Page 181 of Ravaged Soul

“Rayna?” Ember taps her comms. “Can you see them?”

“Four guards at the rear exit, two down and two still standing,” she replies quickly. “Archer’s handling it. No cause for concern.”

Warner heaves a tense breath. “Let’s advance.”

“I hate this,” Ember mutters.

Keeping my semi-automatic locked and upright, I flash her what I hope is a reassuring look. “We have to split up sometimes.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m on your team.”

“Last time I let you out of my sight, you were beaten within an inch of your life,” I say unapologetically.

Fist balled, Warner waves for us to be quiet. “Hear that?”

We halt in the middle of a long, echoing corridor, surrounded by sealed storage rooms. Warner already cracked a couple open. Hidden in plain sight, Madden has a smorgasbord of illegal narcotics packed and ready for immediate export.

If the authorities knew about this place before we turned up, they’d have enough to hang his hide from the port’s front gates. It’s bordering on absurd how he’s running a criminal regime in the heart of Estonia’s capital city.

“What is it?” I strain my ears.

Ember cocks her head to the side. “Crying.”

“Close by,” Warner confirms.

We follow close behind him and Gunnar, taking the lead deeper into the dimly lit structure. It’s so cold, I can see my breath fogging in front of me. No one could live for long in this hellish prison. Not without succumbing to hypothermia.

It’s a thought that I don’t vocalise. Ember’s on edge as it is. With no sign of Gracie, Madden or Gael, each step onwards feels like inching into the belly of the beast. I can only hope its jaws haven’t closed behind us.

The sound of faint whimpering becomes a treasure trail, leading us farther into oblivion. The more storerooms full of allmanner of substances we pass, the more my shock settles in. If Madden’s dabbling in the skin trade, he certainly isn’t doing it for profit. This drug operation is huge on its own.

“Incoming!” Rayna warns. “Straight ahead, seven o’clock.”

Right on time, multiple encroaching feet cover the sound of crying. Gunnar moves in a vicious whirlwind, charging ahead of us to intercept our attackers before they can swarm. He meets the burly, over-muscled shadows at the end of the corridor.

I bar an arm over Ember’s chest to hold her back from joining in. She hisses at me but soon realises that Gunnar has it handled. Apparently, four on one is meagre odds for someone of his extensive skill set.

The three of us watch in awe and mild horror while my twin brother mows through human beings faster than a meat grinder. He seems almost reluctant to drop their unconscious bodies, lip curled in a look of derision.

“Keeping them alive is a waste of my talent,” Gunnar calls to us.

“Bloody hell.” Warner adjusts the gun trapped in his grip. “Are we certain he’s sane?”

“You’re asking that question now?” I glance at him.

“Perhaps a little too late.”

“And stupid. He’s clearly not.”

Watching the monstrous whirlwind, I decide his brutality is a little much even for me to swallow. Two of the guards now boast matching pulpy messes where their faces should be, one’s collapsed in a pool of blood, and the last is still breathing but with a leg resembling snapped dried spaghetti.

I can inflict some horrific damage when the need arises, but that was a new level of violence for a mere thirty second beating. The worst parts of my nature seem to be magnified to an extreme extent in my less-than-stable twin brother.

“Onwards?” Gunnar steps over one of the sentries, disregarding his mess.

“Did you even break a sweat?” I gawp at him.

“Why would I? They’re overpaid thugs. Child’s play.”