million shadows multiplying in his already black gaze.
“Dani doesn’t want me there at all.”
Chapter Thirteen
T he recovery unit will be here in five,” Reed cautioned as Kane exited the van twenty minutes after leaving Stark International.
Reed had the vehicle parked behind a burned out barn. Twenty yards of fallow field separated the barn from a line of trees. Another eighty yards on was the beginning of a dirt drive with a rusting barbed wire gate. Images Marcus had pulled from Google Maps while they waited for satellite coverage showed that the dusty road extended a quarter mile past the turn-off. At the back end of the property, shielded by more densely packed trees, was a one-story ranch style home.
Kane lifted an uncompromising brow. “That’s five minutes in the hands of a Level 22 psychopath.”
Reed’s face went red. They were no longer worried about Donnie Wells. With Marcus checking all cell tower hits for the area and cross referencing the numbers with Wells’ known associates, they strongly suspected that Abraham “Stoker” Turner was in the club’s stash house.
Deemed too crazy even among the bikers, Turner mostly operated separate from the club as its liaison with the East European syndicates, supplying the foreigners with a steady flow of meth and human flesh.
He had earned his club nickname for the things he liked to do to the women when they were no longer attractive or cooperative enough to earn the club money. Calling him a sexual sadist would have been a mild rebuke or, to Stoker’s way of thinking, faint praise.
“Right,” Reed relented and grabbed the shotgun from the weapons rack inside the van. “Let’s just hope no one spots the van or us before recovery gets here.”
They ran the twenty yards to the trees, their black tactical dress visible to anyone passing on the road. They were going in blind, no idea how many vehicles or bodies were at the house. Caution would dictate that they set up a perimeter and perform surveillance for the recovery team.
But the feed from Daniella’s phone inside the house meant there was no room for caution—not for Kane.
You think anyone wants to buy a blind baby?
Kane had one pistol out of its holster, a silencer threaded at its end. Reed recognized the frosty look on his boss’s face.
“So that’s how we’re going to do it?” he asked.
“If necessary,” Kane answered as they came up on the clearing around the house.
At the back of the building, there was a distance of maybe four feet from leaving the trees to being at the rear door. The sides and front had more open space. There were three motorcycles and the Tap&Ride car littering the drive.
Seeing the sedan, Kane’s expression darkened.
The damn coward would be lucky if anyone went looking for him once Daniella and the baby were rescued.
With a hand gesture, he directed Reed toward the front of the building, ordering him to stay within the cover of the trees until called forth. Reed glared in reply, but didn’t argue.
“Four targets minimum,” Marcus advised over the comm link. “One female, Julie Brown. Three males, Abraham Turner, Donald Wells and a third identified only as Paulie. Sounds like he’s their cook.”
“Stop talking” Kane growled. “Unless you’ve got something I don’t already know.”
“Recovery arrival in three-point-five,” Marcus said and then the comm link went silent.
Kane snuck up on the back side of the house. There were two windows—one on the rear door that was covered with grime and the second at the far end that was boarded over. He approached the door at an angle as Stoker took a call.
“Trace?” he queried over the comm link.
“Ilia Grekov,” Marcus answered after a few seconds, his voice turning queasy.
Fuck! Kane cursed silently. If Stoker had a direct line to the Russian Butcher, the club was more connected than they had realized.
Dani and Christine might never be safe.
Kane inhaled then slowly released a deep
“Dani doesn’t want me there at all.”
Chapter Thirteen
T he recovery unit will be here in five,” Reed cautioned as Kane exited the van twenty minutes after leaving Stark International.
Reed had the vehicle parked behind a burned out barn. Twenty yards of fallow field separated the barn from a line of trees. Another eighty yards on was the beginning of a dirt drive with a rusting barbed wire gate. Images Marcus had pulled from Google Maps while they waited for satellite coverage showed that the dusty road extended a quarter mile past the turn-off. At the back end of the property, shielded by more densely packed trees, was a one-story ranch style home.
Kane lifted an uncompromising brow. “That’s five minutes in the hands of a Level 22 psychopath.”
Reed’s face went red. They were no longer worried about Donnie Wells. With Marcus checking all cell tower hits for the area and cross referencing the numbers with Wells’ known associates, they strongly suspected that Abraham “Stoker” Turner was in the club’s stash house.
Deemed too crazy even among the bikers, Turner mostly operated separate from the club as its liaison with the East European syndicates, supplying the foreigners with a steady flow of meth and human flesh.
He had earned his club nickname for the things he liked to do to the women when they were no longer attractive or cooperative enough to earn the club money. Calling him a sexual sadist would have been a mild rebuke or, to Stoker’s way of thinking, faint praise.
“Right,” Reed relented and grabbed the shotgun from the weapons rack inside the van. “Let’s just hope no one spots the van or us before recovery gets here.”
They ran the twenty yards to the trees, their black tactical dress visible to anyone passing on the road. They were going in blind, no idea how many vehicles or bodies were at the house. Caution would dictate that they set up a perimeter and perform surveillance for the recovery team.
But the feed from Daniella’s phone inside the house meant there was no room for caution—not for Kane.
You think anyone wants to buy a blind baby?
Kane had one pistol out of its holster, a silencer threaded at its end. Reed recognized the frosty look on his boss’s face.
“So that’s how we’re going to do it?” he asked.
“If necessary,” Kane answered as they came up on the clearing around the house.
At the back of the building, there was a distance of maybe four feet from leaving the trees to being at the rear door. The sides and front had more open space. There were three motorcycles and the Tap&Ride car littering the drive.
Seeing the sedan, Kane’s expression darkened.
The damn coward would be lucky if anyone went looking for him once Daniella and the baby were rescued.
With a hand gesture, he directed Reed toward the front of the building, ordering him to stay within the cover of the trees until called forth. Reed glared in reply, but didn’t argue.
“Four targets minimum,” Marcus advised over the comm link. “One female, Julie Brown. Three males, Abraham Turner, Donald Wells and a third identified only as Paulie. Sounds like he’s their cook.”
“Stop talking” Kane growled. “Unless you’ve got something I don’t already know.”
“Recovery arrival in three-point-five,” Marcus said and then the comm link went silent.
Kane snuck up on the back side of the house. There were two windows—one on the rear door that was covered with grime and the second at the far end that was boarded over. He approached the door at an angle as Stoker took a call.
“Trace?” he queried over the comm link.
“Ilia Grekov,” Marcus answered after a few seconds, his voice turning queasy.
Fuck! Kane cursed silently. If Stoker had a direct line to the Russian Butcher, the club was more connected than they had realized.
Dani and Christine might never be safe.
Kane inhaled then slowly released a deep
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