Page 27 of The Sinner’s Desire (The Sinner’s Touch #1)

One Week Later

Somewhere in the state of Massachusetts

We’ve been on a stakeout for over ten hours outside the house that’s our target.

We don’t know how many children are inside, and even if the waiting feels insane, one wrong move could blow everything.

Local authorities aren’t involved in the operation. They have no idea what’s going on. For this mission, we were hired by the FBI.

We’ve worked with them many times, mostly in kidnapping rescues, and both Ethan and I suspect they know about our off-the-record activities , but they prefer to look the other way.

The feds are aware that this isn’t just some run-of-the-mill pedophile ring. These aren’t ordinary men—they’re politicians, businessmen, and even cops.

The Bureau can’t handle cases like we do. That’s because they have to follow rules and internal protocols. We don’t.

That’s our core job: we neutralize monsters—with or without help from the authorities.

We’re faceless soldiers.

No one knows how a notorious arms dealer vanishes without a trace. We work in the shadows.

Blood’s in charge of the raid today—I handled the strategy.

For him, this isn’t personal, so I think he’ll make clearer decisions than I would.

I thought that when the time came to face the monsters who’d haunted my childhood, I’d be anxious to finally exorcize all the hatred I’ve carried for nearly twenty years—but I feel calm. Cold. Just waiting for the moment I’ll be able to face them without fear.

That’s the biggest difference between Ethan and me.

He gets explosive when he’s angry, but I learned long ago how to bury every emotion.

Since I left the beach house, I’ve been thinking about what happened with Lilly, and I’m more and more convinced that maybe—just maybe—there’s a real chance for us to work. If I were a better person, I’d probably let her go. But I can’t give up her light. Not yet.

Lilly is the complement to my life. She’s sweet, affectionate, and pure. She makes me believe that maybe, one day, peace is waiting for me somewhere—and that I won’t have to live feeding off my hate forever.

Hope is a dangerous thing. It can be what keeps you going—what gets you out of bed each day—but when it’s not fulfilled, it can break you beyond repair.

I’ve never tried being in a real relationship before—anything beyond the physical—and I don’t know if it can work.

She doesn’t know the real me. She only sees what’s on the outside. She has no idea that hate has been my lifelong companion.

“Ten minutes and we go in,” Blood says, pulling me back to the present. “We’ve got a dozen men positioned around the house. From what we’ve gathered, in addition to the two main targets, there are other adults inside. We don’t know the exact number or how many kids are there.”

The organization’s core is falling apart.

Somehow, they got wind that we were hunting them, and the rats started jumping ship. As far as we know, here in the U.S., the ones inside this house are the last of this section of the criminal group.

Even so, Jonathan and Maria represent a critical link. They’re the connection between buyers and suppliers of children. Many of the trafficked kids came from orphanages—just like I did—which means judges, prosecutors, and social workers are also involved.

I don’t remember a single time during the months I lived with them when a government official showed up to check on me. It was like they had all shut their eyes. Completely different from how temporary homes are supposed to work.

When a child is adopted, there are supposed to be regular visits from caseworkers to assess wellbeing and adjustment—but every single file of the children taken in by Jonathan and Maria disappeared. Mine included.

Those are the names I know them by, but they’ve had multiple identities, and I’ve never found their real ones.

“I don’t want to risk any of the children getting hurt,” I say.

“They won’t be touched. But I need to know what you want me to do once the targets are secured. The men are waiting for your call.”

“They’re mine.”

We’re all in position. There’s no room for hesitation. When Blood gives the signal, we breach the windows and both exits simultaneously.

The muffled sound of the suppressor echoes. Most people wouldn’t notice it—but to me, it’s music. And this song tells me there are fewer child-abusing bastards in the world.

Shots ring out in synchronized bursts, but I’m not focused on that anymore. I’m listening for anything suspicious. That’s the only reason I catch a movement to my left. I draw my knife and spin at the last second, throwing it and catching my target off-guard.

He drops with the blade buried in one of his eyes, but I don’t have time to think, because a shadow flashes through a door—right behind Blood.

One glance between us and Blood ducks just in time for me to shoot the man who was about to take him out.

There’s no sound from any children, and I know why: they’ve been conditioned to suffer in silence. They’re afraid to ask for help.

Not anymore. We came to rescue their bodies—and their souls.

I don’t know how much time passes or how many I kill before Blood gives me the all-clear signal.

“Your targets aren’t here, Amos.”

“What?”

“Maria and Jonathan escaped again.”

The fury from knowing they slipped away again drags my hate to the surface.

“Bag the bodies,” I order. “We can’t bring out the kids while they’re still scattered around.”

There’s a cleanup team [2] waiting nearby. After Blood calls them in, it takes less than thirty minutes to finish up.

The dead are taken to a warehouse next door, and my men begin processing the house for any evidence that could lead us to Jonathan and Maria’s whereabouts.

Meanwhile, we’ll retrieve the children and hand them over to the FBI, who are already waiting. But once the kids are out of here, unfortunately for the feds, this whole place will go up in flames. We never leave a trace—not even when it’s the government that hires us.

We start sweeping the house, now looking for the kids, when a sound to my left grabs my attention.

“You hear that?” I ask Blood.

“Yeah. Sounds like it’s coming from under the stairs.”

There’s some kind of closet there, and motioning for silence, I head over with my gun drawn.

“Come out!” I shout, sure it’s one more coward hiding.

“No,” a tiny voice answers, catching me off-guard.

“Who are you?”

Silence.

“It’s a child, Amos. And they sound really young. Let me try to talk to them,” Blood says, approaching the small door. “Hey . . .we’re not going to hurt you. I promise. You can come out.”

Almost a full minute passes before the door creaks open—very slowly. A little boy, maybe five years old, steps out. He’s filthy and painfully thin, but what grabs my attention are his eyes. They’re dark. Deep.

They don’t look like a child’s eyes. They look like they’ve seen all the pain in the world.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He doesn’t look at Blood—the one who spoke to him—but at me.

“Bruno. Are you a liar?”

“What?”

“You’re not the bad man?”

“No. I’m not a liar. My name is Amos. I came here to save you.”