Every contingency. Every possible reaction.
The beauty of knowing your enemy is anticipating their moves—and Logan? He's beautifully predictable when it comes to protecting people.
That's always been his weakness.
I could take her to the abandoned ranger station—let him find us there, use the high ground and natural choke points. Classic sniper strategy.
But that's too easy. Too clean.
No, I need something more...personal.
The firewatch tower looms ahead through the trees, a skeletal finger pointing accusingly at the sky. It's perfect—high enough for visibility, remote enough for privacy. The kind of place where echoes get lost in the wind.
Option one: Use her as bait. Draw him in alone.
But Logan won't come alone. He'll bring the team. They'll have planned for this.
Option two: Rig the approach. Make him choose between her and them.
Better, but still too simple. I need him tofeelit.
Option three: Make him watch.
Make him witness every moment of fear in her eyes. Every flinch. Every silent plea. Make him remember what happens when you put civilians before the mission.
Then, when he's broken—when he's ready to beg—I'll give him a choice.
Mission or mercy.
Only this time, there won't be any walking away.
38
SLOANE
Pain radiates through my limbs as consciousness slams back—sharp and insistent, like needles under my skin.
My head throbs, vision blurring as I try to focus.
Where am I?
The last thing I remember is snow, Granger's face, the red dot on my chest...
Instinct kicks in before full awareness does.
Years of investigative training have taught me to gather intel first, react second.
So I keep my breathing steady, my eyes barely cracked, and start cataloging my surroundings in quick, controlled sweeps.
Metal walls. High ceiling. The musty scent of abandoned spaces mixed with something mechanical—oil, maybe. Or gun grease. Thin shafts of gray light slice through dirty windows placed too high to reach.
The firewatch tower.
I remember seeing it through the trees before everything went dark.
The floor beneath me is concrete, cold enough to seep through my clothes. My shoulders ache from being twisted behind me, and when I try to shift, plastic bites into my wrists.
I look behind me.
