Page 46 of Victorious: Part 3
“Fuck,” I murmur. “They’re loading the next batch.”
“All units,” Hurricane commands. “Move in. We go silent. We go fast. Bayou, City, flank east with me. Hoodoo and Grit cover the north. Jarred, Keith, hold the exit.”
We move as one, silent and precise, through the stacks like smoke in the dark. Years in this life have taught us how to disappear in plain sight. Hurricane takes point, eyes locked on the disguised hatch near the container. Raid overrides the lock with a flick of his wrist, and it hisses open.
Our eyes widen as we look down inside, seeing a metal staircase plunging into the darkness.
This is it.
This is what we came here for.
“Radio silence,” Hurricane orders. “Hand signals only.”
He gestures for us to enter, and one by one, we descend the staircase into hell. The corridor reeks of bleach and sweat. Fluorescent lights buzz above, the occasional one flickering like you’d see in some insane asylum. I’m sure the women here feel like that is where they are.
I peer through the window of the first door. Dozens of women sit in sterile rows, packaging drugs with practiced, robotic motions. They’re all zoned out. Dead eyes. No awareness. No fight left.
They have been turned into ghosts, a version of themselves with nothing left to fight for.
Bayou signals to another room. This one is worse. Needles,restraints, clearly it’s a conditioning room. Screens loop propaganda, a way to make the women pliable to the Cartel’s needs. A Cartel soldier looms over the women with a cattle prod, shouting commands.
My stomach rolls with anger, and the clear look of disgust crossing my brothers’ faces tells me they’re racing through the same emotions I am.
This place is a goddamn nightmare.
The Cartel didn’t just build a safe house to hold their captors, they built a machine, churning out victims like parts on a production line. And we’re here to break every damn gear.
Without another heartbeat wasted, Hurricane gives the signal, a silent, sharp gesture, and we surge forward, boots pounding across cracked concrete in synchronized fury. I lead the charge toward the far door. The metal groans under my weight as I slam my boot into it, splinters of rust and dust raining down as it crashes inward with a deafening clang. The room inside is a fluorescent-lit hell. A single guard snaps his head toward the door, his eyes going wide, hand fumbling for the pistol at his hip.
But it is too late.
My Glock is already up, and I punch two rounds through his chest, his body jerking as he stumbles backward and collapses against the wall, then slides down it, leaving a trail of blood as he goes.
I sweep the space, weapon raised, but there are no more threats, at least not in this room. Just rows of battered women crouched on the floor, backs pressed against the walls, arms trembling. Their eyes, those hollow, vacant eyes, make my stomach turn.
I lower my weapon slowly and raise both hands, as Hurricane approaches them, his voice steady but soft. “We’re here to help. You’re safe now. We’re gonna get you outta here,” he urges.
A woman near the center whimpers, pulling her knees to her chest, rocking like she’s trying to disappear inside herself. Another stares through me like I’m not even real. One flinches so hard at the sound of a shifting boot behind me that she lets out a raw, feral scream and lashes out blindly, her fists colliding with my chest in a furious tantrum.
I don’t block her. I let her pummel me. She needs to get it out.
Her punches lose strength after a few seconds, her body folding forward as sobs tear from her throat like they’ve been trapped there for years. I catch her, steady her trembling frame before she collapses into my arms.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, crouching with her, anchoring her to something solid in this chaotic storm. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Behind me, Bayou and Raid move cautiously through the room, checking corners, stepping gently around the women. One of them is physically ill at the sight of the dead guard. Another starts praying in rapid-fire Spanish, her fingers trembling as they mimic the motion of a rosary.
These women, they’ve been conditioned to survive, not to hope.
But tonight, hope is kicking in their fucking door.
Grit’s voice crackles through the comms. “Hurricane. They have fucking bird assassins here, female operatives. They’re fast. One just knocked out Jarred.”
I curse. “Shit.”
Hurricane snaps his head around to look at the rest of us, apprehension in his eyes. “Can you confirm, Grit. Bird operatives are in the buildin’?”
“Confirmed. Tactical suits, knives, silent entries. I barely got away from the one who got Jarred.”
