Page 49 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Oliver

Langston’s Compound

W e hit the perimeter of the compound—silent and fast.

Raven cut the power and neutralized the security grid with a black box rigged in Cyclone’s backpack. The guards never saw us coming.

I breached the main hall first, night-vision goggles sweeping left. Langston’s security was well-trained—former military, brutal, cold—but not us. We are the best. Army Special Forces.

I moved like a shadow, clearing rooms with methodical silence. Every heartbeat brought me closer to Gage. To Langston.

To the end.

A shout broke the silence. Then gunfire.

Raven’s voice came through my headgear. “We’re blown. Taking fire on the south wing. Langston’s moving!”

Cyclone: “I’ve got visual. He’s headed for the helipad!”

I didn’t answer.

I ran.

I took out two guards with a flash-blind strike to the throat and reached the makeshift holding cell in seconds. Gage was strapped to a metal chair, blood at the corner of his mouth but a grin on his face.

“Took you long enough.”

“Shut up and duck.”

I shot the lock and caught him as he fell forward. He staggered but nodded. “Langston?”

“Mine.”

The helicopter was already spooling up, blades slicing the air, dust whirling. Langston shoved a black duffel into the copilot’s hands and turned to board—just as I emerged from the darkness.

He froze.

I didn’t.

I tackled him to the ground, fists flying. “You threatened my wife.”

A hit to his jaw.

“You tried to erase her.”

A knee to his ribs.

“You kidnapped my wife.”

Another punch—this time breaking something.

He spat blood. “You don’t get it. Taking me down won’t stop this. I’m not the only one. There are others. She wasn’t your wife when we kidnapped her.”

“I know,” I said, cuffing him. “But tonight? You’re our first take down. ”