Chapter 92 The Hunt Is On
Liam pulled his car to a slow stop in front of a massive industrial building. The towering structure stood against the night sky, its exterior bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. This was the place Rick had told him about—a supposed secret brothel disguised as a soda company. At first glance, it looked like any other warehouse, large metal doors shut tightly, with a neon sign flickering faintly above.
He sat in the car, drumming his fingers against the wheel, his instincts telling him that something wasn’t right. What if Rick had lied? What if this was actually just a regular soda company, and he’d come out here for nothing? He didn’t want to waste his time. But just as he was about to turn the key in the ignition, a sudden flash of movement caught his eye. He quickly switched off the engine and grabbed a pair of binoculars from the passenger seat.
Peering through the lenses, his sharp gaze locked onto a group of men at the side entrance of the building. They weren’t just standing around—two of them were dragging a struggling figure towards the entrance. Liam adjusted the focus, his expression turning deadly as he recognized the familiar body shape and clothing. Even with a bag over her head, he knew who she was.
Amanda.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath. He hadn’t heard from her in a while, and now it made sense. He had told her to avoid him, probably trying to sort out whatever mess she had gotten herself into. Clearly, she hadn’t been able to. The Crimson Hand had finally caught up to her.
Liam exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the binoculars before placing them back on the seat. He didn’t have time to waste. Amanda’s life was hanging by a thread, and it was up to him to cut it loose before the Crimson Hand did.
Stepping out of the car, he moved to the trunk and unzipped the heavy black duffel bag he had packed earlier. Inside, the cold gleam of weaponry reflected under the dim light of the nearby streetlamp. He smirked as he took out his gear, methodically strapping it to his body.
First, he secured a pair of Glock 17s in the dual holsters under his parms, ensuring they were loaded and ready. Next, he picked up an AR-15 rifle, slinging it over his shoulder. Extra magazines were lined in a tactical belt around his waist. A pair of throwing knives were sheathed at his thighs, and a small but deadly combat knife was strapped to his boot. He pulled on fingerless gloves, tightening them with a sharp tug.
By the time he was done, he looked every bit the deadly force he was. If someone saw him now, they might mistake him for a terrorist, and that thought amused him.