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  Viktor cursed again as Reaper looked out over the rooftop and called a perfect mimicking cry of an owl missing prey. It was a sound heard at night, not often, but occasionally. The sound was chilling. Ominous. A perfect replica, and yet to Viktor it represented death. Reaper called in the team after he made his kills. He could mimic anything or anyone, just as his brother, Savage, could do.

  The moment the last note died away, the two brothers, Ice and Storm, were over the thick wall and onto the roof with Reaper. Viktor was already in motion, moving fast, running from one roof to the other, Mechanic, Savage and Absinthe right with him. They gained the other roof, staying low to avoid being seen by the men hidden on the ground, waiting for just such a move against the shipment of young girls being brought in from around the country. Ohio. Arizona. California.

  Ice and Storm, crouching low, joined them just above the entry point. The large heavy-bladed fan rotated in fast cycles behind the screen. On the other side of the fan was the same webbing of metal that had to come down before the men could enter the building.

  Mechanic was already there, crouched beside the industrial fan, working on the problem. There was a reason he'd earned the name Mechanic, and it wasn't the custom bikes and cars he engineered and built. It was his ability to control any kind of metal or electronics. He had been a big part of their survival in the school and even more of a help as he'd learned to control and strengthen his talent.

  Storm had one hand on his brother's back as he waited for the huge fan to slow and then stop rotating. They had to be fast in order to keep those below from knowing what was happening. To do that, the sound of the fan had to continue. Like a refrigerator running in the background, no one would notice the noise until it stopped. While Mechanic worked to slow and eventually stop the fan, Storm reproduced the sound and projected it throughout the building below them.

  Viktor watched them working together flawlessly, something his brothers had done from the time most of them were young. That ability to seamlessly blend their talents had allowed them to survive the insanity they'd grown up in. The gifts each of them had always astonished him.

  The fan slowed and finally stopped altogether. By that time, Ice already had the screen peeled back and Storm was through, Ice right behind him. He had to get the next screen down as quickly as possible while Mechanic kept the fan from moving. It wasn't easy and the strain showed. Small beads of sweat trickled down his face, but he stayed locked in place while Ice and Storm dispensed with the second screen.

  The other men went through fast, Viktor bringing up the rear, waiting to ensure Reaper, the last man, made it through safely as well. Mechanic would stay behind and guard the roof, making certain they had a way to retreat if needed. The moment Viktor stepped into the long attic, behind him, the fan began rotating again.

  2

  MASKS. Make certain sleeves are down to cover all identifying marks. Keep gloves on, you know the drill. Viktor gave the order. They didn't bother to slick over their fingers for jobs like this; gloves sufficed. The idea was to get in and get out fast. A lightning strike and then they became phantoms.

  He waited while the others moved like silent wraiths along the beams above the dirty rooms housing the women. They'd done this often enough that it was a pattern they knew well and performed efficiently. They always took the individual cubicles first. They had to be quiet and trust that the girls would remain silent. Then they wiped out the hall monitors. The training room was next and after that, they took out as many of the johns waiting in line before they slipped away.

  He used hand signals and his men spread out. Each took one of the small rooms. They weren't really rooms, just makeshift cubicles with four walls and an open ceiling. The Swords club carried the guts of the cubicles in a large truck that went from site to site. They could put up and take down the flimsy walls in a matter of an hour. Their operation was moved nightly, the word going out on the Internet, or if the customers were regular, through texts, just an address.

  He gave the signal, and each man disappeared into one of the small, rectangular rooms. He dropped down behind his target, slamming his knife deep into the base of the skull and wrenching the body off the girl almost simultaneously. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened. He put his hand over it and shook his head. "We're going to get you out of here."

  He waited until that sank in. For a moment hope dawned, and then she shook her head. "They have men waiting for you to show up. They talk about it all the time." She kept her voice low. "We never thought you'd come."

  So the word had spread even to the women. That made his job easier. Sometimes it was difficult to persuade the girls they were free. Of course, he always called the police anonymously, but that was always a crapshoot. The Swords had money, more money than any club out there, including his, although his genius treasurer had been siphoning money into the Torpedo Ink accounts for the last four years and by the time this was done, they would have Evan's money.

  "Stay quiet. I'll come get you when it's over." He waited for her nod before leaping up to grasp the edge of the thin boards forming the wall so he could pull himself up into the rafters.

  Walking along the beam, he saw that his team had been busy. He dropped a second time and then a third before they had succeeded in freeing the women in the cubicles. The hallway was always the most dangerous point. They'd wiped out the enemy in under two minutes inside the cubicles, but at any moment, one of the men guarding the halls could check on the women. They had to work even faster.

  Each team member indicated which of the guards they would take in the halls. They were two men down, with Transporter guarding the front entrance and Mechanic their way out. Two men were left. Reaper and Savage indicated they would take the extra men. Viktor wasn't surprised. They were lightning fast. He also wasn't in the least shocked that the men they chose were close to the target he had chosen. Reaper always had his back.

