I inhale slowly through my nose, cataloging scents.
Pine. Snow. And underneath—gasoline. Faint but distinct.
Granger's calling card.
He wants us to know he's been here.
My grip tightens on my sidearm as memories flood back: desert sand, radio static, the metallic tang of blood.
The last time I faced Granger, he had a sniper rifle trained on my chest. Now he has a twelve-year-old girl.
Focus. Clear mind. Steady pulse.
Because rage—real rage—doesn't scream. It whispers. And right now, my past is whispering all around me.
I check my watch. Four minutes until detonation.
"Sloane, we're in position," I say into my comm, keeping my voice low and controlled.
Static crackles, then Asa's voice cuts through: "Feed's gone static. Granger just killed the uplink."
My jaw clenches. Of course he did. "What about the backup trace?"
"Still hot. You've got one shot."
One shot is all I need. I've made harder calls with less intel and more at stake.
Haven't I?
I push the doubt away and signal the breach. Knox takes point, kicking the side door with controlled force. The lock splinters.
Ryker moves first, sweeping the hallway with practiced efficiency. Caleb slides in behind him, covering the left flank.
Eli and I take center, moving through shadows that feel alive with memory.
The interior is a graveyard of abandoned equipment—cracked floor tiles, rusted pipes snaking across the ceiling, insulation hanging in gray tatters like Spanish moss. But ahead, light spills from beneath a closed door.
Battery-powered. Recent.
We stack up. Three heartbeats pass.
I nod.
The door opens to a scene from my nightmares:
One chair. One girl. One timer counting down.
Lucia sits rigid, duct tape binding her wrists and ankles. Her dark eyes are wide with terror, but she's not screaming. Not crying.
Just watching us with a kind of desperate hope that twists something in my chest.
Then I see what she's sitting on.
Pressure plate.
The trigger connects to exposed wiring in an open junction box. Military grade. The kind designed to ensure there are no survivors to question later.
"Goddammit," I breathe. "Eli, the quiet kit."
