Page 56 of Victorious: Part 3
Toxin moves like pure wrath incarnate. Her gorgeous body fluid, brutal. An unstoppable force as she drops to one knee, spins, and fires. Three enemies fall in succession, their bodies thudding against the cement, their blood painting the concretein the most stunning way as she creates a masterpiece.
The coastline is burning.
And the retribution has only just begun.
“We’re taking fire,” someone screams over the comms.
Gunfire lights up the night as Cartel soldiers pour out of defensive positions. These aren’t street thugs because they move with military precision, taking cover and returning coordinated fire. They’re former contractors, just like the intel suggested.
A bullet howls past my thigh as I dive behind a concrete barrier, Toxin sliding in beside me. Her Glock comes up smooth as silk, and she squeezes off three quick shots. Through my scope, I watch three Cartel soldiers drop almost like it was a timed dance performance—it’s a beautiful sight.
“I could watch you do that all day,” I chime, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice.
She flashes me a wild grin that’s all teeth and violence. “Save the sweet talk for later, baby. We’ve got work to do.”
Another burst of automatic fire chips concrete above our heads, and we duck, dust above us raining down like a waterfall as we take off running toward the cache. Through my earpiece, I hear the other teams engaging throughout the barge.
“Atomic’s hit!” Dash’s voice comes through strained. “Flesh wound, still mobile.”
“Copy that. Ominous report,” Nycto yells.
“Holy shit, Pres. You need to see what they’ve got in these containers. They’re not just any weapons. It’s a fucking armory. Military-grade everything. Some of this shit shouldn’t even exist outside of classified government programs,” Ominous calls back.
My blood runs cold. If Javier has access to experimental military hardware, this operation just became ten times more critical because he’s going to use these weapons when he plans to take over the government.
“Package it up,” Nycto orders. “Evidence first, then we torch whatever we can’t carry.”
Toxin and I breach the side entrance as two Cartel soldiers round the corner. She moves like Lady Death, her knife sliding between the ribs of the first man before he can even raise his weapon. I put two in the chest of the second, the suppressed shots barely audible over the chaos outside.
“Clear left,” I whisper.
“Clear right,” she responds.
The cache interior is a fucking nightmare of organized violence. Crates upon crates of weapons stacked to the ceiling, all labeled with military designations that make my stomach turn. M4A1 assault rifles, .50 caliber sniper rifles, RPGs, and even what looks like experimental drone technology.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath.
“Void, Toxin, I need you on the north side. Brass is pinned down and bleeding bad,” Nycto’s voice crackles through the comm.
My heart races, and I glance at Toxin. We both nod, taking off. “On our way, Pres,” I respond, already moving.
We sprint through the barge, weaving between containers of chaos as gunfire echoes from outside. Through the metal and wood, the gunfight continues outside, and the distinctive pattern of suppressive fire means one of our brothers is trapped.
“There!” Toxin points toward a loading dock where Brass is pressed behind an overturned forklift, blood streaming down his arm as three Cartel soldiers advance on his position.
But there’s a wooden pallet blocking our path.
I don’t think.
I don’t have time to.
The wood explodes outward when I crash through it, splinters bursting out in shards as I roll to absorb the impact, and I bring my Glock up, already tracking targets. Toxin follows asplit second later, landing like a fucking cat and immediately engaging the farthest soldier.
But I’m focused on the one advancing on Brass with a machete raised above his head. My Glock kicks back in my hand as I put three rounds center mass into the Cartel bastard. He drops like a stone, the machete clattering harmlessly away.
I veer toward him, Toxin covering me, and bullets stitch the wall behind us. “Brass. Talk to me!” I shout as I reach his position, blood slick on his arm, his face pale.
“I’m good, brother. The forklift barely touched me,” he pants, but it’s easy to see the blood loss is more serious than he’s letting on.
