Page 28 of Viking (Dixie Reapers MC #24)

My brothers melted away, moving to their assigned positions with the silence that came from years of practice.

I watched them go, pride mingling with the cold focus of pre-combat clarity.

Prophet and Bull, crouched low, disappeared into the shadows along the western perimeter.

Sarge and Flicker, despite the latter’s injury, moved like ghosts toward the eastern approach.

Saint remained at my side, his breathing steady as we prepared for our own advance.

I checked my weapons one final time. Glock with suppressor at my hip.

KA-BAR knife strapped to my thigh, the leather sheath worn smooth from years of use.

Two flash-bangs and a smoke grenade on my belt.

Extra magazines in the pockets of my tactical vest. The weight of it all was familiar, almost comforting -- tools of a trade I’d mastered long ago.

Saint tapped my shoulder and pointed. The roving guard had completed his circuit and was lighting a cigarette near the back of the main building, his rifle slung carelessly over one shoulder.

Amateur. The cherry glow illuminated his face in brief flashes, revealing a young man who looked barely old enough to buy the cigarettes he was smoking.

I keyed my mic. “In position?”

Four whispered affirmatives came through my earpiece.

The night air was cool against my face, carrying the scent of pine and distant water. A perfect night for hunting. For justice. My body hummed with controlled energy, every sense heightened.

“On my mark,” I whispered into the mic. I raised three fingers, then lowered them one by one. “Execute.”

We moved as one, six shadows converging on the compound from different directions. The night swallowed us whole as we advanced through the tall grass, weapons ready, vengeance in our hearts. For Kris. For Karoline. For Athena. For the family I’d claimed as my own.

The perimeter guard never heard me coming.

I slipped behind him, one arm snaking around his throat in a practiced choke hold, the other hand clamping over his mouth.

He struggled for three seconds, body bucking against mine before going limp.

I eased him to the ground, checking his pulse -- unconscious, not dead.

I gave the all-clear signal and watched as my brothers emerged from the darkness, converging on the main building like shadows with purpose.

Across the compound, Prophet took down another guard with similar efficiency, the man’s rifle caught before it could clatter to the ground. Sarge and Flicker disabled the security cameras with quick bursts from their signal jammers. Thirty seconds in, and we already owned the perimeter.

I spoke into the Comms, “Main entrance. Standard breach pattern.”

We moved as a unit toward the administrative building, boots silent on the packed dirt.

The door was reinforced steel with an electronic keypad -- exactly as Wire’s intel had indicated.

Bull knelt before it, attaching a small device to the keypad.

Six seconds later, the lock disengaged with a soft click .

I held up my fist, then three fingers. Saint positioned himself on the opposite side of the doorframe, Sarge and Flicker flanking, Prophet covering our rear. Bull readied a flash-bang.

Three. Two. One.

Bull tossed the flash-bang through the gap. We turned away, eyes closed, mouths open to equalize the pressure. The bang reverberated through the night, followed immediately by confused shouts from inside.

We surged through the door, weapons up, moving in practiced formation. The entrance hall was clear except for a disoriented guard stumbling around, hands over his ears. Sarge took him down with a swift rifle butt to the temple.

“Left clear!”

“Right clear!”

Our whispered confirmations echoed in my earpiece as we swept the first section. So far, so good. Maybe we’d get lucky.

Then everything went to shit.

A door banged open at the end of the hallway. A man in tactical gear emerged, eyes widening at the sight of us. He opened his mouth to shout a warning -- too late. My suppressed Glock coughed twice. The man dropped, but the damage was done. An alarm began wailing, high-pitched and insistent.

“Looks like they definitely know we’re here now,” Prophet said.

“Plan B,” I barked. “Sarge, Flicker -- secure the east corridor. Bull, find that server room. Prophet, Saint -- with me. Control center should be straight ahead.”

We broke into our assigned teams just as gunfire erupted from the end of the hallway. Bullets pinged off metal doorframes and splintered into drywall around us. I ducked behind an overturned desk, Prophet and Saint taking cover behind a concrete pillar.

“Three tangos, north hallway,” Saint called, popping up to return fire.

I slid to the edge of the desk, using its metal frame for partial cover as I sighted down my Glock. One. Two. Three shots. A man screamed, clutching his shoulder as he fell.

