Page 61 of Brotan

They nod acknowledgment, their expressions giving nothing away.

"What's the plan?" I ask, trying to ignore how small I feel among them, how out of place in my evening gown.

Hammer turns to me. "We get you to where Crow is being held. But I need your word that you'll follow every instruction. No questions, no hesitation."

"Even then, it might not be enough," adds one of the orcs, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his imposing size.

"I understand," I say. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Hammer nods, satisfied. "Haverk, you lead. Keep her between you and me. The rest of you, create distance but stay alert."

They move with practiced coordination, forming a loose pattern around us as we approach the warehouse entrance. Two hulking human bouncers check tickets and pat down guests. I flinch as one reaches for me, but a single look from Hammer has them stepping aside, waving us through without a word.

The air inside hits me like a wall, thick with sweat, alcohol, and anticipation. Music pulses through massive speakers, but it can't drown out the crowd's hungry energy.

Inside, the warehouse has been transformed into a makeshift arena. A fighting cage stands in the center, floodlights trained on the chain-link structure that will soon contain Crow. The crowd mills around it—humans in everything from ragged street clothes to tuxedos and evening gowns, with scattered orcs throughout, though they're vastly outnumbered.

I spot a familiar face in the crowd—Dr. Mendelson, head of cardiology at New York Memorial, laughing with a group of colleagues. My stomach churns as I wonder how many more from my parents' social circle might be here, cheering for blood while sipping champagne.

We push through the crowd, my sequined gown actually helping clear a path as people turn to stare. Havrek creates space with his bulk while Hammer keeps close behind me, one hand hovering near my back without touching. The press of bodies, the roar of conversation, the smell of alcohol and sweat—it all swirls around me in a disorienting blur.

Halfway across the room, we're intercepted by another orc, young, with a jagged scar running down his neck.

"Hammer," he says urgently. "Quinn's got Crow locked down tight. Fight's about to start. No way to reach him before he enters the cage."

Hammer curses under his breath. "Where?"

"Back room. Armed guards. Quinn's taking no chances."

I feel my hope faltering. "What do we do now?"

Hammer's eyes narrow, scanning the warehouse. "Change of plan. We get you close enough for Crow to see you without Quinn or Ryker spotting you first."

"Who's Ryker?"

"Quinn's enforcer. The man who threatened you. He'd recognize you instantly." Hammer points toward the announcer's platform. "That's Quinn. Gray suit, red tie. Ryker will be nearby."

I follow his gesture to a well-dressed man in his fifties, silver-haired and commanding, surrounded by security. Even from this distance, his predatory confidence is evident.

"Come on," Hammer says, pulling me toward the edge of the crowd. "We need to get positioned before they bring Crow out."

We push our way around the perimeter, staying in the shadows. My dress, designed to attract attention at a charity gala, now feels like a beacon in this space. I try to make myself smaller, keeping my head down as we move.

The Orcs create a barrier around me, but even their imposing presence can only do so much in the increasingly packed space. We're pushed back, away from the cage, until we're nearly against the wall.

"This is too far," I protest. "He'll never see me from here."

"We'll get closer when the fight starts," Hammer assures me. "Right now, everyone's watching for Quinn's signal."

A spotlight sweeps across the crowd, and the announcer's voice booms through speakers mounted overhead.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight's main event is about to begin!"

The crowd roars in response, surging toward the cage.

"In this corner," the announcer continues, "the challenger you've all been waiting for. Standing six-foot-seven, three hundred and fifty pounds of pure destruction. The newcomer who's been tearing through the underground circuits! GRAAAAANITE!"

The warehouse erupts as an orc enters from a side door, arms raised in triumph before a punch has been thrown. He's massive—taller and broader than Crow, his green skin nearly black under the harsh lights. He moves with cocky swagger, playing to the crowd, but I can see what others might miss—his movements lack Crow's efficiency, his stance betraying inexperience despite his intimidating size.

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