Chapter 26

I had been casing the Iron Serpents’ hideout for days, watching their comings and goings, noting their security measures, and memorizing the layout of their grimy fortress. The plan was simple, but it had to be executed with precision. There was no room for error; Razor’s life and the security of the Vultures hung in the balance.

The night was dark, the moon a mere sliver in the sky, providing just enough cover for what needed to be done. I parked my bike a good distance away, the roar of the engine fading into the din of the city that never sleeps. I made my way to the safe house, my steps silent, my mind focused.

The local chapter of the Vultures had provided me with a small arsenal. I checked my weapons one last time. A Beretta with a silencer, a switchblade for close combat, and a set of lock picks. I was ready.

I approached the Iron Serpents’ hideout, a rundown warehouse reeking of oil and metal. The guards were sloppy, their attention more focused on their cards and whiskey than their surroundings. I took them out swiftly and quietly, one by one, their bodies slumping to the ground before they could raise an alarm.

The inside of the warehouse was a maze of shadows and rusted machinery. I moved through it like a ghost, guided by the faint sounds of suffering. I found Razor in a dimly lit back room, his body a canvas of bruises and cuts. The sight of him, bound and broken, ignited a fire within me. The Iron Serpents would pay for this.

Razor’s eyes flickered with recognition when he saw me. I moved quickly, cutting through his restraints with my switchblade. He winced as I helped him to his feet, his breaths shallow and labored.

“We need to move, brother,” I whispered, supporting his weight as we made our way out.

Razor nodded, leaning heavily on me. We had almost reached the exit when the sound of footsteps echoed through the warehouse. I pushed Razor behind a stack of crates and readied my Beretta.

I had just slipped out of the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest like a primal drum. The Iron Serpents poured into the room, their boots thundering against the concrete floor, their laughter a grating soundtrack to their ignorance. I counted at least a dozen of them, their numbers greater than I had anticipated, but I had the element of surprise on my side.

The first to fall didn’t even see me. My Beretta spat death, the silencer muffling the sound of gunfire, and the man crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. The others scrambled, reaching for their weapons, but it was too late. I took out the next few with calculated shots, their bodies dropping before they could even draw their weapons.

The deafening sound of gunfire reverberated off the metal walls, a chaotic symphony of violence and retribution. I kept Razor shielded with my body, my arm wrapped around his waist, half-dragging him as we moved. I returned fire with deadly accuracy, each bullet a testament to years of honing my skills on the road. The Iron Serpents fell one by one, their resolve no match for the fury that fueled my every move.

But even with the advantage of surprise, the fight was far from over. The air crackled with danger, each breath I took laced with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp scent of gunpowder. An Iron Serpent lunged at me from the side, his face contorted in a snarl. I pivoted, delivering a swift kick that sent him sprawling, even as the sharp sting of a bullet grazed my shoulder. The pain was a white-hot lance, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

The firefight raged on, the warehouse a labyrinth of flying bullets and howls of pain. I felt more than heard the thud of a bullet burying itself into my side, just below my ribcage. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but I didn’t falter. I gritted my teeth against the pain, my grip on Razor and my Beretta unyielding.

When the last man dropped, his weapon clattering uselessly to the floor, a victorious smile spread across my face, and I released a breath of pure elation. My ears rang with the echoes of the gunfight, the silence that followed almost deafening. I turned to Razor, his face pale in the dim light, his eyes wide with a mix of pain and gratitude. He needed medical attention, and fast, but we had to get out of there first.

I slung his arm over my shoulder, ignoring the searing pain in my side as I helped him stagger toward the exit. The world outside the warehouse was a blur of shadows and city lights, the cool night air a welcome relief against my heated skin. We left behind a scene of carnage, a message to anyone who dared cross the Vultures.

We reached my bike, and I carefully helped him onto it. I revved the engine, the familiar vibration a stark contrast to the chaos we had just left behind. As we sped away, the warehouse—and the nightmare it held—faded into the distance.

The safe house wasn’t far, but every minute counted. I pushed the bike to its limits, weaving through the city’s sleeping streets. When we finally arrived, I scooped Razor into my arms and carried him inside.

I watched the doctor’s hands move with practiced precision, stitching up Razor’s wounds with a focused intensity that spoke of years in the field. The room was bathed in the sterile glow of the overhead lights, casting long, deep shadows that seemed to dance across the walls. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood and the sharp bite of antiseptic.

I knew I should’ve been sitting down, letting the doc take a look at the bullet in my side. But Razor needed the attention more than I did. He’d taken the brunt of the Iron Serpents’ brutality.

After a few minutes, I stood up, my muscles protesting the sudden movement. I needed some fresh air, needed to clear my head before I did something stupid—like pass out from blood loss. I slipped out of the room, leaving the doc to his work.

The night air was cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the cloying heat of the safe house. I took a deep breath, the scent of exhaust and city life filling my lungs. I rolled my shoulder, wincing at the sharp stab of pain that radiated from my wound. I’d deal with it soon enough, but first, I needed a moment of solitude.

That’s when I saw her.

A woman in a reddish-pink dress that clung to her curves, the hem tattered and frayed, ending just above her shins. She wore a mask over her face, but it did little to conceal the fear in her wide, doe-like eyes. She glanced at me, her gaze flicking over my club vest, taking in the blood that stained my clothes. For a fleeting moment, I saw recognition flash in her eyes, followed quickly by panic.

Instinctively, I reached out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, wait—”

But she was already running, her bare feet slapping against the pavement as she fled. I could’ve chased her, could’ve used my alpha strength to catch up to her in no time. But something stopped me—a sharp, searing pain in my side that sent me stumbling backward, a grim reminder of the bullet lodged there.

I gritted my teeth against the agony, my vision blurring for a moment as the pain threatened to overwhelm me. When I finally regained my senses, she was gone, vanished into the city streets. All that remained was her scent, a sweet, intoxicating aroma that clung to the air like a siren’s call.

My scent match. And she was going through her heat, in public, surrounded by alphas who would stop at nothing to claim her. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and I knew I had to find her, had to protect her from the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

With a growl of frustration, I pushed off from the wall, forcing myself to move despite the pain. I couldn’t let her disappear into the night, not when I knew the hell she was going through. I had to find her, and I had to make sure she was safe.

But as I took a step forward, the world tilted dangerously, a wave of dizziness washing over me. I stumbled, reaching out to brace myself against the wall. The pain in my side flared, a brutal reminder that I was in no condition to be playing the hero.

I cursed under my breath, the taste of defeat sour on my tongue. I had failed Razor by not getting here sooner, and now I was failing this mysterious omega by letting her slip through my fingers.

I took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of my scent-matched omega lingering in the air, a tantalizing promise of what could’ve been. With a heavy heart, I turned back toward the safe house, knowing that I needed to get my wounds tended to before I could even think about mounting a search.

As I pushed open the door, the sound of Razor’s labored breathing greeted me, a reminder of the stakes at play. I might’ve been injured, might’ve been struggling with my own demons, but I had a responsibility—to Razor, to The Vultures, and now, to the mysterious omega whose scent had ignited something primal within me.

I would find her. I had to.