Page 12 of Oath of Protection (Blood Oath Bargains #1)

TWELVE

THE HUNT

Two AM surveillance never got easier. Cam adjusted his position on the warehouse rooftop, night vision scope trained on the loading dock three blocks away where Viktor Petrov conducted business that definitely wasn't accounting.

"Movement, east entrance," he murmured into his throat mic. "Two vehicles, black sedans."

"Copy that." His voice came through the earpiece, calm and focused. "I've got eyes on the north side. Three men on foot patrol, armed."

They'd been watching the Kozlov operation for six hours, mapping security patterns and identifying weaknesses. What they'd discovered was troubling—this wasn't just a financial front. It was a weapons staging area.

"You seeing this?" he asked.

Cam shifted his scope to follow his line of sight. Through the loading dock's open bay doors, he could see wooden crates being unloaded from a shipping container. The kind of crates that held military-grade hardware.

"RPGs," Cam said quietly. "At least a dozen. Plus enough assault rifles to outfit a small army."

"They're not planning another assassination attempt."

"No. They're planning a war."

The implications hit both of them simultaneously. The Kozlovs weren't just trying to eliminate Nico—they were preparing to take over Valente territory by force. Complete decimation, not surgical strikes.

"We need to get closer," he said. "Document everything."

Cam studied the approach routes, calculating risks. The warehouse sat in an industrial district with minimal cover, surrounded by open ground that would expose them to observation. Getting close enough for detailed intelligence meant crossing fifty yards of empty space.

"Too exposed," he said. "If they spot us?—"

"They won't. Trust me."

Those two words hit harder than they should have. Trust me had stopped being professional confidence. It had become something deeper.

"What's your plan?"

"Shift change in twenty minutes. Night crew goes off duty, day crew comes on. Fifteen-minute gap while they transition." His voice carried the certainty of someone who'd studied patterns and found exploitable weaknesses. "We go in during the handoff."

"And if the timing's off?"

"Then we improvise."

Cam found himself almost smiling despite the circumstances. Three weeks ago, Nico had been a stubborn client who thought security protocols were suggestions. Now he was calculating tactical windows and planning infiltration operations.

"Your father know you're this good at fieldwork?"

"My father thinks I spend too much time in boardrooms." There was amusement in his voice. "He's probably right."

They moved during the shift change, using drainage ditches and abandoned equipment for cover. Cam led the approach, but he matched his pace perfectly, staying low, minimizing noise. No wasted movement, no amateur mistakes.

The warehouse's rear entrance was secured with a standard electronic lock—sophisticated enough to deter casual break-ins, simple enough for someone with military training to bypass. Cam had it open in under two minutes.

Inside, the warehouse buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Voices echoed off concrete walls, speaking rapid Russian mixed with English curse words. Loading equipment rumbled across the floor, moving inventory that would never appear on customs forms.

"This way," he whispered, gesturing toward a maintenance ladder that led to an overhead catwalk.

They climbed carefully, testing each rung before committing their weight. The catwalk provided perfect observation of the warehouse floor—rows of shipping containers, stacks of wooden crates, and enough weapons to level several city blocks.

Cam pulled out his camera, documenting everything. Serial numbers, shipping labels, inventory counts that would help federal prosecutors build cases against the entire Kozlov organization.

"There," he pointed to a cluster of men gathered around a table covered with maps and building blueprints. "Dmitri Volkov. The enforcement specialist."

Cam focused his camera on the planning session, capturing faces and documents. Through the telephoto lens, he could read some of the blueprints—Valente compound layouts, shipping facility diagrams, even floor plans of the family's legitimate businesses.

"They've been planning this for months," he said quietly.

"Years, probably. They know everything about our operations."

One of the blueprints caught Cam's attention—detailed schematics of the Valente family home, including security installations and emergency protocols. Someone had provided inside information, marked patrol routes and identified weaknesses.

"Nico. Look at this."

He focused on the blueprint Cam was photographing. His face went cold with recognition and fury.

"Those are current security layouts. Updated last month."

