisle sprawls in his seat, long legs stretched out carelessly, head bobbing to whatever's playing through his AirPods. His fingers tap an erratic rhythm against his knees, and occasionally he hums snatches of what sounds like classical music, because of course the psychopath listens to Mozart before a kill. The dim cabin light catches on his golden hair and those deceptively gentle blue eyes, making him look almost angelic.
But I know better.
That easy smile playing at his lips isn't anticipation for saving lives. It's bloodlust, pure and simple. His custom blade collection gleams against his tactical gear, each weapon worth more than my monthly salary back when I was a far more legitimate brand of pilot for the Army. The juxtaposition between his carefree demeanor and what we're about to do is jarring, but that's Carlisle for you. To him, this is just another pleasant evening out, like he's heading to dinner instead of what's sure to be a bloodbath.
"Two minutes," I update, starting our descent. The compound grows larger in the windshield, and my enhanced vision picks out details that make my trigger finger itch. Guards walking predictable patterns. Security cameras with obvious blind spots. Amateurs playing at being hard men.
They have no idea what's coming.
"Masks up," Bane orders, his voice shifting into command mode. "Remember, no survivors except the victims and no one sees our faces. Clean and quick."
I watch in the mirror as they transform. Tactical masks slide into place, turning them from men into nightmares. Black gear, skull balaclavas, no identifying marks, just death walking on two legs. Even knowing they're on my side, the sight sends a primal warning through my hindbrain.
Predators, all of them. And I'm about to become one of them.
"Thirty seconds to rope deployment," I announce, hovering just outside their sensor range. The mountains provide perfect cover, and I've killed the running lights. We're just another shadow in a world full of them.
The cargo door slides open, and cold air floods the cabin. Bane goes first, fast-roping down like gravity's his bitch. Elias follows, medical pack secured tight against his back. Carlisle brings up the rear, dropping down like he doesn't give a fuck if he lives or dies.
I watch them hit the ground and immediately spread out, moving toward the compound like wolves closing on sheep. My job now is to wait, to be ready for extraction, to trust they'll handle their part.
The hardest fucking part.
I set the bird down on a narrow ledge halfway up the mountain, kill the engines, and grab my rifle. Can't go in with them, someone needs to guard our exit, but I can provide overwatch. The scope finds them easily as they breach the perimeter, and I settle in to do what I do best.
Protect my pack.
The first guard doesn't even see Bane coming. One second he's lighting a cigarette, the next he's face-down with a knife between his ribs. Clean. Professional. The body gets dragged into shadows before anyone notices.
Elias takes the next one, some kind of nerve strike that drops the guy like a puppet with cut strings. No blood, no sound, just sudden absence of life. Sometimes I forget the good doctor knows more ways to end a life than save one.
Carlisle simply walks up to his target and snaps the man's neck like a twig. Note to self: never piss off the psycho.
They flow through the compound like a plague, leaving bodies in their wake. I track their progress through the scope, calling out positions when needed. "Two tangos, northwest corner. Moving your way."
"Copy," Bane whispers back. Then those two are down too, added to the growing body count.
The main building looms ahead, and that's where things get complicated. Can't use explosives, too much risk to the victims inside. Has to be close work, the kind that leaves marks on your soul.
"Breaching now," Bane announces.
The next few minutes are a symphony of violence broadcast through my earpiece. Gunfire, screams cut short, the wet sound of blades finding flesh. I want to be down there, want to help, but my job is to watch the perimeter and?—
Movement. Eastern approach.