  Viktor ran lightly along the beam, waited, poised and ready right over his target. He gave the signal when they were all in place and as one single unit they dropped down behind the enemy, knives severing spinal columns right at the base of the neck. Viktor spun toward the two extra men Reaper and Savage had taken, but both were already falling, almost in slow motion.

  Crouching low, Viktor jumped for the edge of the wall, drew himself up and ran along the beam back toward the training room, his stomach in tight, hard knots. The rage slowly burning in his belly began to churn and roil. He loathed seeing the young women so beat down they didn't move when man after man was brought in, but the training, the rapes and beatings, always threw him back to his childhood. If he could have, he would have wiped every member of the Swords from the face of the earth.

  Viktor. Absinthe touched his arm, stopping him. Let us this time. You always take the training room.

  Viktor didn't respond. He couldn't. There was no way he would stay behind while the others risked their lives to do the very thing he had vowed to do--stop Evan Shackler-Gratsos from selling women and children. Reaper and Savage took up positions on either side of him.

  Viktor peered down at the scene taking place in the room below. In spite of the fact that the Swords were expecting trouble, they were still training the new girls. Training equaled beating, raping and intimidating them over and over. He had seen the scenario played out again and again, and by now he felt he should be immune to all emotion, or at the very least numb to it, but he wasn't. The sight not only made him sick to his stomach, but that slow, burning rage in his belly blossomed into a churning storm.

  Viktor couldn't stand to see the bruised, swollen faces of the young girls, or the hopeless, vacant look in their eyes as they lay waiting for the next faceless man to use them and then leave them to their fate. For a moment he closed his eyes against the sight, and immediately he was flooded with images from his childhood, that same hopeless look on so many faces. The rage went from a fiery inferno to a full-blown volcanic fury.

  He didn't look at the men w
ith him. He couldn't. Like him, they would have nightmares. Like him, he knew somewhere inside of them was the same fury toward the kind of human beings who could commit these types of violent acts against children, and young men and women.

  Seven young girls somewhere between the ages of eleven and fifteen lay on dirty mattresses in the corner, crying softly, trying to muffle the sounds while a four-man team assaulted an eighth girl. That girl looked like a baby to him, a girl no more than eleven or younger. She had fought, but there was no fight left in her. None. Still, that didn't save her; the men surrounding her didn't let up.

  All of the girls showed signs of beatings and rape. There was shock in their eyes, on their faces, and most looked hopeless already. Three were fighters, and one in particular looked as if she'd tried several times to stop the assault on the girl they were "training." Even as he watched, she tried again and was beaten back with fists. When she went down, one man kicked her hard in the stomach and Viktor winced for her, his gaze narrowing on the man as he went back to join the others raping the youngest girl.

  Viktor, Reaper, Savage and Absinthe dropped fast, directly behind the enemy, while Ice and Storm covered them from above. The man Viktor had selected as his target must have seen the flare of hope or shock in the eyes of his victim, because he started to turn. His jeans were down around his ankles and he tripped, falling into the man next to him. Before he could make a sound, Viktor slammed his knife right through the man's throat and then withdrew the blade and slashed the jugular on either side. Savage put his finger to his lips, facing the girls. Still, two of the younger ones cried out. One girl, the fighter, hastily crawled to them and put a hand over their mouths.

  "We'll get you out of here," Viktor assured. "We have to get rid of the ones guarding the place. Keep them quiet and wait for someone to give you the all clear. You understand?" His hands were gentle as he pulled the young girl out from under the four dead men and carried her to the girl who had fight left in her.

  "Zoe," the fighter whispered, tears in her eyes. She cradled the young girl to her, rocking her gently back and forth. Zoe didn't respond. Clearly she'd withdrawn in her mind to another place. Viktor had seen it happen too many times.

  "Take care of her. All of you stay very quiet and try not to look at the dead men."

  The little fighter nodded. Viktor made a mental note to check on her later, just to make certain she'd made it out. "What's your name?"

  She lifted her chin, knowing what he saw, knowing he knew what these men had done to all of them. "Darby. Darby Henessy."

  "Hang in there, we'll get you out." He hated leaving them, he always did. But he couldn't save the world, he could only do his best. He'd freed them and it was up to them to put their lives back together. It wouldn't be easy. He knew that better than most.

  Once more they took to the rafters, easily running along them back toward their entry point. It's done, he informed both Mechanic and Transporter.

  Mechanic immediately slowed the fan until it halted, this time not bothering to mimic the noise. Anyone inside who would have been a problem was already dead. They had taken out the entire operation in just under five minutes. Mechanic had their rifles and he tossed them to each team member as they came through. They ran along the rooftop, positioning themselves for the best coverage, tearing off their masks for better vision as they did so.

  They opened fire, each selecting a target, going for the remaining Sword members first and then any of the men waiting in line stupid enough to stay. Each shot was a kill shot. They didn't waste bullets. As far as Viktor and the others were concerned, the men buying the young girls were as guilty as those selling them. They saw the condition of the girls, their ages, the bruising and lacerations, and yet they did nothing to help them.

  Now they had only minutes to get the girls free and clear of the area. In spite of the dead bodies, or maybe because of them, any survivors managing to run and get away never called the police, but Viktor didn't take chances with his men.

