Page 34 of The Kings
Then a soft beep signals Ollie’s jammer hitting zero. “Time’s up,” he says tersely.
“Go time,” Raphael responds, his voice low and dangerous.
We break into two; Oliver heads up to take care of the secondary security from inside while Raphael and I make a beeline for Scott’s private office—the jackpot where he keeps his dirty records and cash flow documents.
“Contact,” James’s voice hisses through the earpiece, “Got a couple of night owls heading into the building.”
The information barely registers before two bulky silhouettes round a corner ahead. I press myself against a crate, my heart pounding a fierce rhythm. Raphael is a shadow against the wall, silent as death.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got eyes on them from inside,” Oliver reassures us, his voice sounding almost bored. “You going soft out there, Jimbo? Where’s the pew-pew?”
“Fuck off,” comes the reply, making me press my lips together to stop from laughing. “Stealth, not force; I thought we agreed.”
Raphael glares at me trying not to explode into fits of giggles and nods; we’re ready. As the two men stroll into our line of sight—clearly not expecting trouble—I spring. No hesitation. Flick sings in my hand, a sharp whisper as she meets flesh, slicing across his throat before he knows what hit him.
“Fuck stealth,” I pant, feeling the power of a kill shoot straight to my pussy. I spin to assist Raphael, but he dispatches the second guard with efficient brutality and bloodshed.
“Clear,” Raphael mutters.
We drag the bodies out of sight, and I appreciate the dark symmetry between us. This dance of violence—it’s a part of who we are.
Oliver’s chuckle in our ears breaks the momentary silence. “Nice moves.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans as if I could rid myself of the visceral reminder of what we do to survive in this life. “Oliver, status?”
“Access granted,” he responds smugly. “Their systems are lit up like Christmas for me.”
Raphael and I exchange a glance and then move forward once again, deeper into the bowels of Scott’s headquarters.
As we close in on Scott’s office, the air grows denser with threat and promise. We slip inside without so much as a creakfrom the door hinges—the operation running smoother than silk thus far—but I know better than to let my guard down. Inside, the office is plush with leather and dark wood, a far cry from the grim exterior of the warehouse. According to my dad’s intel, the safe is tucked away behind a painting of some pompous landscape scene.
Raphael’s at my side in an instant. “Cover me,” he murmurs, leaning over the safe. He pulls out a small device from his jacket pocket designed to unlock any electronic safe.
The tumblers inside the safe click as he works, the sound more satisfying than any melody.
“Anything?” Tarquin’s voice comes through, laced with concern.
“Working on it,” Raphael replies, his focus unbreakable.
I scan the room, Flick ready in hand, every muscle tensed for signs of trouble.
The soft beep of the safe unlocking has me moving towards him. Raphael swings the door open to reveal stacks of cash and files—bingo.
“We’re in. Grabbing what we need now,” I whisper into the comms as I reach over to grab the stack of files Dad told me would be in there. Don’t know what’s in them; don’t fucking care. “Let’s move.” I lead the way back through the labyrinth of crates and shadows. Every step we take is another victory, every breath a promise that we’ll walk out of this stronger than ever.
Oliver joins us as we hurry back the way we came and takes over, leading us on a merry route, but one that avoids more confrontation and death.
The night air hits us, cold and fresh, as we emerge from the warehouse, the stolen secrets of our enemies clutched in my hands.
But our victory is short-lived.
“Company,” Raphael growls, and tension snaps through him like a whip. He’s already moving, a silent shadow that slips between us and the incoming threat.
“James?”
“Consider them dead,” he mutters, and a second later, the sound of bodies hitting the ground fills our highly attuned senses. “Move.”
“Tarq?”
