Page 100 of Code Name: Scorpio

A lone runner broke for the vehicle. Ryder vaulted from the pallets, slamming into the man at the tailgate just as his fingers wrapped around a rifle in the truck bed. Using his momentum, Ryder rammed the runner face first into the bumper, ripped the weapon free, and kicked it deep beneath the chassis.

“Stay on the fucking ground.”

But of course, he didn’t. Pivoting upward, he drove a blind elbow straight into Ryder’s rib cage.

Ryder absorbed the blow with a curse. Then, snapping forward, he hooked the runner’s arm, forcing it up his back in a brutal twist until the man collapsed onto the concrete, howling. Shoving a knee directly into the man’s spine, Ryder yanked a zip tie tight around his wrists.

His knuckles had split open again. He could feel the gauze going wet.

Worth it. Next.

He came up and looked across the floor.

Over by the main entrance, Heath remained pinned behind the pillar. His weapon was down. He stared directly across the warehouse at Ryder, the realization visibly setting in: the old colleague Arlo had invited into their lodge was the same man who had just dropped from the rafters in full tactical gear. While Heath’s expression stayed stone-cold, his eyes widened with shock.

That’s right, fuckface. It’s me. I’ve been waiting for this since you put that Sig against my head.

Ryder took two steps toward him.

Kyle Rooney hit him from the side in a flying tackle.

The big man moved with way too much fucking speed. His momentum slammed Ryder directly into the folding table, shattering it as they both crashed over the top. The unzipped duffel ruptured, spraying loose bills across the concrete.

Something flashed in the man’s hand.

Knife. Shit.

Throwing his forearm up in a reflex block, Ryder felt the steel slice cleanly through his sleeve—the hot sting of the cut registering a split second later. Before the supply boss could wrench his arm back for a second plunge, Ryder pinned the man’s wrist hard against his own chest.

“You son of a bitch.” The man was spitting in his face. “You fucking⁠—”

Ryder slammed his forehead into the man’s nose.

Rooney reeled back from the impact. Capitalizing on the opening, Ryder twisted the knife-wrist backward until the joint gave out, sending the blade clattering away across the concrete floor. In one fluid motion, he pinned the boss flat on his back, burying a forearm into his throat until the man finally stopped struggling.

To Ryder’s left, Isaac intercepted a runner charging with a length of heavy pipe. Stepping cleanly inside the arc of the swing, Isaac let the weapon clear his shoulder before driving a brutal cross straight into the man’s jaw, dropping him cold.

Ryder zip-tied the boss while Isaac took care of the pipe guy. Ryder’s hands were shaking a little now, which was fine. Adrenaline always came due eventually.

Scanning back toward the main entryway, Ryder saw that Isaac’s team had already swarmed Heath’s former position. A pair of operators were dragging a zip-tied man in a dark jacket out the front doors toward the transport vans, his head hanging low.

Somebody else had gotten to put the zip ties on Heath. Ryder could live with that.

“Floor’s clear,” Isaac called. “Fallon, how are things with you? Give me status.”

“We’re all good,” Fallon said, her voice dropping to a low, gentle murmur. Over the mic, Ryder caught the faint sound of a child crying in the background. “Nobody’s hurt. We’re moving them out through the rear exit now.”

Standing in the center of the wreckage, blood steadily darkening his sleeve, Ryder simply stayed there and absorbed the reality of it. The little girl swallowed by the oversized sweatshirt would never set foot inside that cargo hold again. Neither would the boy who had let her lean on him. None of them would.

Mission accomplished.

The transition from war zone to paperwork happened faster than Ryder expected. Rogue operators fanned out across the concrete floor, systematically tossing the suspects for weapons and pulling wallets. Across the room, a flash went off as someone logged photos of the scattered cash. Ian paced the perimeter, already deep in conversation with his local law enforcement contacts, spelling out the exact coordinates and guaranteeing a clean, gift-wrapped handover.

A pair of Rogue operators began parading the prisoners out toward the loading dock to await transport. Johnson led the line, still babbling textbook denials. Kyle Rooney followed right behind him, leaking blood from his shattered nose. The son of a bitch was lucky a broken nose was all he walked away with.

Arlo came after him.

Standing near the bay door, Ryder watched as they marched Arlo past. Zip ties bound the man’s wrists behind his back. Concrete dust coated the left side of his face, and his jacket hung open, torn badly at the shoulder seam.