“Moving!” I shouted, darting forward as Prophet provided covering fire, his shotgun roaring in the confined space.

The gunfight intensified as we pushed deeper into the building. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkened hallways in strobe-like bursts, casting nightmarish shadows across walls streaked with old water damage and fresh blood.

“Sarge is hit!” Flicker’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Flesh wound, upper arm. Still mobile.”

“Status on the server room?” I demanded, dropping to one knee behind a filing cabinet to reload.

“Northwest corner,” Bull reported. “Heavy resistance. Could use some help.”

I signaled to Prophet. “Go. Help Bull secure the primary objective. Saint and I will push toward the control center.”

Prophet nodded once, then charged down a side corridor, his large frame surprisingly agile as he weaved between cover points.

Saint and I continued forward, moving in leapfrog pattern -- one advancing while the other provided cover. Two men appeared from a doorway ahead, firing wildly in our direction. I felt the air displacement as bullets whizzed past my ear, so close I could almost taste the lead.

“Contact front!” I shouted, diving behind a water cooler that offered minimal protection.

Saint responded with precise fire, dropping one of the men.

The other ducked back inside the room. I seized the opportunity, sprinting forward and throwing myself through the doorway.

The man was fumbling to reload, as I crashed into him, we went down in a tangle of limbs, his rifle clattering away.

His fist connected with my jaw, sending stars exploding across my vision. I responded with an elbow strike to his solar plexus, forcing the air from his lungs. We rolled across the floor, grappling for advantage, knocking over chairs and crashing into a desk.

His hand found my throat, fingers digging into my windpipe.

Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as I struggled for air.

My fingers scrabbled at his face, finding his eye socket.

I jammed my thumb in, pressing hard. He screamed, grip loosening just enough.

I bucked, throwing him off-balance, then reversed our positions.

One solid punch to his temple. Then another. His body went limp beneath me.

“Viking!” Saint’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears. “We’ve got more incoming!”

I staggered to my feet, tasting blood from a split lip. My jaw throbbed where the man had connected, but the pain only sharpened my focus. I retrieved my Glock and joined Saint at the doorway.

Three men were advancing down the hallway, using doorways for cover as they moved.

One stepped out slightly from the others.

I tracked him through my sights. Breathed out.

Squeezed the trigger. He dropped, weapon clattering to the floor.

The others immediately retreated, laying down covering fire as they withdrew.

My earpiece crackled and Bull’s voice came through. “Server room secure. Download in progress. Sent Prophet over to Flicker and Sarge.”

Relief surged through me, quickly replaced by renewed determination. “Copy. Estimated time?”

“Two minutes for the primary files.”

“Prophet’s hit,” Flicker cut in, his voice tight with pain from his own wound. “Took one in the vest and another grazed his neck. He’s pissed but functional.”

I ducked back as bullets chewed into the doorframe beside my head, showering me with wood splinters. “All teams, converge on the server room. We’re out in five.”

Saint and I worked our way back through the building, moving from cover to cover. Blood spattered across my face from a man I’d shot at close range, warm and sticky against my skin. The metallic smell of it mingled with gunpowder and sweat, the battlefield cocktail I knew too well.

We encountered another pair of guards in the west corridor. I took one, Saint the other, our movements synchronized from years of fighting side by side. My shoulder slammed into drywall as I dodged return fire, pain radiating down my arm. I ignored it, pushing forward.

By the time we reached the server room, my breathing was ragged, adrenaline surging through my system. Bull stood guard at the door while Prophet, blood seeping through a makeshift bandage on his neck, monitored a laptop connected to the server bank.

“Almost done,” Prophet reported, glancing up at me. “Got everything Wire asked for plus extra.”

I nodded, scanning our team. Everyone was upright, though Sarge’s sleeve was soaked with blood, and Flicker’s earlier leg wound had reopened, judging by the fresh stain on his pants. We’d been lucky.

“Control center?” Bull asked.

“Still need to secure it,” I said, checking my ammunition. Three magazines left. “One team member should be there. The leader.”

The thought of confronting the man who’d ordered Kris’s death sent fresh heat through my veins, burning away fatigue and pain.

“Download complete,” Prophet announced, disconnecting the laptop and stowing it in his pack.

“Good,” I said, reloading my Glock with practiced movements. “Now we finish this.”