Through the chaos, thick combat ropes dropped from the open doors of the birds. Dark, heavily armed figures began repelling down into the lot, their laser sights cutting through the dust like red razor wire.
The cavalry wasn't just summoned. They were here. And Damon was finally beginning to understand exactly whose property he was standing on.
CHAPTER 4
The boots hit the concrete with lethal precision.
Within ten seconds, twelve operators clad in unmarked black tactical gear had secured the perimeter. They didn't shout. They didn't issue warnings. They moved with a terrifying, silent synchronization that made Damon’s hired goons look like clumsy toddlers.
Four red laser dots immediately locked onto the center of Damon’s chest. The enforcers didn't even try to draw their weapons; they dropped to their knees, interlacing their fingers behind their heads in instant, terrified surrender.
Damon was frozen, his mouth hanging open as he stared at the men surrounding him. The rotor wash from the hovering helicopters above whipped his expensive suit jacket around his shoulders. The arrogance had been completely ripped from his face, replaced by a pale, hollow dread.
The lead operator, wearing a matte black helmet and night-vision goggles, stepped forward. He didn't point his weapon at me. Instead, he reached into his tactical vest, pulled out a thick wool blanket, and approached me with careful, deliberate respect.
He draped the blanket over my bare shoulders, covering the Black Eagle tattoo.
“Perimeter secured, Commander,” the operator said, his voice coming through a mechanized filter.
Damon flinched at the word. Commander.
Before Damon could formulate a defense, a heavy armored SUV roared into the parking lot, blowing past the broken streetlights. The vehicle slammed on its brakes, tires smoking, and the doors flew open.
Marcus stepped out.
The local crime boss. The man who owned the judges, the docks, and the city. He was a massive, scarred man who had built his empire through decades of brutal violence. He had rushed here, undoubtedly tipped off that his son’s car tracker had gone dark and military assets were flooding his airspace.
Marcus looked furiously around the lot, ready to start a war with a rival cartel. But as he saw the operators, the stealth birds hovering above, and the red lasers painted on his son, he froze.
His eyes slowly tracked from Damon to the man sitting on the ground wrapped in a blanket.
I stood up, the pain in my elbow ignored. I let the blanket slip slightly down my chest, exposing the black eagle and the Omega designation numbers.
Marcus’s face drained of all color. The blood seemed to vanish from his massive frame entirely. Before he was a crime boss, Marcus had been a low-level mercenary in South America. He knew the rumors. He knew what the Omega designation meant. It was the unit sent in to erase problems when the government refused to acknowledge they existed.
Marcus didn't yell. He didn't negotiate.
He walked slowly across the lot, ignoring his son entirely, and stopped six feet in front of me. The crime boss who ruled the coast locked his knees, straightened his spine, and offered a rigid, trembling military salute.
“Sir,” Marcus choked out, his voice hoarse with genuine terror.