The smell of blood always had a way of cutting through the salt of the sea.
Ten minutes ago, the Siren's Call had been a pinnacle of luxury—a gleaming white trophy of the Sterling family's wealth. Now, it was a floating slaughterhouse. The "Hawk" system had turned the interior into a crimson-lit cage, and the air was thick with the scent of cordite, expensive scotch, and death.
It wasn't a tactical raid anymore. It was a raw, desperate brawl for survival.
"Contact left!" Julian roared, his voice barely audible over the thunder of a shotgun blast.
Jake's men hadn't waited for a parley. The moment the gangplank hissed shut, they had opened fire from the upper mezzanine. I felt the heat of a bullet graze my shoulder, tearing through my tactical jacket, but I didn't flinch. I couldn't afford to. My side was already leaking blood from the previous wound, and every movement felt like a hot iron was being pressed into my ribs.
