Page 53 of Damian
71
Damian
The warehouse erupted in gunfire.
Rounds cracked against steel, ricochets sparking, the whole place alive with echoes. Oliver barked orders over the noise, Gage laying down suppressive fire as we pushed deeper. My weapon kicked against my shoulder, each shot precise, controlled.
But there were too many.
Figures spilled from the far stairwell, shadows becoming men, weapons raised. They weren’t scrambling—they were waiting. Luthor’s people had known we were coming.
“Cyclone!” I roared.
“Almost there!” he shouted back, crouched low over the console. His screen threw frantic light across his face, sweat cutting a sheen down his temple. “They’ve got redundant relays—layered. I can lock one, maybe two, but if they reset—”
A burst of gunfire tore into the wall inches from his head. I moved instinctively, stepping in front of him, firing back until the shooter dropped. My heart pounded, my focus splitin two: protect the man gathering the intel, protect the woman waiting at a locked door miles away.
“Morgan,” I muttered under my breath, the name a promise as much as a prayer.
Oliver slammed another mag into his rifle, teeth bared. “We hold until Cyclone pulls what he can—then we burn this place down!”
“Negative,” I snapped, eyes sweeping the catwalk above. “We pull what we need and get out. We can’t risk exposure.”
He didn’t argue, just nodded, eyes sharp as he dropped another man trying to flank us.
Cyclone’s voice cut through the chaos, triumphant and urgent all at once. “Got it! Core data pulled. They’ll know, but I locked a location—one of Luthor’s hubs. Not just a feeder, Damian. This is command-level.”
That was it—the break we needed. The kind of lead Morgan’s breadcrumbs had been building toward all along.
“Fall back!” I ordered, signaling Oliver and Gage to cover. “Move!”
We pushed hard, fast, bullets carving the air around us. My body moved on instinct, every step calculating distance, angles, threats. But in the back of my mind, one image burned brighter than the firefight—the memory of Morgan’s kiss in the safehouse, her eyes fierce, her voice trembling when she’d whispered:Come back to me.
I would.
I had to.
We blew through the loading bay, the SUV engines already roaring outside, our cover team laying down fire as we piled in. Cyclone clutched his laptop like it was oxygen, Oliver dragging Gage in behind me, his jaw tight but steady.
The doors slammed. Engines gunned. The warehouse shrank in the mirrors, orange sparks flashing as the enemy continued to fire.
Cyclone met my eyes, breathless. “If I’m right, that hub’s the heart of everything.”
I nodded once, every muscle still taut with fight. “Then that’s where we go next.”
But as the night swallowed the warehouse behind us, one thought cut deeper than all the rest:
What if the danger had already reached the safehouse?
72
Morgan
The silence after the knock was worse than the knock itself.
Ruby’s bedroom door creaked open, just a sliver, her wide eyes gleaming in the dark. “Morgan?” Her whisper cracked.
“Stay inside,” I hissed, motioning sharply.
