I’m fucked.
I try to get a few hours’ sleep so I’m rested for the attack but it’s useless. I’m worried about Bleu and how I’ll make it to the transfer tomorrow.
I call her before I leave to join my men. It’s very early. I know she’s asleep but I want to assure her one last time I have every intention of being there when our babies are placed inside her.
“I trust you, Breck. I know you’ll be here.”
I don’t tell her about the coming raid. She doesn’t need that kind of stress on her mind right before going in for this procedure. But my mum should know—just in case things go awry.
“Can you put Mum on for a minute?”
My mother answers. “Mum. I need you to know what’s happening in case I don’t make it in time. There’s been an attack by The Order. They took all the artilleries for the Irish. As you know, we must get those back. I’ve stayed behind to lead one of three raids in a couple of hours. It’s highly possible I won’t make my flight. If that happens, I need you to be with Bleu through the procedure. Keep her calm. Tell her my flight was delayed—or whatever you feel you must—to keep her from stressing out.”
“Of course, son.”
“The baby has nothing to do with what The Fellowship expects. This is about us and what we want.”
“I never thought otherwise.”
“I want you to know I promised her I wouldn’t take our son from her. I won’t do what Dad did to you.”
“I can’t tell you how proud that makes me. But you should know now that decision is going to cause problems with your father and The Fellowship.”
“I know, and I don’t care. I love her too much to risk having her hate me for it.”
I just hope she doesn’t hate me if I don’t make it in time.
* * *
Three raids on three Order warehouses. I’m leading one while my father and Abram are heading the other two. My team and I are assigned the least likely location for hiding our stolen goods. For once, I’m grateful about that—but not because I’m afraid of a fight. I’m more likely to make my flight if I don’t get caught in the middle of a shootout.
I give instructions to each of my men and they take their positions. We’re surrounding The Order’s warehouse. At precisely five o’clock, I give the signal to attack.
We swarm into the metal building through two entrances, opposite one another. We’re surrounded by cold steel gray on all six surfaces. The floor. The four walls. The ceiling. The bright yellow caution markers on the building’s support beams are the only other color represented. Until blood sheds.
The place crawls with Order members so I give the signal to open fire. Return gunfire immediately erupts as my men push forward to invade the warehouse. It’s heavy. This can only mean one thing: our artilleries for the Irish are being hidden here.
Shots rain all around me so I’m forced to back down and take cover behind a wooden cargo box. I crouch with my back pressed against it, searching my surroundings for an alternate route to advance upon my enemy.
The catwalk overhead is the perfect position for my four best sharpshooters. I motion for them to take the advantageous spot.
One of my men is running to join me when he goes down. I move quickly, grabbing beneath his arms and dragging him to safety. He clutches his chest, blood quickly saturating his shirt. “I’m hit.”
“Aye.” I tear his shirt open to assess the damage. I’m no doctor but I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds. Too many. I recognize how critical this one is. “It’s just a flesh wound. Jamie can fix you up, no problem.”
“You should know after being shot twice.” He laughs but his laughter is interrupted by a weak cough. Dark red streams from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going to make it. You don’t have to pretend.”
I don’t know what to say. This man deserves better than to die on our enemy’s cold concrete floor taking cover behind a wooden crate.
“Tell my wife I love her. And if our baby is a boy, she has to name him after me. Tell her I said so.”
Oh God. His wife is expecting.
I shouldn’t because we’re in the middle of a shitstorm, but I feel obliged to reach into his pocket and take out his phone. “You can tell her yourself.”
I hold the phone to his ear and try not to eavesdrop on what should be a private conversation between a dying man and his beloved. It’s impossible, despite the sound of gunfire all around us.
The conversation goes silent on his end. His life is over, only to be carried on with the child his wife will bear.
I run my fingers over his lids, closing them. “I’ll take care of your family.”
I have a decision to make. Use my anger as an excuse to retaliate prematurely or take my time and react rationally with sound mind. The decision is clear.
I move to my stomach and position my rifle. I’m calm. Steady. One by one, from all directions, my men and I take down every member of The Order.
Gunfire stops after we’ve taken out the last one. “Find the firearms!” I shout to my brothers.
My men scour the building. Three are fallen. I go to each and confirm all are dead.
I assign men to collect the bodies. I never leave my brothers behind.
“Over here, Sinclair. You need to take a look at this.” One of the brothers is standing inside the opened doors of a transport truck.
It’s not our artilleries but these members of The Order were here protecting something special. “Open them.”
Using crowbars, two men pry the tops off the wooden boxes. I push the straw away. “Well, well. It looks as though our good friends are looking to build bombs. Quite a few, judging by this.”
I’m not educated about bombs and bomb-making but I’m aware we’re damn lucky all that gunfire didn’t detonate these explosives. We could’ve been blown to smithereens.
There’s no way we’re leaving this kind of weaponry in our enemy’s hands. “Replace the tops. We’re taking the trucks and everything inside.”
I look at my watch. I need to be at the airport in two hours to assure I make my flight. “Let’s move fast but take great care in the handling and transport of these crates.”
My men do as I say but caution requires time. We can’t rush moving explosives that could be unstable.
It’s seven thirty by the time we make it to our new warehouse. We’re the last group to arrive.