  Alena, you're up. Wear a mask and make certain you're covered completely.

  He saw Alena striding fast toward the warehouse doors, stepping over dead bodies as she went. She was tall and curvy, and as a rule, her hair was a glossy mess of thick platinum waves, wild just like her brothers'. Alena was one of their greatest assets and rode with the Sword club as his old lady. Ice and Storm watched over her like a hawk, although the other Torpedo Ink club members, Viktor included, were almost as bad. She shrugged off their protection, but took their respect and admiration as her due.

  The moment Alena stepped out into the open, they all went hyperalert, scanning every possible place of concealment for a stray Swords member who might take it in his head to shoot her. Transporter followed her, his back to hers, in perfect sync with her in spite of walking backward. An automatic was cradled in his arms. His body was wider and taller than Alena's, blocking her from any attack from the back.

  She pushed a body aside with the toe of her boot and stepped inside. It would only take minutes for her to calm the girls and lead them out. She would caution them not to talk about their rescuers and insist they didn't see them. They could say they wore hoods, but there was nothing else to be said. When the girls came out, wading through the dead bodies, it was Darby helping to lead and calm them. She did so carrying the youngest girl, Zoe. Viktor made the call to the police and they disappeared quickly, leaving the area fast before any Swords member or the police might get there.

  They were playing poker in the motel room where Viktor was staying when their chapter president burst in with two other Swords members. They wore their cuts, the dripping sword across the center of the back and the name of their club on the top rocker. The bottom rocker proclaimed they were from a chapter in New Orleans, Louisiana. Viktor had made certain to join the chapter Evan had originally been part of.

  "Have you heard, Czar?" Habit demanded.

  Viktor turned his head slowly. He'd built up his reputation, a man not upset by much. He was casual until he wasn't, and then no one wanted in his way. "Heard what?"

  "Two more of our chapters got hit and half the men are dead."

  Viktor sat back in his chair. "It has to be another club, Habit. Someone wants to take over the trafficking business. Who would step into the Swords' shoes if we were weakened?"

  Habit toed a chair around and straddled it. "I hate being away from our clubhouse and our own territory. I don't know why Evan couldn't have asked one of the other chapters closer to home to do his work for him."

  Viktor shrugged, keeping it very casual, as if the entire conversation bored him and he didn't have a preference one way or the other. "Seems to me, I can understand it. He started in the Louisiana chapter, and that's where the feud with Jackson Deveau started. He wants to end it himself with us, not some other chapter."

  Habit nodded several times, glanced at the others in the room, and Viktor immediately jerked his head toward the door. The others seated around the table put the cards down without a word and left the room, closing the door behind them.

  Habit smiled and shook his head. "You do that so easily, as if you were born to take command. I should feel threatened by you, but I don't. You never seem to want to move up from where you are right now."

  Viktor had been careful to study Evan and in doing so he realized the man would want revenge on Jackson Deveau, not because the man had ever done anything to him, but because Evan, as a teenager, had made the young Deveau and his mother the monsters in the closet. In Evan's mind, the two had kept Jackson Deveau Sr. from loving his mother and him. From choosing them.

  Jackson Deveau Sr. rode with the Swords way back. He had a wife and son he loved, but then his wife became ill with cancer. He couldn't stand watching her fade away, so he rode with his club and eventually Evan's mother and Evan rode with him as if they were his. It was that simple. Nothing huge. No one big event had started Evan on his path to such hatred that he rotted from the inside out with it. Deveau Sr. continued t
o visit his wife and child in the bayous, and never divorced her, never fully committed to Evan and his mother. Evan believed Deveau Sr. had chosen the other two over him.

  "Never wanted to be the president," Viktor said. "Not my thing." He'd been "Czar," the president of his club, Torpedo Ink, almost from the time he was ten. Back then, they hadn't known they would ride motorcycles to feel the wind on their faces, in order just to feel alive--to feel free for one small moment in time. He would always be the president to his men, the man they followed, whether he wanted it or not.

  Evan would feel in competition with any chapter president and he would feel as if he had to prove he was in charge. Viktor was an enforcer, high enough that Evan would take notice, but not in a position to threaten him. He had worked his way up through the ranks from prospect to enforcer in record time for the Swords club, making himself indispensable to Habit without threatening his position either. He'd brought fifteen other prospects in, good men who aided the chapter in everything from gun running to carrying out assassinations, but all steadfastly refused to participate in human trafficking. They were too valuable at other things, so Habit let it go.

  Habit rubbed his jaw. "Evan is paranoid. Stark, raving mad." He glanced around as if someone might overhear him. "He detests women, and he always wants everyone around him to agree with him. I've seen him take out a gun and shoot a trusted lieutenant because the man didn't say yes fast enough. I'm talking someone he's known for years. The more money and power he got, the worse he got. When he moved up to international president, something in him snapped. He got so paranoid, he got rid of his most trusted men, and by that I mean he put them in the ground because they knew his secrets. He told everyone he'd uncovered a conspiracy against him, but we all knew he was full of shit."

  Viktor didn't say a word. He knew all that. He'd studied everything there was to know about Evan before he ever joined the Louisiana chapter.