Page 16 of Shadow's Edge

Kyle

The numbness had started creeping in, a slow, insidious tingle spreading from my thighs to my core as I lay stretched along the thick branch of the tree I’d chosen for the job. In theory, it had seemed like a good pick—solid, sturdy, plenty of cover. But in practice, the bark was rough, digging into my ribs, and the pressure against my pelvis was becoming borderline unbearable.

I shifted slightly, trying to redistribute my weight, but there was no escaping the discomfort. My vagina was practically screaming at me now, a steady pulse of protest that was hard to ignore. I’d spent hours lying on the ground before, elbows pressing into unforgiving dirt, neck cramping, waiting for the perfect shot. But at least then, I could adjust, do my usual focus drills. At least then, I wasn’t balanced precariously in a goddamn tree.

Still, I had to count my blessings. No scorpions skittering around my arms, no blistering sun roasting my back. It could be worse. It had been worse. The joke among my team was that we could endure just about anything—bullets flying, wounds bleeding,bones aching—but swamp ass? Swamp ass was the true enemy. It led to swamp crack, and that was a nightmare no one wanted to deal with when you had to lie still for hours or trek through a hellscape of heat and sand.

The tiny earpiece crackled to life, and Preacher’s voice came through, smooth and controlled, as always.

“On my signal. Kyle, take two. Hunter, proceed west, we’ll take east. Jagger, hit north. Duke, south.”

Hunter and I had been skeptical when Preacher first laid out the plan, but after running through the options, we’d both agreed it was the best way forward. Even if it stung to follow orders instead of calling the shots myself, Perry’s safety was the priority.

I reached up, pressing my throat mic twice in acknowledgment. A low-pitched tone confirmed my response, and then I heard the faintest shuffle of movement as my team advanced.

Two guards stood at the front of the compound, armed to the teeth and oblivious to the fact that they were already dead men walking. My job was simple—take them out and provide cover.

Just as I adjusted my sight, a cricket landed on my forearm, its tiny legs prickling against my skin. I ignored it, exhaling slowly, steadying my shot. The targets were a joke. Heavily armed, sure, but if you were running an operation like this and wanted to stay under the radar, maybe—just maybe—you shouldn’t be parading around with RPGs strapped to your back and firing random shots into the air like an action movie reject. Fucking amateurs.

I tapped out three signals to warn my team: shots incoming. Then, I squeezed the trigger.

The first man went down without a sound. The second, sensing something was off, reached for his radio, but my bullet found him before he could press the button.

Three taps again. All clear.

But something felt off. Only two guards, that didn’t sit right. This compound had been heavily protected before, why the downgrade?

I filed the thought away and refocused on my scope, tracking the teams as they moved. Preacher and his crew disappeared into the shadows, smooth and efficient. Hunter and Blake reached a door, and instead of the usual breach tactics, they held up a foam soccer ball, one of our classic distractions. The moment it rolled forward, shots rang out from inside.

Through my earpiece, I heard the same report from every team. Resistance was high.

The cricket moved, its tiny body brushing against my skin, but I didn’t have time to flick it away. My scope caught a figure in dark clothing moving toward Preacher’s team. No insignia, no familiar markings. But the sword strapped to their side, that was new. None of our people carried swords.

The unknown reached for a gun, lining up their shot on Preacher’s exposed back. I exhaled, focused, fired, and the figure crumpled to the ground.

“Thanks,” Preacher’s voice came through, low and even.

I pressed my mic once in response. No distractions. No small talk. Just the job.

Gunfire erupted from inside the building as the teams breached. I kept my scope trained on their movements, watching asHunter’s squad navigated forward with practiced precision. Across the compound, Jagger’s team engaged incoming hostiles, six of them pushing toward his position. One by one, the teams made it inside. The real fight was just beginning, and I was ready.

The sound of a baby crying sent an icy chill down my spine, and my grip on the rifle tightened instinctively.

We had the baby.

That should’ve been the end of it, the mission accomplished, and the relief setting in. But something was wrong.

“What the fuck?” someone shouted through the comms, voice sharp with disbelief. A pit formed in my stomach.

“We have a negative on the mark,” Hunter’s voice came through, tight and controlled. Too controlled.

One by one, the rest of the teams checked in with the same report.

No mark.

Shit.

The warehouse was dimly lit,the air thick with the stale scent of unwashed bodies and spilled gasoline. Three kids huddled together near the far wall, their wide, terrified eyes flicking between us. Hunter’s team had found them inside, and now, standing in front of them, I listened as they described a woman. A woman who sounded a hell of a lot like Bo.

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