Chapter 148
Raven
Miranda's mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning in air. No sound came out. Just desperate, gasping breaths that whistled through her constricted throat.
Good. Let her choke on her fear.
The room erupted.
"Who the fuck is she?!"
"She's a cop! She's gotta be a cop!"
"I knew something was off about that number—"
A metallic clang echoed through the underground chamber. Then another. And another. The rhythm was almost musical—the sound of an entire tactical unit deploying.
Thirty-plus bodies flooded through a concealed entrance I hadn't even spotted in my initial sweep. Sloppy, Raven. Getting rusty.
But these weren't your average mall cops playing dress-up.
Full tactical gear. Kevlar vests that could stop a .50 cal round. AR-15s with extended mags. Night vision goggles pushed up on their foreheads. The kind of equipment that screamed black ops or private military contractor.
Volkov doesn't fuck around with his security budget.
Every single rifle swung toward me with mechanical precision. Red laser dots painted my chest, my face, dancing across the ridiculous rabbit mask like deadly fireflies.
Miranda felt them too. The cavalry had arrived.
Her terror evaporated like morning dew, replaced by something uglier. Vindictive satisfaction.
"You move that knife one more inch," she hissed, voice stronger now despite the blood trickling down her neck, "and you and your little friend won't make it out of this room alive. How's that for an insight, you stupid bitch?"
I tilted my head, considering her threat with all the concern I'd give a toddler's tantrum.
"Scarlet."
My voice cut through the chaos with crystalline clarity.
"Close the door."
Scarlet's fox mask turned toward me. Then toward the small army of tactical operators. I could practically feel her calculating odds, running scenarios.
"But—" She paused. Then I heard it—that familiar laugh that always preceded her most reckless decisions.
"Ah, fuck it! When have I ever doubted you?" Her tone shifted to pure theatrical delight. "Besides, it's been ages since I've watched you work. This should be entertaining."
She moved.
Not toward me. Not toward cover.
Straight toward the control panel by the entrance.
The guards didn't even register her as a threat. Just another panicked woman running the wrong direction. By the time their training kicked in, Scarlet's fingers were already dancing across the touchscreen.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Heavy blast doors—the kind designed to contain explosions, not keep people out—began rolling down from hidden ceiling compartments. Reinforced steel, probably six inches thick, descended with the inevitability of a guillotine blade.
The last sliver of outside light vanished.
We were sealed in.
"ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!"
The pig mask was on his feet, designer suit jacket abandoned in his panic. "You just locked us in with them! That was our only way out!"
"Well, well, well." A raven mask, naturally, because irony was apparently alive and well in human trafficking circles. "If we can take them alive, I call dibs on selling them. I've got buyers who'd pay premium for damaged goods with this much audacity."
Laughter rippled through the masked crowd. Nervous at first, then gaining confidence as they remembered the small army with the big guns.
Miranda's voice regained its imperious edge. "You stupid, stupid girl. Your friend just sealed your tomb. Drop. The. Knife. Now. And maybe—maybe—I'll let you die quickly."
I didn't move the blade. Didn't ease the pressure.
"One more time." My voice was conversational. Almost friendly. "Where are the children you've collected?"
Miranda's laugh was sharp and brittle. "Are you deaf as well as—"
I moved the knife.
Not much. Just a precise three-inch draw across her throat. Shallow enough to avoid the carotid. Deep enough that blood immediately welled up and spilled over my gloved hand in warm rivulets.
"FUCK! YOU—YOU FUCKING—"
"Weapons hot! WEAPONS HOT!"
The guards surged forward. Safeties clicked off in a synchronized symphony. Some abandoned their rifles entirely, drawing tactical knives from hip sheaths. Close-quarters combat. Smart.
"WAIT!" Miranda's shriek cut through the mobilization. "Nobody moves! She's insane! NOBODY FUCKING MOVES WITHOUT MY ORDER!"
The guards froze. Weapons still trained. Eyes still tracking. But frozen.
Good dogs.
"Shall I repeat the question?" I pressed the blade back against her throat, right above the fresh cut. "Because each time I have to ask, you get another stripe. Want to see how many you can collect before you pass out from blood loss?"
"Okay! Okay!" She was gasping now, pain breaking through the bravado. "The children—fuck—they're at a warehouse. Highway 101, mile marker 47. There's an old industrial complex. They're... they're being loaded right now. Transport leaves in an hour. Headed to Las Vegas. Seattle. Different routes. Scattered shipments to avoid interdiction. There! THERE! Now let me go! Let me fucking GO!"
My left hand never left her throat.
My right hand slipped into my jacket pocket. The movement was smooth, practiced. Muscle memory from a hundred undercover operations where looking at your phone meant blowing your cover.
My fingers found the device by touch alone. Unlocked with a familiar pattern. Navigated to Nash's contact with three precise swipes. Typed blind while maintaining perfect pressure on Miranda's jugular.
```
Hwy 101 MM 47
Industrial complex
Transport in 60 min
Multiple destinations - LV, Seattle
```
Sent.
The entire sequence took eight seconds.
"Well that's just great!" Bear mask was on his feet now, gesturing wildly. "Now she knows everything! Brilliant fucking interrogation, Miranda!"
"Forget Miranda!" Wolf mask stood, straightening his tuxedo. "The bitch is dead weight anyway. Take them both out. We'll tell her husband and The Surgeon we did our best."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
The guards' eyes shifted. Communicating without words. I'd seen that look before—subordinates realizing their loyalty to a principal had an expiration date, and that date was about five seconds ago.
So predictable.
I laughed. Couldn't help it.
"Miranda." I leaned closer, my mask almost touching her ear. "Did you hear that? Your dogs are about to bite their master. How's it feel?"
Her eyes went wide. Not from the blade. From understanding.
"Wait—" She twisted toward the guards, toward her guests, blood now flowing freely down her designer gown. "They're lying! THEY'RE the ones who collect the children! The suppliers! These are the people you want!" Her voice climbed toward hysteria.
"I'm just the middleman! Kill them, and my guards will let you walk! I swear it! My husband—he's connected to The Surgeon—if you kill me, they'll never stop hunting you! But if you let me live, I can—"
I ended her pitch with a single economical motion.
The blade drew across her throat in a smooth, professional arc. Not the hesitant sawing of an amateur. The confident slice of someone who'd done this enough times to know exactly how much pressure, what angle, how deep.
Miranda's eyes went wide. Still open. Still aware.
Still watching as the room tilted and her legs stopped supporting her weight.
I released her.
She crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the marble floor with a wet, final thud.
"Don't worry," I murmured, though she was already past hearing. "They'll be joining you real soon."