Page 19 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

“Jesus,” Cain continued. “I’m assuming you can hear me. Okay, no sign of anyone leaving, so… guessing everyone is holed up. Blueprints—Simon, pass me the… shit… okay, yeah… there’s a panic room, top floor of the main building.”

I relayed the important information. “Annie’s safe. No one has vacated or run. Also, panic room, top floor, main building.”

“That’s where he’ll be,” he murmured.

“Who?” I asked.

“The asshole at the top of this cartel. He’s here.”

“You know that for sure?” I glanced at him.

“Instinct.” He didn’t even pause, not even a hint of hesitation in his gray eyes.

A panic room made sense. These guys always had an escape plan, a last resort when things went south, and if there was no sign of anyone leaving… “Let’s move,” I said, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. The thought that I could get everyone and shut this down, was a fire in my gut.

We approached the main building, aware that every corner could be an ambush, every shadow a potential threat. The silence was eerie. Where were the remaining crew members?

Protecting the head of this organization?

We moved in formation to the base of the stairs, removing two guards who were staring outside and not watching their backs. They realized we were there too late, but their cries were muffled as we took them down. I reached into a pocket for zip ties, but August was there, killing them on the spot, a knife to each throat. No mercy given.

We did the same on the next floor, three this time, and we shared taking down goon number three, but it was August who finished the job even though all three were unconscious.

He was a killing machine, and I couldn’t even argue with him because he knew them, and I didn’t. Back at Sanctuary, they’d worried about his humanity, and fuck if I could see much humanity in him right now.

As we made our way to the top floor, every step was measured, calculated. We were a team functioning with a singular purpose as we entered a large room, a bank of computers and desks, not unlike the office back at Sanctuary Chicago.

As soon as we entered the room, it was clear we’d found the remaining crew, armed and ready, with their weapons trained on us. But it was the sixth man, thin and quivering, who caught my attention. His weapon wobbled in his unsteady hands; his eyes wide with fear. He was no soldier; he was terrified, out of his depth.

“Don’t shoot!” he cried. Before I could process further, the thin man’s weapon clattered to the floor. He crouched, covering his ears, his whole body shaking. August and I didn’t hesitate with the rest. We didn’t have the luxury of a standoff.

In one fluid motion, I dropped to a crouch, and the room erupted into chaos. The first armed man didn’t have time to register surprise before I squeezed the trigger, the bullet hitting him center mass. He fell backward, his weapon clattering to the floor.

August crouched, then took down the second man with the precision of a seasoned warrior.

I pivoted, my sights settling on the third assailant. He was quicker, firing off a shot that whizzed past my ear. Adrenaline surged, and I returned fire, two shots that hit their mark, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The fourth and fifth men were recovering from their initial shock, trying for cover, firing wide. But August and I were a step ahead. My next bullet caught the fourth man in the shoulder, spinning him around. At the same time, August’s shot took down the fifth, a clean hit to the center mass, and then, he finished off my guy with a kill shot.

In mere seconds, the room fell silent, the only sound the ragged breathing of the small, thin man still crouched on the floor, his hands over his ears.

August and I exchanged a quick glance. The threat was neutralized, but we couldn’t lower our guard, not yet. With our weapons still raised, we cleared the rest of the room, alert for more danger.

“Amos,” August said under his breath.

But there was none. We were alone with the cowering man—Amos—the aftermath of our swift action surrounding us. It was over, at least for now. As I holstered my weapon, August stepped towards Amos, his voice carrying a command that brooked no argument. “Stand up, Amos,” he ordered as he kicked away the fallen weapon. It skittered under a table, and the man uncurled himself, rising, but avoiding August’s gaze, hands above his head.

“Fuck. Mitchell. Don’t shoot me; please don’t kill me. I just do what I’m told.”

August thumbed at him. “Amos, comm, mouthpiece of whoever is in the panic room, runs all the ops, human trafficking, drugs, guns. Knows all the shit here.” August confirmed to me in a dead tone. He pressed a gun under the man’s chin, tilting it, so he could look him in the eyes. “Issuing contracts on the lives of innocents.” Just as much evil in that man, then, as in any others in the cartel.

“He could be useful to keep for intel,” I murmured.

Amos grabbed onto that big time. “Yes! Yes! I can be useful. I’ll tell you everything.”

“After you get us into the panic room,” August snapped.

Amos, was a bundle of nerves, his voice only a whisper as he stammered, “I-I can’t… He’ll kill me.” His eyes were wide, haunted by a terror that spoke volumes of the person behind the panic room door. “I’ll go; you can take me, but please don’t make me—” August pressed the gun harder, and the thin man was almost up on his toes.

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