Chapter 15 #2
He tried to breathe past it, tried to find the center he always found on the scope, that cold surgical stillness that never failed him, but Blair fractured it just by her proximity.
He couldn’t see past the kid he used to be, the one who wanted something simple and impossible.
He had been foolish enough to believe strength would erase that want.
It hadn’t. It had only buried it deep enough that moments like this cracked the surface and showed him exactly how breakable he still was.
He would be a fool to open himself up to anything that could only be temporary, to let her inside when he already knew the ending.
He had outlined all the reasons Blair Brown didn’t fit the mold.
She wasn’t someone a man touched carelessly, someone who came into a life like his and stayed, or someone he could keep, even if he were stupid enough to imagine a future that was anything beyond this op.
He was on foreign soil, half broken inside, on a mission that could get them both killed. He had no idea how to be the kind of man she deserved, barely knew how to be the kind of man he deserved to be.
Best to keep his hands off her.
His whole body disagreed. Everything in him tightened, pulsed, and ached at the thought, the denial ripping through him with a violence that almost stole his breath.
He had never imagined anything would be harder than Hell Week, but this was grinding him down in slow, relentless waves that made every nerve feel exposed.
He could hold a firing position for hours without a tremor, but one quiet woman with magnolia on her skin was making him ring out before the op even started.
Staring at nothing, jaw locked, lungs tight, fighting for distance inside a space that offered none, the truth hit like recoil.
This was going to cost him something. He already felt the price rising.
He never lost sight of his teammates through a scope, not once in his career, and he had no intention of losing this woman to the violence waiting for them.
Her competence wasn’t in question, but the need to protect her rose in him with the same ruthless certainty he brought to every firefight.
It settled in his chest with heat and weight, the kind of instinct that had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with the way she steadied him, moved him, shifted things inside him he had never examined closely.
The thought landed with a terrible, galvanizing clarity.
He’d warned himself to stay clear of her, but he was fucked up, his judgment just as fucked, and the trust in himself was just as cold and empty as all his zeros combined.
Breakneck lay prone behind the ridge, rifle settled into the dirt, muzzle angled down toward the compound that sprawled below like a rusted wound carved into the forest. He’d been inserted by chopper a mile out and run the rest through rugged terrain, breath controlled, fatigue threatening to drag him down. He forged ahead. There was work to do.
The Hell’s Eights had built their little vicious kingdom here, a scatter of metal and timber structures fenced in by chain link and welded scrap, motorcycles gleaming under the floodlights like an altar to bad decisions and unspoken violence.
He adjusted the scope. The world pulled in tight, shrinking until there was nothing except crosshairs and targets. The pain in his torso flared every time he breathed too deep, but he ignored it. Pain he could handle. Pain made sense. Pain was clean compared to the mess in his head.
He cataloged the targets below. One biker paced the north fence, cigarette ember bright in the dark. His buddy with the brown and white pit bull patrolled opposite to him. He moved his scope, focusing in on the fire pit, where there were now four laughing, drinking men.
He slid his muzzle toward the south of the compound. Two more bikers guarded the front gate, weapons slung at the ready across their chests. Confidence with no idea what was coming.
He eased the crosshairs over the roof. A lanky biker crouched, rifle in his hands. His eyes were hunting, tracking the treeline with a predator’s patience.
Ayla’s voice came through his earpiece, low and controlled. “Iceman, TOC has you live. How copy?”
Ice’s voice followed, steady as carved stone. “Good copy, TOC.”
Below, the lead RCMP SUV eased off the dirt road, lights off, then pulled into shadow just outside the line of trees.
Breakneck tracked it without thinking, the motion automatic, part of the same internal map that never left him.
He watched Blair climb out, black tac pants hugging her long legs, vest snug over her shirt, dark hair pulled back in a practical tail that still managed to make his chest tight.
Beef joined her, keyed up and trying not to show it.
The SEALs spilled from the second vehicle, Tier 1 violence wrapped in harnesses and matte metal.
Ice, calm and lethal. Boomer, bulk and explosives, and Kodiak, all steely eyes and purpose, started for the northern edge of the compound, keeping down and out of sight of any possible eyes, focused on neutralizing the two guards and the pit.
