"Someone who enjoys the pain he causes. Who takes what he wants without remorse." She looks down at her hands. "That's what I knew before."
Before I can respond, Wilder's voice cuts in. "Approaching target."
The building looms ahead, industrial and imposing in the afternoon light. Two vehicles are parked outside—a white van similar to the one Evelyn described and a black sedan.
"Stay in the van," I tell Evelyn as Wilder brings us to a stop behind a stack of shipping containers that shields us from view. "Wilder stays with you."
"But—"
"That's the deal," I say firmly. "You watch. You don't participate."
She nods reluctantly. "Be careful."
When was the last time someone other than my brothers cared if I came back in one piece? Emma used to say it, before she saw too much, knew too much about what her father really was.
"Always am," I reply.
I check my earpiece, hearing the confirmation signals from my brothers now positioned around the warehouse. "Wilder, you're on protection detail. Anyone approaches the van who isn't wearing our colors, shoot them."
"Copy that, boss." Wilder's massive hand rests on his sidearm.
I turn to Evelyn one last time. "Lock the doors after I'm gone."
She nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
"I feel safer around you," she admits quietly. "I know that doesn't make sense, but it's true."
This woman, who has every reason to fear men like me, feels safer in my presence. It's a responsibility I didn't ask for but find myself desperately wanting to honor.
"I'll be back," I promise, and then I'm out the door, signaling to Ghost as I move toward the warehouse.
We approach from multiple angles, using the shipping containers and abandoned equipment for cover. Through my earpiece, I hear Blade's steady voice: "East entrance clear. Two guards inside main door. One roaming the perimeter."
"Take the roamer," I instruct. "Quietly."
Seconds later: "Roamer down. Unconscious, secured."
We converge on the main entrance, moving like shadows despite our size. Years of operating together have made us efficient, anticipating each other's movements without need for constant communication.
Ghost and I position ourselves on either side of the door. The two guards are visible through the small windows—smoking, laughing, oblivious to what's coming.
I catch Ghost's eye, hold up three fingers. Three. Two. One.
We breach the entrance. The guards barely have time to register our presence before they're subdued—one by Ghost's chokehold, the other by my boot to his knee followed by a pistol against his temple.
"How many inside?" I demand, voice low.
"F-four," the guard stammers. "Plus the merchandise."
"Where?"
"Center of the warehouse. Shipping container. Green."
I nod to Ghost, who secures both guards with zip ties and duct tape over their mouths. We move deeper into the warehouse, the rest of our crew converging from other entry points.
The space is cavernous, poorly lit, and smells of rust and mildew. Stacks of crates and abandoned machinery provide ample cover as we advance toward the center where a green shipping container sits like an obscene coffin.
Two more guards stand near it, along with a woman in a tight red dress. Naomi, I assume, from Evelyn's description. A man in an expensive suit paces in front of them, speaking rapidly.
