Page 38 of Victorious: Part 3
We move like shadows through the corridors, our footsteps muffled by tactical boots and years of experience. At the far end of the hall, light spills from beneath a door marked‘Executive Conference Room.’
Voices carry through the expensive-looking wood-stained door, the casual conversation of men who think they’re untouchable. The only thing is, normal businessmen don’t have business meetings at two in the morning.
I hold up my fist, stopping my team. Through my earpiece, I hear the distant sound of gunfire. One of our other Defiance chapters has already started its attack. They’re in the middle of their own war, but Ihave to focus onmine.
“How many?” I whisper to Neon, who’s pressed against the door with audio equipment.
“Four, maybe five. Armed. One of them is giving orders, sounds like their financial controller.”
Perfect.The man we need most.
“Kevlar, Wraith, you take the door. Fox, Slick, cover the windows in case anyone tries to rabbit. Neon, kill their comms.”
“Comms down,” Neon confirms immediately. “They can’t call for help.”
“Scout, Chains, watch our six. If this goes sideways, we need to know about reinforcements before they arrive,” I signal through the comms to the guys on other levels.
I check my weapon one final time, then key my radio. “In three… two… one… go!”
Kevlar’s massive frame explodes through the conference room door like a human battering ram. Wraith flows in behind him, his gun already tracking targets.
“Sorry we’re late to the party,” I quip as we all circle the room, our guns trained on the men inside.
The men raise their hands, clear shock evident on their faces when we keep our guns trained on them. The conference room is exactly what we expected, and yet, somehow worse. Four men in expensive suits sit around a conference table covered with documents, computers, and stacks of cash. But it’s not the money that makes my blood run cold, it’s the photographs spread across the table.
Children.
Young boys,reallyyoung boys—babies in fact—obviously trafficked, with prices written in red ink beside their pictures.
The Cartel isn’t just money laundering through here…
It’s a human trafficking auction.
“You picked the wrong fuckin’ night to shop for slaves,” I snarl, my weapon trained on the man at the head of the table.
He’s older, maybe fifty, with slicked-back silver hair and cold, calculating eyes that hold not an ounce of remorse. He staresat me with thinly veiled contempt, a smugness that makes my trigger finger twitch.
“You have no idea what you’re interfering with,” he says, his Spanish accent smooth. “The people I work for—”
“Don’t give a shit about you, or the fucker you work for…” I cut in, my voice flat. “Trust me.”
There’s a twitch, just the slightest shift in weight, and I see it coming before it happens.
Two of his men reach for their weapons, so I raise my gun, aiming at one of their heads. “Move and die,” I growl.
But it’s too late.
The first Cartel soldier clears half an inch of steel from his holster before Wraith steps in. A single shot rings out, clean, precise. The man drops before he even finishes the motion, blood blooming across his chest as he collapses like a sack of concrete.
The second one’s faster—but not fast enough.Kevlar is a blur of motion to my right. His boot slams into the guy’s hand just as the gun comes free, sending the weapon clattering across the floor. The Cartel bastard barely has time to register the pain before Kevlar cold-cocks him with the butt of his gun. The sound of bone crunching echoes through the room as he crumples in a heap beside his friend.
The other two freeze.
One has his hand hovering near his waistband, the glint of a knife visible under his jacket. The other just stands there, breathing heavy, eyes darting between the bodies on the floor and the barrel of Wraith’s gun aimed directly at his forehead.
I let out a small laugh, then I tut. “See… I specifically told them. Move and die. Could I have been any clearer, guys?” I mock.
My brothers chuckle around the room, nodding in agreement as the two remaining Cartel soldiers lift their hands slowly,fingers splayed, eyes wide. They’re smart enough to know the next wrong move ends with their brains on the wall.
