Page 12 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)

CHAPTER 12

Ariadne

I don’t sleep much the long day before the mission. Instead, I review the operational files for the third time, checking each detail. The layout. Entry points. Known personnel. Potential victim locations.

I tell myself it’s because I don’t trust Santiago to follow protocol. I tell myself it’s the mission that matters, not the way my chest tightens when I think about what could happen to her if something goes wrong.

The sky outside my window fades from pink to purple to navy as dark approaches. I skip the dinner crowd and eat a few crackers and some cold chicken breast in my room alone as I wait for the time to tick by. At last, I dress for the mission, selecting clothes that maximize movement while minimizing visibility. Black tactical gear, extra holsters, room for extra ammunition. I head to the armory, where I’m geared up with everything I request.

Tonight nothing is denied me. Tonight is the real deal.

And all the time I’m getting ready, I don’t see a single hair on Sunny Santiago’s head. I’m ready to accept that either she hasn’t come, or Hadria or Lyssa or Scarlett found out whatever she’s hiding and pulled her from the mission. I’m actually relieved, although I wish she could have had her chance. She’s a good fighter. And she really wanted to be on this mission, for whatever reason.

But when I reach the garage complex, Santiago is already there, suited up, ready to go.

She’s changed since she found out about this mission. Gone is the perpetual smile, the easy jokes, the sunshine energy that irritates and fascinates me in equal measure. In her place stands someone I recognize all too well: a weapon. Primed and ready.

It’s like looking into a mirror.

I don’t like it.

But as I watch her from the shadows, I note the slight tremor in her hands. She’s hiding something big. I’ve known it from the start, seen it in the way she studies the mission files with an intensity that goes beyond professional duty. Whatever her stake in this, it really is dangerous. Personal.

Just like mine is starting to be.

She’s struggling with a holster strap, her fingers less steady than usual. Before I can think better of it, I cross to her side.

“Here,” I say, adjusting the equipment for her. Our fingers brush briefly, and I pull away quickly. This is not the time for whatever complicated thing exists between us.

“Check your comms twice,” I tell her, keeping my voice neutral. “Reception gets spotty sometimes.”

What I don’t say: Be careful. Don’t be reckless. Come back alive .

Sunny nods. And for a moment, something passes between us—maybe an acknowledgment of the truce we’ve established, fragile as it is.

Hadria’s voice cuts through the night, dividing the team between vehicles. I’m assigned to ride with Lyssa in the second SUV, while Sunny goes with Scarlett in the lead vehicle. And I still feel uneasy about it all.

The garage doors roll open to reveal the gloomy predawn city. Rain falls steadily, pattering against the vehicles as we pull out. Through the windshield wipers’ hypnotic rhythm, I track the lead SUV, knowing that Sunny Santiago sits inside, her mind likely racing with whatever agenda she’s concealing.

“You’ve been training her,” Lyssa notes, not looking away from the road. Not a question.

I don’t respond.

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

“Of course not. But she asked me—and I didn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do.”

“Uh-huh. Well, did you know she’s got a personal stake in this?” Lyssa continues.

“I know,” I say finally.

“And you didn’t rat her out.” Again, not a question.

I stare out at the rain-slick streets. “She would have found a way to come with us regardless. I just wanted to make sure she…”

“Stayed alive?”

“Didn’t get anyone else killed,” I snap.

But Lyssa was closer to the truth than feels comfortable.

Thunder cracks overhead as we approach the industrial district. Through sheets of rain, our target comes into view: a nondescript warehouse, carefully chosen for its anonymity. I run through the plan mentally, anticipating complications, calculating alternatives. But beneath the tactical assessment, more thoughts issue warnings.

Sunny is emotionally compromised. Dangerous.

So are you , whispers another voice.

My earpiece crackles to life and Scarlett says, “Pulling up now.”

Rain slams against the vehicles as we pull into position. Through the downpour, I watch Sunny in the other SUV, her face set with a determination I recognize all too well.

She’s not here for the mission. She’s here for vengeance. And I know better than most how dangerous that can be.

“You want some advice?” Lyssa asks me in a low voice.

I turn and stare at her. I want to say no. But I give a short nod.

“Watch her back, because she’s not going to—and watch your own, too. Because she’s not going to.” She pauses to watch me take that in. “Look, if you say the word, I’ll pull her. Right now.”

It’s the first time Lyssa has ever shown me professional courtesy as though she considers me on the same level. And I think it over. “She deserves her shot,” I say after a moment. “I’ll watch her. Switch me out with Elijah.”

Lyssa nods, and takes to the private comms channel to let Scarlett know about the switch. Then she gets out of the vehicle, and the rest of us pile out, too. Elijah moves over toward Lyssa and I line up with Scarlett.

The rain beats down as we all approach the warehouse, moving in tight formation. Scarlett’s voice comes through the comms, calm and measured.

“Alpha Team, east entrance. Beta Team, loading bay. Look alive, people.”

I check my weapon one last time and then we start creeping forward. The warehouse looms ahead, dark and anonymous in the downpour. I make sure I take my place directly behind Sunny, where I can keep my eyes on her.

The Syndicate moves like a well-oiled machine—the loading bay is cleared silently and we slip inside. The warehouse is divided into an open area with several parked trucks, and then multiple corridors with rooms coming off of them. There’s a mezzanine level as well, which is where Sunny and I will be searching. The air smells of mildew and fear.

“Clear,” Scarlett murmurs into her comm. “Moving in.”

We all split into twos as planned. I stay close to Sunny, watching her scan each doorway, each shadow, as we make our way down one of the corridors, checking each room. But the mission-focused mask she wears is slipping—her eyes dart frantically, searching and searching…

Sunny rounds a corner too quickly, nearly running into a guard. But before I can move, she has him in a choke hold, knife at his throat. Her eyes are wild.

