Page 61 of Rescuing Aria

After we disconnect,I shower quickly, my mind already shifting gears. As I’m changing into street clothes, the facility intercom crackles to life.

“Delta Team to Briefing Room One. Repeat: Delta Team to Briefing One.”

The formal summons raises the hair on my neck. Briefing One is reserved for high-priority situations. Whatever this is, it’s not routine.

I finish dressing in record time, then stride through the corridors of Guardian HRS’s compound with growing unease.

Storm and Razor are already in the briefing room when I arrive, along with Mac, whose massive frame makes the tactical chair look like doll furniture. Jenny stands at the head of the table, deep in conversation with CJ and Blaze.

But it’s the man standing by the window that raises my pulse. Forest—Guardian HRS’s founder and the reason we all exist as a team. His presence at a standard briefing is unprecedented.

The room falls silent as I enter. Forest turns, his face unreadable as always. Our eyes meet, and he gives the barest nod of acknowledgment.

“Good. We’re all here.” His voice carries the weight of mountains.

Jenny takes her customary position at the briefing terminal. “We have a situation.”

Before Jenny can continue, the door opens again.

Mitzy strides in, tablet in hand, her expression sharper than usual—calm, but with an edge.

“Sorry, I’m late.” She slides into a chair, fingers moving across her screen. “Still pulling the threads together, but you need to see this.”

The main display lights up with surveillance footage—an exterior camera feed from a warehouse lot, timestamped three nights ago.

“This was a chemical supply facility in Houston. Not military, but with restricted access and decent private security. On paper, nothing about it screams high-value. But three nights ago, it got hit.”

She switches to interior cams—grainy black-and-white footage of armed men rushing in. Hoodies, jeans, cheap masks. Not pro. But fast. Brutal.

“Twelve dead,” Mitzy says. “All security or warehouse staff. Locals ruled it gang violence. Said it was a turf thing. But look…”

She zooms in on one of the attackers dragging a body. The guy’s forearm is bare—a full tattoo sleeve, crudely inked. The wolf skull in the center is unmistakable.

“That’s Night Pack.” A sharp scrape of metal against tile—Blaze pushes back from the table, jaw tight, fists curled at his sides. “Motherfuckers,” he mutters. “That’s their mark.”

He doesn’t look at the screen. Doesn’t need to. I see it in the way his whole body’s gone still, coiled—like violence is a tide rising fast beneath the surface.

“Exactly.” Mitzy taps to another angle. “Two of them had that same tat. Third had a version across his neck. It’s not armor or insignia—but it’s branding. And it’s consistent.”

“Night Pack?” Storm says it like a bad taste. “I thought they went down with Wolfe.”

Jenny shakes her head. “We crippled their leadership, but the network’s always been decentralized—local cells with their own muscle, same playbook.”

“What were they after?” Razor asks. “Why hit a supply warehouse?”

Mitzy’s jaw tightens. “Records show the facility was holding a short-term shipment of sedatives and paralytics. Medical-grade. Black-market value is high, especially if you’re moving product.”

No one needs her to explain what kind ofproduct.

Children.

A knot tightens in my gut.

We thought we ended this. Six months ago, we raided Wolfe’s compound. Rescued Aria and Ember. Ryn too. Burned the place down.

“But Wolfe is dead,” Razor says, uncertain. “Ember killed him?” He looks around the room. “I read the reports.”

The room goes still.