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"Next location," I ordered, already moving. No time for what-ifs.

Crockett's processing plant told a different story. Fresh tire tracks in old oil stains. Cigarette butts still smoldering. Someone had been here recently—multiple someones based on the footprint patterns. My team swept through with textbook precision, but found only echoes and trash.

"Blood here," Tank called from a loading dock. "Still tacky. Maybe two hours old."

Two hours. When I was spreading maps and making plans, she was already gone. Already in their hands. The knowledge sat like broken glass in my chest.

"Boss." One of the younger brothers held up something that made my vision tunnel. A purple hair tie, the kind she used when working. Could be coincidence. Could be anyone's.

Could be hers.

"Third location," I said, voice steady despite the storm building inside. "Now."

The river complex squatted against the morning sky like a cancer. Three buildings connected by covered walkways, perfect for defense or detention. And the parking lot . . .

"Jesus," someone breathed. "That's a lot of bikes."

Forty at minimum, probably more. Serpent colors bold in the morning light, parked in defensive clusters. And other vehicles with Cartel colors. They weren't trying to hide. This was a statement—we have her, come and try.

But one bike made my blood sing with recognition. Scratches on the tank where it had been laid down recently. Fresh mud on the tires despite no rain for days.

"Eddie's bike," Tank confirmed, voice gone deadly quiet. "That's his custom exhaust."

So the rat had scurried here after making his delivery. Probably counting his thirty pieces of silver while Lena faced whatever Cruz and the Serpents had planned. The thought made my trigger finger itch.

"Forty defenders minimum," Duke calculated, scanning windows and defensive positions. "Plus whatever's inside. Could be looking at sixty, seventy total."

"Don't care if it's seven hundred." The words came out flat, final. "She's in there."

Duke studied me with those presidential eyes, weighing odds and outcomes. Then nodded once, sharp. "How do you want to play it?"

"Hard and fast. Military breach. Windows and doors simultaneously." I pulled up the building schematic on my phone—public records were beautiful things. "Three teams. Duke, take the north entrance. Thor, you're south despite that arm. I'm going through the loading dock."

"My arm's fine," Thor growled, which was bullshit but the kind of bullshit I needed right now.

We positioned with the kind of silence that came from practice and purpose. Hand signals replaced words. Brothers who'd never served picked up the rhythm from those who had, violence being a universal language.

Duke's ribs had to be screaming, but he moved smooth as water. Thor kept switching his weapon between hands, finding his balance with the sling. Both of them should have been in the hospital. Both of them were here anyway, because that's what brotherhood meant.

Three flash-bangs in my hand. Standard dispersal pattern for maximum coverage. Through the dirty windows, I could see movement—Serpents lounging with the confidence of superior numbers. They expected us to come roaring in, pipes blazing, berserker style.

They were about to learn different.

I held up my fist. Hold. Hold. Every brother coiled like a spring, ready to explode into motion. One of the Serpents stepped outside to smoke, casual as Sunday morning. No idea death waited in the shadows.

My fist opened. Five fingers. Four. Three. Two.

One.

Hell came to breakfast.

The flash-bangs turned windows into stars, concussive force rattling the whole structure. We flowed in behind them, controlled violence given purpose. The smoking Serpent never saw me coming—stock to temple, down and done.

Gunfire erupted from everywhere at once. But we had momentum and surprise. They had hangovers and overconfidence. The math worked in our favor.

I moved through them like death's accountant, tallying sins in blood and brass. One Serpent tried to radio for help—my knifedisagreed with his communication plans. Another scrambled for cover—my boot introduced his ribs to his spine.

"Where's Cruz?" I grabbed a wounded Serpent, probably broke his wrist in the process. Didn't care. "Where is he?"