Page 140 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

We all know what that means. Trafficking victims. Real people in those containers.

The moral weight settles over everyone differently—Cole's jaw tightens, Damian goes still, Xander mutters curses.

But Mira just keeps tracing those patterns on the glass.

"Thirteen years since that night." Her voice drops so low I almost miss it. "I can still smell her perfume. Chanel No. 5. She only wore it for special occasions."

My hand moves without permission, finding her thigh through tactical pants. Not trying to comfort—she's beyond that. Just letting her know she's not alone in this.

Though fuck, everything with her turns sexual eventually. Even comfort.

"That night was their anniversary. Twenty years." Her finger stops moving. "He bought her a new bottle every Christmas. Said family deserved beautiful things while planning to destroy us."

Sick fuck. Shopping for perfume with murder on his calendar.

"We're fifteen minutes out," the pilot announces.

Everyone starts final checks—weapons, comms, tactical gear. The sounds of professional preparation fill the cabin, but I can't stop watching Mira. She's completely still now, like a predator conserving energy before the strike.

"Promise me something." She turns from the window, those hazel eyes finding mine.

"Anything."

"If it goes bad—if he gets me—you don't try to save me. You end it. Quick and clean."

The request hits like ice water. Everyone else pretends not to hear, giving us this moment.

"I understand," I tell her.

"Promise me, Jax. I need to hear it."

"I promise," I lie, knowing I'd burn the entire harbor, probably most of Baltimore, before letting Petrov touch her again. "Quick and clean."

She studies my face, and I know she sees the lie. But she nods anyway, accepting the intention if not the truth.

"Touchdown in five," the pilot calls.

Game time.

The Fells Point warehouse reeks of rust and old blood—the kind of smell that tells you bad things happen here regularly. Prague team has taken over the main floor, their equipment spread across tables like they're prepping for war. Which they are.

Katya stands at the center, her silver hair pulled back tight, expression carved from Siberian winter. The lead operator beside her is built like a brick shithouse—Erik, according to his tag. The kind of guy who could bench press a car and not break a sweat.

"Situation unchanged since last report." Katya's accent turns the words into weapons. "Twenty-four guards on standard rotation. Petrov confirmed on site via thermal imaging."

She gestures to the screens showing heat signatures moving through the container maze. "Pattern suggests they expect confrontation. Multiple defensive positions established."

"He knows we're coming," I say, unable to keep still. My feet won't stop moving, that nervous energy spilling out. "Gideon warned him, or maybe he always knew, maybe this whole thing is—"

"Focus." Mira's voice cuts through my spiral. She's studying the thermal imaging with predator eyes, memorizing every detail. "He's been waiting thirteen years for this. Another few hours won't matter."

Prague team performs final checks with eerie synchronization. No wasted movement, no unnecessary communication. These aren't soldiers—they're surgical instruments.

"Cargo containers here, here, and here." Cole points to the display. "Thermal shows approximately fifteen to twenty individuals inside. Non-combatants."

Victims. Kids, probably.

"Extraction protocol?" Damian asks.