Page 14 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)

Salvation

I stood in the doorway of the war room, watching as Beast spread a detailed map across the worn wooden table.

The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion and determination etched there.

Around him, my brothers gathered, their expressions grim as they took in the layout of the industrial district where our family was being held.

Hours of rage had been building in my chest, hardening into something cold and lethal.

Now, finally, we had a location. And a plan.

“Here’s the drop point.” Beast’s finger jabbed at a spot on the map -- a closed gas station about two blocks from an abandoned warehouse near the rail yard.

“Shield triangulated the cell tower pings and confirmed it with satellite imagery. High probability they’re holding Yulia and Clover inside that warehouse. ”

I moved closer, scanning the blueprint that Shield had somehow acquired and printed out. The warehouse was two stories, with multiple entry points and a large loading dock facing away from the main road. Perfect for moving things -- or people -- without being noticed.

“We go in here, here, and here,” Beast continued, marking three entry points with a red marker.

His movements were precise, calculated -- the strategist I’d trusted with my life for over a decade.

“Drifter, you and Patriot take position in these unmarked vehicles. Set up surveillance two hours before the drop time. I want eyes on every approach.”

Drifter nodded, his usually relaxed demeanor replaced by focused intensity. “We’ll see them coming.”

“The rest of us prepare for extraction,” Beast said, looking around the table at each brother in turn. “We’ll have three teams. Assault, perimeter security, and extraction. Once we confirm Yulia and Clover are inside, we move fast and clean.”

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward to study the building’s layout. “I’m leading the assault team.”

The room went silent. Beast’s eyes met mine across the table, concern evident in his gaze. “Salvation, I think --”

“This is my family,” I cut him off, my voice low and dangerous. “My wife. My daughter. I’m going in first.”

The words hung in the air between us. My wife.

Not just on paper anymore. Not just a legal arrangement for protection.

For the first time, I’d said it out loud, claimed her in front of my brothers without qualification or explanation.

No one reacted. It made me wonder if they’d figured it out long before I’d even admitted it to myself.

He studied me for a long moment, measuring my control against my rage. Finally, he nodded once. “You lead the assault team. But you follow the plan. No cowboy shit. No lone wolf heroics. Clear?”

“Crystal.” I forced my fingers to release their death grip on the table edge.

“Hawk, you and Cyclops flank Salvation,” Beast continued, getting back to business. “Nitro, Friar, and I will be right behind you. Second team takes the perimeter -- Prospero, you coordinate that with the Prospects. No one gets in or out once we’re engaged.”

Prospero nodded, already pulling a smaller map toward him to mark positions.

“What about the ransom?” Hawk asked, voicing the question hanging over all of us. “Just in case, I made sure two hundred K was ready, but if we’re going in hot…”

“Decoy package,” Beast answered. “We make the drop as instructed, buy ourselves time to get into position while they’re distracted. By the time they realize it’s filled with newspaper, we’ll already be inside.”

I nodded my approval. Smart. Keep them focused on the money while we closed the trap around them. Although, that also assumed they would actually take the bait.

The war room door opened, and Dr. Kestral poked his head in. I stepped out to follow him, thinking he must need something. The club doctor -- Prospero’s brother by blood -- moved to the newly added infirmary and began checking supplies and packing a medical bag.

“Any word on their condition?” he asked, his voice calm and professional as he began unpacking supplies with methodical precision.

“Unknown,” Beast replied. I glanced over my shoulder, not realizing he’d even followed us. “Last visual confirmation was the photo they sent, showing them bound but apparently unharmed.”

I watched as Dr. Kestral laid out gauze, antiseptic, suture kits, and more specialized equipment I couldn’t name.

His movements were practiced and efficient, a man preparing for the worst while hoping for the best. He checked each item twice, then reopened his emergency kit to verify its contents for a third time.

“I’ll be ready,” he said simply, glancing my way with quiet reassurance.

The planning continued, each detail meticulously covered.

Escape routes. Communication protocols. Contingencies for every scenario we could imagine.

