Summer smirked, her lips curling up in that familiar, confident way that always managed to put him at ease.
"It's not mine," she said, her voice filled with a quiet satisfaction. "It's one of theirs. I'm fine."
A sense of relief washed over Tristan, and he couldn't help but beam with pride. Of course she wasn't hurt—this was Summer. She could handle herself. But even still, the knot in his chest only loosened slightly.
He exhaled and nodded, his admiration for her swelling even more. They didn't have time for sentiments now, though. They needed to act fast.
"All right," Tristan began, leaning in closer. "We can't take them all on at once. We need to pick them off in small groups. If we create enough chaos, we can take out most of them before they even realize what's happening."
Summer nodded. "Agreed. We'll lure them in one by one. Let's take out the guards by the door first. I'll cause a distraction—make them think I'm weak, that I'm panicking. When they come to shut me up, we'll take them down."
Tristan's lips quirked up. "Perfect. Let's make this quick and clean."
Before they moved, Tristan leaned closer to her. "Summer," he said softly, his voice serious, "don't take any unnecessary risks."
Summer shot him a quick glance, her smirk back in full force. "Don't worry, Trish. I'll still be around to take responsibility for you after this is over."
Summer suddenly screamed, "Help! Somebody help! Please help! Call the police! You bad guys..you'll go to hell!" her voice loud and frantic, echoing off the warehouse walls. The girls flinched in fear, some of them covering their ears. It didn't take long for two of the guards to come running in, their boots heavy against the cold concrete floor.
"Shut her up!" one of them snarled as they approached.
Summer immediately went limp, her body slumping as if she were too weak to fight anymore. The men didn't see Tristan lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment.
As soon as the two thugs enter, Summer immediately drops her weak act, springing into action. The moment they step inside, Tristan and Summer exchange a quick glance, signaling the beginning of their takedown. Silently, with the practiced precision of seasoned operatives, they move behind the unsuspecting men.
Tristan is the first to strike, catching one of them by the neck in a tight grip. The man gasps, struggling to draw his weapon, but Tristan's hand is quicker, pinning his arm before slamming the man's head against the nearest wall. The thug crumples silently to the ground.
Summer mirrors his movement with the second man, using her agility to disarm him before he even registers her presence. She grabs his arm, twisting it behind his back, then flips him over her shoulder in a fluid motion. The thug hits the floor hard, and Summer swiftly delivers a disabling blow to his temple, knocking him out cold.
Their movements were quiet but deadly, efficient and in sync like they've done this a hundred times before. No unnecessary words are exchanged as they drag the unconscious bodies to the corner of the room, stripping them of their weapons and uniforms.
Tristan pulls on the thug's jacket, adjusting the collar as Summer checks the ammunition in the guns they've collected. She hands Tristan one of the firearms, their eyes locking briefly. There's no need for words. They're perfectly in tune, a well-oiled machine.
"Let's move," Tristan whispers, and they step out of the small room, leaving the group of terrified girls hidden safely behind.
Outside, the warehouse is dimly lit, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The faint hum of distant traffic is the only sound breaking the silence. They move with purpose, keeping low as they approach the next checkpoint. Summer crouches behind a stack of crates, peeking around the edge as she spots two more men standing guard near the exit.
She signals to Tristan with a nod of her head. In a blink, they split up—Tristan moving left, Summer taking the right. Tristan takes aim and fires a clean shot that grazes the guard's shoulder, causing him to stagger. Before the man can raise his weapon, Tristan is upon him, delivering a powerful blow to his jaw that sends him sprawling.
On the opposite side, Summer moves swiftly toward the second guard. She sweeps his legs out from under him with a well-placed kick, his body hitting the floor with a loud thud. He tries to scramble to his feet, but she stomps down on his chest, pinning him in place as she aims the muzzle of her gun squarely between his eyes.
"Don't move," she warns, her voice low and deadly.
The man freezes, and Summer spares him one last glance before delivering a swift punch that knocks him out cold.
They advance further into the warehouse. The layout is a maze of rusted metal and dusty crates, but they navigate it effortlessly, their movements synchronized. Every corner holds another enemy, and every enemy falls without so much as a sound.
They continue taking down thugs with a mixture of hand-to-hand combat and strategic gunfire. Summer fights with a smooth, fluid style—her body twisting and turning with graceful precision. Every punch she throws, every kick she delivers is calculated and efficient. She's fast, unpredictable, and deadly. Tristan, on the other hand, is all brute force and power. His strikes are heavy and unforgiving, each one landing with a sickening thud. The combination of their styles—Summer's agility and Tristan's strength—proves to be an unstoppable force.
As they work their way through the warehouse, the sound of footsteps grows louder. More reinforcements are coming. Tristan signals Summer to retreat back to where the girls are hiding, but before they can move, another wave of traffickers floods into the warehouse, guns drawn and ready to fire.
It's a full-on battle now. Gunfire echoes through the room, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Tristan ducks behind a steel pillar, taking calculated shots at the men swarming in from all sides. His aim is precise, each bullet finding its mark. Summer, in the meantime, dodges incoming fire with nimble grace, using the surrounding crates as cover.
At one point, she grabs a loose pipe from the floor and uses it to disarm a thug who gets too close, the clang of metal-on-metal ringing out as she blocks his knife before twisting it from his hand. She swings the pipe in a wide arc, catching him across the side of the head and sending him crashing into a stack of boxes.
Tristan, seeing her outnumbered, throws his gun aside and charges toward the group of men closing in on Summer. He tackles one of them to the ground, landing punch after punch with fierce intensity. Another man tries to intervene, but Summer intercepts him with a flying kick to the chest, sending him flying back into the wall.
But they were completely outnumbered.