“Where are they?” she hisses, pressing the blade deeper. “The women. Where? ”

“Hey,” I whisper. “Protocol.”

She ignores me, and even the guard looks afraid at her intensity. When he points toward a large truck on the open floor of the warehouse, she slides the knife up through the soft underside of his chin and into his brain with brutal efficiency, then starts moving toward the nearest staircase—away from our assigned route.

“Santiago,” I hiss after her. “Return to the route.”

But without a backward glance, she starts to move quickly down the stairs.

Fucking hell .

I move after her, keeping to the shadows as we hit the ground. I can hear Sunny’s footsteps, quick and purposeful—and that means the guards will all be able to hear her, too. But whatever ghost she’s chasing, she’s determined to find it.

I catch up to her just as she reaches the truck. It’s padlocked shut, but she’s working on the lock, fingers quick but trembling slightly as she works her lock-picking tool around in it.

“You’re compromising the entire operation,” I say, voice low. “We need to return?—”

The lock clicks open, and Sunny swings open the doors without acknowledging me. I raise my weapon, ready for whatever’s on the other side.

But nothing could have prepared me for what we find.

Women. Girls, really. At least a dozen of them, huddled together or sitting against the walls. Some look up at our entrance, eyes hollow with despair or glassy from drugs. Others don’t move at all.

“Oh my God,” Sunny whispers, her voice breaking.

I’ve seen horrors before. I’ve caused horrors before. But this—the deliberate cruelty of it—hits me somewhere I thought had died long ago.

Sunny moves forward, speaking in soft Spanish to the closest woman, who only shrinks back in fear. I scan the interior, counting heads, assessing our exit options. We need to move these women quickly, but safely. Many look malnourished, some injured.

“We need backup,” I say, reaching for my earpiece. “I’m calling in?—”

“Behind you!” one of the women suddenly cries out.

I spin, weapon raised, as five men run down the same staircase we just did—Mancini Family muscle. They weren’t expecting us; their surprise is clear as they register our weapons, our tactical gear.

For a split second, nobody moves.

Then everything happens at once.

Sunny and I move in perfect synchronization, as if we’ve fought together for years instead of weeks. We both move well away from the truck, not wanting to endanger the women. I take the two on the left; she handles the two on the right. Sunny’s movements show all the control and precision I taught her, but with an edge of savagery I recognize from my own darkest days. She shoots dead the first man with brutal efficiency, then engages the second in hand-to-hand combat, striking deep into his neck with her knife.

The fifth man, caught in the middle, hesitates just long enough between the two of us for me to put a bullet in his kneecap after dispatching my own targets. I run back to the truck to check on the women.

“What’s going on?” Lyssa’s voice is sharp in my ear, and I pull out the comms link, needing all my concentration.

“Santiago,” I call, as she stalks toward the guy on the ground wailing and trying to crawl away. “Remember we need one alive.”

But either she can’t or won’t hear me. Her face has transformed, becoming something feral, consumed by rage. She’s no longer fighting tactically—she’s unleashed something primal and terrifying in herself.

It’s exactly the kind of thing Grandmother tried to evoke in all of her agents.

The man doesn’t stand a chance. I can only watch as Sunny drives her knife into him, striking again and again long after he stops moving. Blood sprays across her face, her hands, her chest.

“Sunny!” I hiss, moving toward her. “Sunny! He’s down. He’s dead .”

The women in the truck are screaming now, the sound echoing off the concrete walls, and I can hear people running. Syndicate? Or more Mancinis? I need to get these women out, get them safe, but I can’t leave Sunny like this.

I approach her carefully, the way you’d approach a wounded animal. “Sunny,” I repeat, gentler now. “It’s over. We need to move.”

She looks up at me, her face streaked with blood, eyes so lost it makes my chest ache. For a moment, she doesn’t seem to recognize me. Then clarity returns, horror dawning as she looks down at her blood-soaked hands.

“I—” she starts, but breaks off as new people arrive on the scene. I whirl on them, gun raised, then drop it immediately as I see my fellow Syndicate members, led by Scarlett. She stands there, taking in the carnage. Her gaze moves from the brutalized bodies to Sunny, still crouched over her victim, to the terrified women in the truck.

“What the fuck happened here?” she demands, weapon still raised.

I make my decision in an instant. “I lost control,” I say, stepping forward. “Santiago tried to stop me.”

Scarlett looks skeptical. “ You? Lost control?”

I wipe other men’s blood from my face, smearing it deliberately. “Old habits,” I say flatly. “Grandmother’s training…it comes back sometimes. Surely you of all people should understand that.”

Scarlett looks at me. And then at Sunny. And then she moves to the truck.

“These women need medical attention,” she says, all business. “And we need to clear the rest of the building, make sure there are no others.” She touches the comm in her ear. “We’ve secured a clutch of hostages, first floor. Extracting now.”

While she coordinates with the rest of the team, I move to Sunny, who hasn’t risen from her position on the floor. I crouch beside her, keeping my voice low.

“Get it together,” I tell her. “We’re not done yet.”

She looks up at me, confusion in her eyes. “Why?” she whispers. “Why did you?—”

“Right now, these women need you to be functional. Can you do that?”

Something shifts in her face—a return of the determined woman I’ve come to know. She nods once, rising shakily to her feet.

“Good,” I say. “Let’s get them ready to move.”

As we begin helping them down from the truck, I feel Sunny’s eyes on me. I don’t look back at her. I don’t want to see the gratitude there, or worse, the understanding. I don’t want to examine why I stepped in, why I took the blame.

I tell myself it’s about the mission. About the Syndicate’s reputation. About keeping these women calm as we lead them to safety.

But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie.

I just couldn’t stand to see Sunny Santiago punished.