Page 66 of Damian
Damian
The docks reeked of oil and salt, gulls screeching overhead as the tide lapped against rotting wood. The warehouse loomed ahead, corrugated steel painted in rust and shadows. Too quiet. Too staged.
I crouched behind a stack of shipping containers, Oliver beside me, his rifle steady. Gage’s voice crackled in my earpiece from the rooftop two blocks out. “Movement—two guards at the north entrance, armed but sloppy. No eyes on the south side yet.”
Cyclone’s whisper followed, calm but electric. “I’m in their system. Cameras looped. Comms scrambled. They won’t be calling for backup.”
“Good,” I muttered. My gaze tracked the side door where our entry point waited. “We hit hard, fast, and don’t leave survivors. Luthor’s network dies here.”
Oliver smirked, rolling his shoulders. “About damn time.”
I steadied my rifle, the night pressing in. Somewhere behind me—in the safehouse, in the silence I couldn’t afford to hear—Morgan waited. Her face burned into the back of my mind, sharper than any mission order.
I breathed deep, exhaled slow, and signaled the team.
“Move.”
And just like that, we were shadows slipping into the lion’s den, ready to tear it apart.
89
Damian
The metal door groaned as Oliver slipped the lock, the sound swallowed by the crash of waves against the dock. I moved in first, rifle raised, senses sharpened to a razor’s edge.
The air inside was thick with salt, oil, and sweat. Rows of crates lined the walls, stacked high like a maze, shadows curling in every corner. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly.
Too quiet. Too empty.
“Clear left,” Oliver whispered, sweeping his rifle.
I signaled forward, every muscle coiled. My boots kissed the concrete floor without a sound. Then I heard it—voices, muffled, coming from deeper inside. I motioned, and we moved toward the sound.
Cyclone’s voice murmured in my ear. “Heat signatures—dozen, maybe more, clustered near the center. And…damn. Damian, they’ve got cages.”
My stomach knotted. I didn’t need the feed to know what that meant.
We rounded the last row of crates, and the scene snapped into focus.
Girls. Young, terrified, huddled behind iron bars. Their eyes went wide when they saw us, faces pale with hope and fear tangled together.
And in front of them—guards. A dozen men in black tactical gear, rifles slung ready, already pivoting toward us.
“Contact,” Oliver barked, and the world erupted.
Gunfire split the air, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Sparks flew as bullets slammed into steel. I dropped one, then another, my rifle kicking steady against my shoulder. Oliver peeled off right, cutting down a guard before he could reach cover.
“Two more coming left!” Gage’s voice snapped from above. His shots rang out a heartbeat later, precise and deadly.
I surged forward, fury pounding with every step. A guard lunged from behind a crate, knife flashing. I slammed the butt of my rifle into his jaw, felt the crunch reverberate through my arms, and put him down hard.
“Cyclone!” I barked over the roar.
“I’m on it!” His voice was tight with focus. “Doors are electronic—I can pop the locks, but I need cover!”
“Do it.” I fired again, dropping another man before he reached the girls’ cages.
The firefight raged, bullets ricocheting off steel, shouts and screams tangling in the chaos. My shoulder burned where the bandage pulled, blood seeping again, but I shoved it down. Pain didn’t matter. Not here. Not when those cages stood between freedom and hell.
