Page 137 of Mile High Daddy

Too many.

Too organized.

This isn’t just some random attack.

Torres tenses beside me, his fingers flexing over his weapon. “Some of those guys—I recognize them,” he mutters. “They were at that abandoned compound I checked out the other day.”

My blood runs cold.

I narrow my eyes at a group huddled near the warehouse entrance. A flash of ink on one of their wrists catches my attention.

A brand I’ve seen before.

A mark I know too well.

Evans’s men.

Lila’s father.

My chest tightens, fury curling hot and sharp in my gut.

This isn’t just some small-time job.

This is something bigger.

And Evans is involved.

Torres must see it too because he exhales sharply, his face darkening. “What are they still doing here?” he mutters. “Didn’t you tell them to leave?”

“I did.”

Because I did tell them to leave. I made it very clear to Evans that his job was done. That he had no reason to be anywhere near Lila or this town anymore.

And yet?—

Here they are.

Torres curses under his breath, his eyes narrowing.

We move fast, slipping through the dark, tracking the movement of the men stationed around the property. The place is crawling. More than a dozen outside, and from the way they’re positioned—guarding the exits, watching the perimeter—there are more inside.

I signal Torres. “We take them quietly. Work from the west side in.”

He nods.

We strike.

I fire before the first guard can yell, the bullet tearing through his skull. His body drops, but the sound is like setting off a trip wire.

Gunfire explodes into the night. A hail of bullets whizzes past me, punching into the stone wall behind us. Torres ducks, firing back in rapid succession, dropping two before they can adjust their aim. I move fast, pressing against the trunk of a parked car, scanning the chaos. They’re spreading out now, taking cover, barking orders.

I don’t wait for them to regroup.

I push off the car and charge.

Torres is covering my six, laying down fire, his shots precise, efficient. The ones near the warehouse doors take cover, but I catch a glimpse of movement—one of them circling around, trying to cut us off.

I dive low, rolling behind a stack of crates just as another round of gunfire sprays the area. Wood splinters around me. I pivot, taking out the shooter with two clean shots to the chest.

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