Page 22 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)
CHAPTER 22
Ariadne
The armored SUV carries us through Chicago’s North Shore, and I check my weapons methodically—primary, backup, blades. The familiar ritual centers me, brings clarity.
“Five minutes to target,” our driver announces.
Beside me, Sunny is still, focused, but I can feel the tension radiating from her. She’s been different since Hadria told her about her sister—grief is there, obviously, but also a new kind of resolve. I’ve watched her channel her pain into purpose. It’s a transformation I understand all too well, and I’m going to make sure it makes her stronger instead of…
Well. What happened to me.
My pinky finger brushes against hers on the seat between us. Not quite holding hands—we’re professionals on a mission—but I hope it’s enough to remind her I’m here. That she’s not alone.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
“I’m good,” she replies, and I can tell she means it. Mostly.
The vehicle slows as we approach our staging area, concealed from the main road by dense foliage. Zach and Elijah sit across from us, while Mario drives and Lyssa rides shotgun, dividing her attention between the tactical overlay and our surroundings. The other vehicles arrive shortly after, and Hadria emerges from the lead vehicle, gathering us for the final briefing. Twenty-eight heat signatures, ten likely victims, the rest security. Delta team—Lyssa, Zach, Elijah, Sunny and me—will enter through the pool area, secure the women, clear the path for extraction. The other teams have their assignments to take out security.
“Rules of engagement as briefed,” Hadria concludes. “Kill on sight. And make no mistake—these are dangerous people who will kill you without hesitation.”
As the group disperses, I catch Sunny’s arm. “Remember.”
“I remember,” she assures me. “I’m your anchor, you’re mine.”
My mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. “And no heroics.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
For a brief moment, we’re just us—two broken people who somehow fit together. Then Lyssa calls for Delta team to go, and we slip into our tactical mindset.
We approach from the west, using the landscaping as cover. Zach disables the security sensors on the perimeter wall, and we scale it silently, dropping into the trimmed shrubbery on the other side.
The pool area is elaborate—infinity edge so that the pool seems to merge into the lake beyond, expensive loungers, fully stocked bar. Nothing but the best for these monsters.
“Two targets, northwest corner,” Lyssa whispers.
I spot them—low-level muscle, not particularly alert. Lyssa signals with two fingers. Sunny and I move in perfect synchronization. I take the guard on the right, quickly putting a silenced bullet in his brain before helping him fall quietly to the ground as Sunny does exactly the same with her target.
The back entrance yields to Zach’s tech and Lyssa’s expertise. We enter through the kitchen—industrial appliances gleaming in the darkness, faint smells of cooking lingering in the air. Elijah stays in the shadows by the glass sliding doors, watching to make sure we have no one sneaking up on us.
“Delta team, status?” Hadria’s voice in our comms.
“We’re in,” Lyssa reports. “Proceed.”
We move methodically through the first floor—dining room, living area, study. All the trappings of legitimacy, meant to disguise what happens upstairs.
“Heat signatures still concentrated on the second floor,” Zach confirms. “East wing.”
We ascend the main staircase slowly, weapons ready. The second floor shows signs of life—clothes hanging to dry, a forgotten hairbrush, the scent of perfume mixed with disinfectant.
“Contact,” I whisper, as a door opens at the end of the hall. A man emerges, rubbing his eyes. He spots us immediately, reaching too late for a weapon. Lyssa’s silenced pistol fires once, and he drops.
“Engage!” she hisses.
Because more doors are opening along the corridor—shouts sounding as guards respond too late to what they see—and the air fills with the muffled sound of silenced weapons. I move with practiced efficiency, no hesitation in my movements, no doubt, no fear. This is what I was trained for.
But it’s different now. I’m not Grandmother’s creation anymore. I’m not killing because I was ordered to or because I need an outlet for my rage. I’m here by choice, protecting the innocent, fighting alongside people I’ve chosen to trust.
Fighting alongside Sunny, who moves right beside me. We’ve trained enough that I can anticipate her movements, covering her blind spots as she covers mine.
“Three more coming from the west corridor,” Zach warns.
“We’ve got them,” Sunny responds, and we break off from the group. There are three guards at the other end of the hallway, just as Zach said, and they haven’t seen us yet. We make quick work of them and then regroup with Lyssa and Zach, who have secured the rest of the section.
“Beta team reports perimeter secure,” Lyssa informs us. “Alpha has joined them to handle extraction preparations.”
“The women?” Sunny asks, urgency in her voice.
“Heat signatures suggest they’re behind that door,” Zach says, indicating a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
The door has a heavy-duty electronic lock with a keypad—more security than the others we’ve encountered. Zach works on bypassing it while the rest of us take up defensive positions. “Got it,” Zach announces as the lock disengages.
We stack up on either side of the door—Lyssa and Zach on one side, Sunny and me on the other, while Elijah watches our six.
Lyssa gives the signal, and we breach.
The room beyond is large and open—once a ballroom or entertainment area, now converted into a communal living space. Mattresses line the walls. Tables and chairs cluster in the center. In the dim light, I make out figures moving toward the far side of the room.
Women—nine or ten of them—huddle together, fear evident in their posture. They’re dressed in a strange mix of lingerie and casual clothing, some clutching blankets or small personal items. They’re moving in an organized evacuation toward a door at the far end of the room, guided by one woman in particular.
“We’re here to help,” Lyssa announces, dropping her gun down in a clear indication that she won’t fire. “We’re getting you out of here.”
But the women hesitate, wary of any promises. The woman by the door continues ushering them through—it looks like she’s shepherding them into a panic room. When she turns to face us, placing herself between us and the others who are uncertain where to go—with her or us—it’s a clear protective gesture. She has a hardened look about her. Her dark hair is pulled back, her face thin but strong. And there’s something in her stance, in the determined look on her face, that feels familiar.
“That’s far enough,” she calls, her voice steady. “Who are you people?”
I lower my weapon slightly, too, so that she doesn’t feel threatened. “We’re here to help,” I echo. “We’re going to get you to safety.”
The woman studies us skeptically, takes a breath to answer, but before she can, Sunny is moving forward with her gun dropped to her side, her eyes wide and shocked.
One name escapes her in a whisper. “Mari?”