Page 52 of Crimson Tears

As soon as I’m ready, I snag a brush and hair tie to do my hair in the car, not wanting to waste another second. When I reach my car, the boys are already waiting and ready. Cillian is standing at his door and Boris slams his trunk.

“We are all loaded.” Boris walks around and opens his door. “I will make a call between us once we get on the road to discuss a plan.”

“Okay, let’s go get these kids.”

I have to be optimistic because there is darkness coming over me. I don’t know if it’s a warning or a feeling, but something doesn’t add up.

When our call connects, I refuse to allow anything to come before these kids and our mission. Boris and I are very good about separating our focus, and right now we all agree on where it needs to be.

My face is swollen from all of the crying and screaming, and my eyes are a little bloodshot, but I stop looking in the mirror as soon as my hair is up and out of my face.

Thankfully, not a lot of people are on the road at this time on a Saturday morning, so we don’t hit any traffic. I take the lead since we all know my car is the fastest, but I keep pace with all of them and their engines' abilities.

Maybe I should invest in faster cars for these men?

I file that thought for later. You never know when you will need to get somewhere in a hurry.

We discuss a few plans on the drive, but since we really have no idea what we’re moving in on, it’s hard to come up with anything definitive. I can tell Cillian is ready to race in while Boris wants to take it slow. I understand both sides and try to figure out a way we can do both because the two seem necessary.

We have no idea what kind of technology these people are working with. If they even have the slightest idea that we’re coming, we’ll have to adjust our plan rather than sneaking up onthem. But we have to ensure kids are out of the line of fire before engaging at all.

My head is feckin’ swimming by the time we all pull into the adjacent parking lot to what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. The truck is still there, but someone is getting in as soon as we step out of our own vehicles.

“Vantage point on the roof here,” Boris says, gesturing to the building behind us. It should allow us to see over the warehouse and be able to track the truck to watch where they’re headed.

“Go,” I tell him. “Tell us what you see, and we will move if it’s safe.”

He runs to the building, taking the stairs on the side to get to the top.

“I can drive over there, maybe even park in front of him and pretend to be lost or something,” Cillian offers, but I shake my head.

“If they know we’re coming, this could be an ambush. The heat signatures could be up to fifteen men. We can’t protect you from that.”

“What if it’s not though? What if it’s the kids and they need us? I don’t want to have to flip the truck to get them out.” I glance at him just as the truck's engine starts up. My jaw sets as my mind flashes back to when we met under similar circumstances.

“He is not leaving the property,” Boris says over comms. “It appears like he is turning into the warehouse.”

Cillian and I glance at each other, confused looks marring our faces. “Is this a drop point?” I ask, not expecting an answer.

“They could be getting the kids out to stay here while another car comes tomorrow?” Cillian guesses.

“The truck went in and the doors were closed behind it.”

“How many men?” I ask.

“I was only able to see three. The inside looked deserted, but there could be more.”

Fuck. Is this a trap or is this our shot?

“I’m going in,” Cil says, getting into his car and shutting the door.

His engine revs to life and he peels out, flying right over to the building.

“Fuck.”

“This is not the best idea,” Boris says calmly, as if he expected this from Cillian. I kind of did too, but the terror that is trying to claw at my chest doesn't dissipate. “Two men just exited and are heading to the south.”

“Track them as long as you can,” I say while hopping into my car and following Cillian. This is too rash, but I know Cillian, and there is no changing his mind.

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