Skull emerged with Bones’s leash wrapped around his hand, the dog’s ears up, body quivering with eager attention, and Blair swung around, heading for the front gate, their objective the guards. He moved his scope toward the garage bay again. No movement, but that situation was fluid.
He made a finite adjustment back to Blair, her presence heavy on him. His hands clenched around the rifle. This was the kind of situation he’d trained for, multiple targets, multiple teammates, and him their shield.
Carver and Jones stayed at the third SUV, exactly where Breakneck expected they would, leaning on the hood like they were part of this.
He didn’t feel one way or the other about them, but Carver hated Ice’s guts.
That was worth watching. They were the kind of variable he disliked most, the kind that were the cowboys of the federal government.
Ice signaled west. “Beef, with me. Fence line. Move.”
Breakneck slid forward, rifle already sweeping. “Overwatch set. I’ve got eyes,” he said, tracking movement through glass and shadow as they advanced below him.
Two guards near the north perimeter. One posted loose, weight on his back foot. The other patrolled alert and menacing. The dog circled wide, nose down, tugging against its lead.
Break logged it all. Angles, distances, and timing as Ice, Beef, Boomer, and Kodiak moved along the west fence line, crouched and efficient.
Ice and Beef stopped, Beef producing wire cutters.
He started on the fence as Boomer and Kodiak slipped past them, settling in to take out the northern threat.
“Boomer,” Ice said quietly.
Boomer’s voice came over the comm. “In position. On your mark, boss.”
“Execute.”
The guards dropped almost simultaneously, silent, efficient. The dog went down between them, no sound carrying beyond the fence line.
“Two guards and dog down,” Boomer reported. He and Kodiak ghosted along the fence, hidden in the thick foliage there. Boomer got to work. After thirty seconds, he said, “Fence cut. Standing by for collapse on your order, Ice.”
Breakneck kept his scope steady, already searching for secondary movement as Ice and Beef entered the compound through the cut fence. “Copy that. Boomer and Kodiak move to my POS. Break, overwatch, waiting on Skull and Brown.”
Break swept his scope to the fire pit. One of the guys had wandered back toward the main building, leaving three. They were still laughing and joking.
Now that the north was secure, it was time to execute the southern part of the plan.
Ice’s voice cut in, hard with intent. “Overwatch, take out the roof sentry on my mark. Skull and Brown, down those guards.”
Breakneck was already there, tracking him through the scope, letting the rhythm settle. The sentry paused at the edge of the roofline, rifle at the ready.
Breakneck narrowed his world. Automatic. Precise. Calm.
The forest fell away. The compound faded.
There was only glass, breath, and the steady weight of the rifle anchored into the dirt.
He’d been managing his body since he hit the ridge, breathing deep, slow, ribs protesting and ignored, waiting for the natural pause after the exhale. The stillest moment there was.
The reticle floated steady, etched lines and reference points framing the sentry’s forehead like a solved equation as he waited for the order, his world stilling in a natural pause.
Adrenaline sharpened everything. He held it on a leash, refusing the tremor, the tunnel vision, the rush that ruined lesser shooters.
“Execute,” Ice said.
Breakneck exhaled, found the pause, pulled, slow, and steady, the trigger breaking as a surprise. No flinch. No anticipation of recoil.
The rifle bucked once, the suppressed crack swallowed by distance.
The sentry folded backward, disappearing from the roofline, weapon clattering once before going still.
“Roof is clear,” Breakneck said quietly, already lifting his scope, already hunting for the next threat.
“Hitting gate,” Blair said. The gate guards went down without a sound. “We’re clear.”
“Confirmed,” Ayla replied. “No new external movement except for the pit.”
He watched Ice, Beef, Boomer and Kodiak take a position at the outbuilding. “Copy,” Ice answered. “Holding for garage clear.”
The now unprotected front end of the main building loomed ahead, yellowish light leaking from behind a curtain tacked over the window. A banger track thumped faintly from inside, too loud, too careless.
Breakneck slid the reticle to the corner of the garage door. “Overwatch on bay,” Breakneck replied, he acquired that target soon after he checked on Ice’s team. “Free to move.”