Chapter 53 Beckett
Beckett
Night pressed heavy against the safehouse windows, the hum of the city bleeding through the cracked glass. Sirens in the distance. The occasional rumble of a truck. But beneath it all, I could feel Hydra. Like static in the air, like the weight of a scope aimed at the back of my skull.
The Golden Team worked the kitchen table like a war council.
Maps spread wide. Cyclone’s laptop glowed pale blue, streams of surveillance footage rolling like a second heartbeat.
River argued over choke points with Oliver while Gage cleaned his weapon with a grin too sharp for the tension in the room.
I stayed silent, standing at the edge of it all, eyes on the window, on the shadows moving just beyond the glass.
Because no matter what plans we drew, Hydra already had theirs. And they’d be waiting.
Behind me, a soft shuffle broke through the noise. Elara. She stood with her arms crossed, shoulders stiff, gaze fixed on the table like she wanted to burn the map to ash.
“They’re closing in,” I said, my voice low. The Team quieted, listening. “Grand won’t sit back and lick his wounds. He’ll move faster. Harder. We’re already on borrowed time.”
River snorted. “What else is new?”
I ignored him and kept my eyes on her. “We need to move tonight.”
Oliver leaned back in his chair, brows raised. “And run straight into their net? Sounds like suicide, brother.”
“Not if we choose the ground,” I said. “They want us bottled up, cornered. Fine. Then we give them a corner they don’t walk away from.”
Elara finally spoke, her voice cutting sharp into the room. “You don’t understand. Hydra owns this city. The markets, the docks, even the alleys you think are safe. If we move, they’ll know.”
I stepped closer, closing the space between us. Her fire met mine, unflinching. “Then let them know,” I said. “Let them come. But this time, we’re ready.”
Her eyes softened just for a second, and that second gutted me. Because I could see what she was thinking—that I was walking into the fire for her. And she wasn’t wrong.
“Beckett—”
“No.” I cut her off, my voice rougher than I meant. “I told you already. Not while I’m breathing. They don’t get you back.”
The room went still. River gave a low whistle, Oliver muttered something under his breath, but none of it mattered. My world narrowed to the woman in front of me and the war we were about to drag her through.
“Cyclone,” I barked, breaking the silence, “pull up every feed on the west side. That’s where we’ll hit first. Oliver, Gage—check the trucks. Fuel, ammo, spares. River—” I smirked despite myself, “—try not to talk us to death before we get there.”
They moved without question, the rhythm of the Team sliding into place.
Elara’s hand brushed mine as she passed, subtle, fleeting, but enough to anchor me. Enough to remind me what this was really about.
This wasn’t just war anymore.
This was personal.