Chapter 32: Blood and Booty on Route 87

We moved into position, the command post a quarter mile behind a low ridge west of the warehouse on Route 87. I gathered Zoe and Harrison for the recon, the three of us breaking off from the main group. We kept low as we crept through the scrub.

Standard three-person recon. Triangulation of sight lines meant better coverage if contact was made. County protocol said two minimum, but I always went with three.

My pregnancy nausea hit with the raw stink of diesel and damp earth. I stumbled, clutching my stomach, dry heaving into the dirt. The exertion and stress twisted in my gut, and now my bladder was screaming, a sudden, agonizing pressure from the pregnancy.

Not now. Not on approach. Physical limitations could compromise the mission. But knowing didn’t change biology.

Bodies sabotage you at the worst moments. I was leading a raid while my insides rebelled, Martin’s seed making me weak when I needed to be strong. Pregnancy was just another form of invasion, one I couldn’t fight.

Fuck it, I snarled, not caring who heard. I said, “Cover me. I gotta piss.”

Two minutes. That’s all I could afford. The warehouse wasn’t going anywhere, but the longer we delayed, the more variables could shift. Guards could rotate. Shipments could move. Windows closed fast on operations like this.

Zoe knelt, rifle up, a dark, feral smirk playing on her lips. She said, “Whatever you say, Sheriff. Give ‘em a show.”

Harrison looked stunned. His gaze flicked away awkwardly, then back, caught in a mix of duty and disbelief. I knew Travis was up on that water tower, his scope probably zeroed right on my exposed ass. Good. Let ‘em all watch.

Exposure. There’s no privacy in war. Squatting to piss in front of men who’d follow me into fire was somehow more intimate than fucking them. That was the point.

I unbuckled my belt, shoved my tight black pants down just enough to clear my hips, and squatted low in the scrub, balancing on my boots.

Fifteen seconds. Twenty at most. Then back to mission posture.

The cold, damp fog hit my bare arse and cunt. Blades of grass brushed against my bum, tickling me, making me shiver, but the release was immediate. A hot, steaming stream hit the cold dirt, hissing loud in the pre-dawn quiet. The sharp, acrid stink of ammonia cut right through the smell of damp earth and diesel.

Relief. The body’s small mercies come at the worst times. Even assassins and sheriffs have to piss. We’re all just animals pretending otherwise.

As the stream flowed, Zoe, still covering, reached out a gloved hand. Her index finger passed subtly through the hot stream. It was a quick, almost invisible motion. Harrison, focused on the perimeter, didn’t see it. I saw it. I saw her bring the wet glove to her lips, licking the piss off the leather with a slow, deliberate flick of her tongue. Her eyes locked on mine, a silent, depraved communion in the middle of a high-stakes recon. Then, with a tiny, vicious smirk, she flicked the glove, sending a fine spray of my piss splattering across Harrison’s rigid back.

Zoe. Always pushing boundaries. Always testing limits. The kind of loyalty you couldn’t buy, couldn’t fake. The kind that came from blood and secrets.

Intimacy. Zoe and I shared secrets darker than blood. She’d just tasted me while the man I’d betray stood oblivious three feet away. Some bonds can’t be named.

He flinched, mistaking the droplets for morning dew, brushing his vest absently. The act, so bold and filthy in the high-stakes tension, sent a jolt of raw power through me. I didn’t wipe. I just stood, yanked my pants back up, the fabric now damp and clinging, chafing my raw skin even worse as I zipped up. “Alright,” I growled, the pressure gone. “Let’s move.”

We moved like shadows through the scrub. The morning fog clung to our boots and muffled our breaths. My black pants and boots scraped the dirt. The sound was like tearing skin. Each step was a drumbeat against my racing heart as we reached our vantage point fifty yards out. Belly-crawling behind jagged rocks, I raised my binoculars.

Fifty yards. Close enough for detailed observation. Far enough to avoid detection if they had sentries with night vision. The math of tactical positioning.

Hunting. We were predators sizing up prey. The only difference between us and them was the badge I wore and the lies I told myself about justice.

The target was a rusted wound on the landscape. A sprawling metal hulk with peeling gray paint stood ringed by a sagging chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire. Pockmarked like a corpse’s skull. Cracked concrete lots sprawled around it. They were littered with rusted barrels and junked crates. Two sagging outbuildings hunched nearby. Their tin roofs were half-collapsed. At the rear, a dirt runway led to a beat-up Cessna. Its wings drooped like a dying thing’s spine. An escape route that made my skin crawl.

Cessna 182. Four-seater. Range: 800 miles. Enough to reach the Mexican border in under two hours. The plane was the priority. If targets got airborne, we’d lose them.

Three guards paced the front. Two more lingered near a side door. Automatic rifles glinted in the weak dawn light. AKs. They were not local trash. They were cartel muscle. A rusted van idled at the entrance. Its exhaust puffed lazy smoke. Fresh tire tracks crisscrossed the lot. There were too many for five guards.

Five hostiles visible. Automatic weapons confirmed. Fresh tracks suggested recent vehicle activity. Possible reinforcements inside. Unknown number of additional hostiles. The intel was already incomplete.

Then I saw them. Four guards hauled girls from a container near the rear. They were young. Trembling. Barely clad. Zip ties bit into their wrists. My stomach clenched. Zooming in, I saw their faces. Kids, 16 to 19. A mix of Latina, Eastern European, Asian. Their eyes were wide and darting. Filled with a terror that cut deeper than any bullet. The guards laughed. They slurred drunken curses. Bottles of cheap tequila clinked on the ground. The stench of alcohol and desperation hung thick in the air.

Human trafficking. Federal crime. FBI jurisdiction. The mission just escalated. But those girls were the priority now. Everything else was secondary.

Innocence is stolen, not lost. These girls had been ripped from wherever they came from and turned into commodities. I’d done nothing to stop it until now. That made me complicit.

The scene unfolded in slow-motion hell. The first girl was a Latina with tear-streaked cheeks. She was gagged as a neck-tattooed brute shoved his cock down her throat. Liquor ran down her face like a sacrament of filth. Another girl was a pale blonde with delicate breasts. She was thrown against crates. Her shirt ripped. A wiry guard with scarred knuckles groped her. He forced her legs apart. His filthy palm muffled her cries as he thrust inside. A third girl was an Asian with skin like porcelain. She was dragged by two men. Slurred laughter mixed with her pleas as one held her wrists while the other pounded into her from behind. Bottles clattered to the ground. Spilling cheap tequila on her skin. Dawn light glinted on the alcohol and her tears. They staggered off for more liquor.

Sexual assault in progress. Multiple victims. Guards intoxicated. Tactical advantage: impaired judgment, slower reaction times. Disadvantage: drunk men with automatic weapons were unpredictable. Desperate.

I gripped my binoculars until my knuckles burned. Bile rose in my throat. Rage boiled white-hot. Those fuckin animals. We end this now.

Rage is the only honest emotion I had left. Watching those girls violated made me want to burn the whole world down. That rage was also selfish—it was for Laura, for Nancy, for every woman I’d failed. Justice is just revenge with better PR.

Zoe’s face was granite. Her eyes burned with murder. She said, “Gonna gut them for that.” Harrison’s jaw tightened. He said, “Fuck.” His knuckles were white on his rifle.