We move as one, breaking from the cover of the trees into the small clearing that serves as the landing zone. The helicopter appears over the ridge line, a sleek black silhouette against the pale morning sky. Not military—private security, with the distinctive profile of a modified civilian craft.
The mechanical growl of the UTVs grows louder. Closer. Through a gap in the trees, I catch a glimpse of movement. Three all-terrain vehicles race through the forest, each carrying two men in tactical gear. Six more of Reynolds’s contractors are closing fast.
The helicopter descends toward the center of the clearing, snow billowing beneath the downdraft of its rotors.
Martinez takes a defensive position at the forest edge, rifle braced against his shoulder. “Go!” he shouts over the roar of the approaching helicopter. “I’ll hold them until you’reaboard!”
Jackson half-carries Cooper toward it, Bear loping alongside them, his dark fur stark against the pristine white.
I hesitate, torn between the safety of the aircraft and the wrongness of leaving anyone behind. “What about Mason and Ryan?”
“They’ll find another way out!” Martinez fires three shots into the tree line, forcing the approaching UTVs to take cover. “That’s what Ghost does. Now move.”
The helicopter touches down, its side door sliding open to reveal a man in tactical gear, gesturing frantically for us to hurry. Jackson pushes Cooper toward it, the wounded man summoning a final burst of strength to cross the clearing.
I follow. Bear stays close to my side. Behind us, Martinez fires controlled bursts that keep the enemy pinned down.
The gunfire from the other direction—where Mason and Ryan went—has stopped entirely. The silence is somehow worse than the sounds of battle. Does it mean they’ve won? Or that they’ve fallen?
“Hurry!” the man at the helicopter door shouts. Jackson boosts Cooper inside, then turns back to help me.
Martinez retreats toward us, still firing as he moves. One of the UTVs breaks cover, racing toward the clearing. Martinez drops to one knee, takes careful aim, and fires. The driver slumps forward, the vehicle veering wildly before crashing into a tree.
I reach the helicopter, Jackson’s strong hands pulling me aboard. Bear leaps in after me, his massive weight rocking the aircraft slightly. Martinez is twenty yards out, running full tilt toward us as the remaining UTVs emerge from the tree line. Jackson lifts his weapon, firing over Martinez at the UTVs closing in.
“Come on!” I scream, though my voice is lost beneath the rotor noise.
Martinez makes it to the helicopter just as bullets begin toping off its armored exterior. He dives through the open door, rolling to create space as the crew chief slams it shut behind him.
“Go! Go! Go!” he shouts to the pilot.
The helicopter lurches upward, the sudden acceleration pressing me back against the seat. Through the window, Steffan’s men spill from the UTVs, weapons raised but no longer firing as we climb beyond effective range.
But it’s not them I’m searching for.
I scan desperately across the forest, seeking any sign of Mason, Ryan, and Chaos. Nothing. Just endless pines and pristine snow, broken only by our tracks and the gouges where the UTVs passed.
“Mason,” I whisper, pressing my palm against the cold glass. “Where are you?”
The helicopter banks sharply, turning east toward safety, toward the Idaho border and whatever sanctuary awaits beyond it. With each second, the distance grows between me and Mason.
Cooper groans as the medic aboard works on his wound. Bear settles beside me, his massive head resting on my lap, dark eyes watching me with what seems like understanding. Martinez and Jackson exchange low words—tactical assessments, contingency plans, things I should care about but can’t focus on.
All I can think about is Mason’s promise:“I’ll be right behind you.”
A promise I desperately want to believe, even as the Montana wilderness recedes beneath us, taking with it the only man who’s ever made me feel safe. The only man who saw me beneath the bruises and the fear.
“They’ll be okay,” Martinez says, his voice calm despite the urgency vibrating through the helicopter’s frame. He doesn’t look at me—his gaze is fixed on the tablet in his lap, monitoring aerial feeds, heat signatures, and satellite data with surgical focus—but he must notice the way I’m glued to the window, strainingfor one last glimpse of Mason. “Ghost has gotten out of worse situations. Much worse.”
The nickname pulls my attention away from the blur of snow and treetops. I turn toward him, blinking against the stinging wind leaking through the doorframe.
“Why do you call him Ghost?”
He taps the screen, zooming in on a flicker of movement in the trees, then relaxes slightly. “Because the man’s a stealthy bastard. Recon mission in Aleppo went sideways. He infiltrated a fortified compound, extracted two hostages, and ghosted out before the enemy even knew he was there. No comms. No backup. No trail. Surveillance showed nothing but shadows—until he signaled for evac.” He glances over, one brow raised. “We started calling him Ghost because he could vanish in plain sight and reappear only when he decided it was time.”
I let that settle, trying to picture the man I’d shared a bed with, trembling in the snow, doing something that superhuman.
“Wow.” My voice feels small over the thrum of the rotors. “Do you all have them?”