Throughout it all, I felt a strange calm settling over me -- not peace, but the focused clarity that comes before violence.

The rage hadn’t disappeared. It had transformed, becoming something I could direct with precision.

“We move out ninety minutes from now,” Beast concluded. “Gear up.”

The brothers dispersed to prepare, the room emptying until only Beast and I remained. He rolled up the map, his movements deliberate.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

“I will be when they’re home.”

He clasped my shoulder, squeezing once. “We’ll get them back.”

I nodded, unable to form words around the knot in my throat. Then I headed to the armory, where my brothers were already selecting their weapons. It was one of the many changes this place had undergone over the past decade.

The room hummed with focused energy as hands checked magazines, tested knife edges, and adjusted tactical gear.

No jokes, no banter -- just the quiet efficiency of men preparing for war.

I strapped my Glock to my thigh, checked the action on my backup piece, and slid a hunting knife into my boot.

The weight of the weapons was comforting, grounding.

Hawk approached, handing me a tactical vest. “Shield got thermal imaging of the building. Heat signatures suggest at least six tangos inside, plus two smaller signatures that match Yulia and Clover’s profiles. Second floor, northeast corner. Looks like they’ve moved them.”

I nodded, memorizing the location. Six against twelve. Good odds, especially with surprise on our side.

“You ready for this?” Hawk asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

“Been ready,” I replied, checking the extra magazines on my belt.

He studied my face for a moment. “Just remember -- mission first. Getting them out safely is what matters. Everything else is secondary.”

I knew what he was saying. Don’t lose yourself to revenge. Don’t put payback before rescue. I wanted to promise him I’d keep my focus, but I couldn’t lie to my brother.

“I’m going to kill every last one of them,” I said instead, my voice flat and certain.

Hawk didn’t argue. He just nodded once and moved away to finish his own preparations.

As the minutes ticked down toward departure, I found myself standing before the wall of photos in the main room of the clubhouse.

My eyes fixed on one particular image -- Yulia, Clover, and me at Clover’s sixteenth birthday earlier that year.

We were smiling, Clover in the center with birthday cake frosting on her nose, Yulia and I on either side of her.

A family portrait in everything but name.

I touched the photo briefly, a promise without words. Then I turned and walked out to the line of bikes waiting in the compound, the weight of guns and knives nothing compared to the weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.

The sun was rising into the sky as we mounted up. No colors -- just black leather and deadly purpose. Beast gave the signal, and engines roared to life in unison.

It was time to bring my family home.

* * *

We approached the concrete block building like shadows.

No engine noise for the final quarter mile.

Hawk, Cyclops, and I led the way, our boots silent on the cracked pavement as we closed in on the warehouse.

I felt the weight of my Glock against my thigh, the knife at my ankle, tools that would soon be slick with blood.

Somewhere inside that building, behind those weathered walls, Yulia and Clover waited.

My family. The thought sharpened my focus to a razor’s edge, the world narrowing to this moment, this mission, this kill.

“Three heat signatures on the first floor,” Shield murmured into our earpieces, his voice flat and technical from his position in the surveillance van.

“Two near the front entrance, one patrolling the east corridor. Upper floor shows four more, plus the two smaller signatures in the northeast corner.”

I caught Hawk’s eye, a silent confirmation passing between us. Yulia and Clover were still here. Still alive. The relief that flooded through me lasted only a second before hardening back into deadly purpose.

“Confirm positions,” Beast’s voice came through the comm.

“Perimeter team in position,” Prospero responded. “All exit points covered.”

“Surveillance is go,” Drifter added. “Street’s clear. No movement.”

I pulled my Glock from its holster, screwing the silencer onto the barrel with practiced fingers. Around me, my brothers did the same, their movements fluid and precise in the gathering darkness.

“On my mark,” Beast said, his voice steady as a heartbeat. “Three, two, one. Execute.”

We moved as one, splitting into our assigned teams. Hawk, Cyclops, and I approached the side entrance while Beast led his group toward the loading dock. The third team circled to the rear fire exit. The building loomed before us, its windows dark and empty, like eye sockets in a skull.