"Inside job?"

"Has to be. Only five people had access to those plans." His voice carried deadly promise. "When this is over, we're going to have a very serious conversation about loyalty."

A door slammed somewhere below them, followed by rapid footsteps and urgent Russian voices. Cam tensed, hand moving instinctively toward his weapon.

"Problem?" he whispered.

"Maybe. They sound agitated."

The conversation below grew heated, multiple voices overlapping in what sounded like argument or crisis management. Cam couldn't understand the words, but the tone was universal—something had gone wrong.

"We should go," he said. "Now."

They started back along the catwalk, moving carefully to avoid noise. Halfway to the ladder, lights flooded the warehouse. Emergency lighting, bright enough to eliminate shadows and expose anyone who shouldn't be there.

"Shit," he breathed.

Below them, armed men spread out across the warehouse floor, searching systematically. Someone had triggered an alarm, or discovered their entry point, or simply gotten paranoid at the wrong moment.

"Options?" he asked.

Cam studied their position. The catwalk provided elevation but no cover. The ladder was exposed to observation from multiple angles. The emergency exit was fifty feet away across open space.

"We fight our way out, or we hide and hope they don't look up."

"I vote for not getting shot."

"Good choice."

They pressed themselves flat against the catwalk, using shadows cast by overhead beams for concealment. Below, the search continued with military precision—methodical, thorough, designed to find anything that didn't belong.

A flashlight beam swept across the catwalk three feet from Cam's position. He held his breath, aware of him doing the same beside him. The beam lingered, probing shadows, before moving on to other areas.

"Clear," someone called in English.

"Check again," Volkov's voice answered. "I don't like coincidences."

The search continued for another ten minutes—ten minutes that felt like hours while they lay motionless on steel grating, listening to armed men hunt for intruders. Finally, the emergency lights dimmed and normal operations resumed.

"That was close," he whispered.

"Too close. We're blown—they know someone was here."

"But they don't know who. Or what we learned."

They made it back to the roof and their observation position without further incident. But the warehouse below had changed—doubled security patrols, additional lookouts, the kind of alert status that meant their intelligence-gathering window was closed.

"Did we get enough?" he asked.

Cam reviewed the photographs on his camera display. Weapons inventory, shipping manifests, operational blueprints, and faces of key personnel. Plus the damning evidence of inside information being shared with enemy forces.

"We got everything we needed." He met his eyes. "They're planning to hit the compound tomorrow night. Full assault, multiple teams, enough firepower to level the entire complex."

"Then we better make sure our people are ready."

As they prepared to extract from their observation position, Cam found himself thinking about the operation they'd just completed. Perfect coordination, seamless teamwork, instinctive trust that let them operate as a unit rather than two separate people trying to accomplish the same goal.

"You did good tonight," he said.

"So did you."

"I mean it. Most civilians would've panicked when those lights came on. You stayed calm, followed protocol, didn't do anything stupid."

"Most bodyguards would've tried to handle this alone. You trusted me to watch your back."

They were stating facts, but underneath the professional assessment was recognition of something deeper. They worked well together—not just as protector and client, but as partners. Equal contributors to a mission that required both of their skills.

"We should head back," Cam said. "Your family needs to know what's coming."

"Agreed. But Cam?" Nico paused at the roof's edge. "Whatever happens tomorrow—I want you to know that I've never felt safer than I do when we're working together."

Something in his chest tightened at the admission. Professional partnerships were built on competence and reliability. Personal partnerships were built on trust and understanding. What they had was becoming both.

"Same here," Cam said quietly. "We make a good team."

"Yeah. We do."

Walking back through empty streets toward the compound, Cam felt something had changed during the operation. They'd stopped being bodyguard and client. They'd become something more effective and more dangerous.

They'd become partners in every sense that mattered.

And tomorrow night, when the Kozlovs came for the Valente family with military-grade weapons and inside information, they were going to discover that taking down Nico Valente meant going through both of them.

Some partnerships were worth fighting for.

This one was worth dying for.