Page 45 of Victorious: Part 3
CITY
NOLA – 2:00 a.m. CDT
It’s eerily cold in the early hours of the morning.
Having a coordinated strike starting at midnight on the West Coast means it’s always going to be later for us. I rub my hands up and down my goose-bump-riddled arms as I crouch, sitting in wait for the countdown.
Hurricane has been on some kind of manic high since he found out Kaia and he are having twins. I swear the man likes making babies more than anything in this world. I have to admit, though, being a father suits him. The way he is with Immy has changed him.
He was always such a loose cannon.
A little unpredictable.
Having a daughter has softened him.
And Kaia? Well, that woman certainly knows how to tame him.
Let alone Lani, the apple of his eye. I’ve never known a man whose sister-in-law can control him as much as his wife.
But that’s Hurricane for you.
When it comes to women, he really is a pushover.
Just look at Ingrid. Even though we were deep in planning mode for this attack, because he knew South and Ingrid were losing Bella, Hurricane demanded that he, Bayou, and Novah leave and take off for LA right away while we were in the depths of figuring all this shit out.
And he left it all tometo plan.
I guess that’s my job as VP, step up when the president can’t be there, but sometimes, I just wish Hurricane would take hispresidential role a little more seriously.
Operation Darkfire has been fucking hectic to organize, and I am no fucking president. And yet I have organized the whole damn thing, then he swoops in and runs the fucking thing on the night.
Typical Hurricane.
Shaking my head, letting out my frustrations, because I can’t carry them with me into this, I glance out. The shipping yard stands beneath the New Orleans morning like a predator ready to strike. Still, silent, and deadly. Container stacks rise around us like metal monoliths, casting long shadows under the moonlight. My finger rests against my pistol trigger as Hurricane’s voice cuts through our internal comms, calm and commanding.
“Everyone in position?”
“Check,” I whisper, checking the chamber of my Glock one last time.
“Locked and loaded,” Bayou radios from the southeast.
“All set,” Raid calls in from the north.
“Good to go,” Grit signals from the west.
Hoodoo’s voice is calm. “Ready.”
“Perimeter secured,” Jarred, our prospect, calls down the line.
Hurricane’s voice tightens as he reminds us all why we’re here. “This isn’t just an everyday, run-of-the-mill Cartel. Intel confirms the women they’re movin’ aren’t being sold, they’re bein’ programmed. Drugged, conditioned to enter prison systems voluntarily. Once inside, they’re inserted into a breedin’ program. They don’t even know what they’re volunteerin’ for until it’s too late.”
I clench my jaw. “They’re manufacturing assassins for the Nest.”
“Exactly. And tonight, we end that shit,” Hurricane states.
“Movement,” Raid murmurs down the line. “Van on east approach. No lights.”
My scope catches a matte-black panel van driving incredibly slow between the containers. It pulls to a stop, and a hidden door slides open. Two guards step out with a young woman between them, barely conscious, her eyes glazed. The poor thing can barely walk.
