Chapter 41
RCMP WILD Headquarters, TOC, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
The Tactical Operations Center had been churning since Ayla had found that new base of operations tucked into the backcountry.
The Eightfold Kings’ cartel was regrouping, and that spelled danger for anyone who worked and played in that area.
The low hum of servers threading through the room like a second pulse was as familiar to her as breathing.
Screens lined the walls, satellite imagery frozen in layers of terrain and shadow.
Ayla stood near the back, tablet tucked against her ribs, posture relaxed in the way that came only after years of learning how to disappear in plain sight.
Assault.
Names, faces, movement patterns. Enough to make the room sharpen, not enough yet to ignite it.
Now she listened.
Constable Tyler had the floor.
Malcolm Tyler simply stepped forward, one hand braced on the table as the terrain model rotated beneath the overhead lights.
“The basin sits lower than the surrounding ridgelines,” he said evenly. “Tree cover is dense on the east and north approaches, thinner to the south where the ground slopes toward the access trails. Horses can move cleanly through the north cut. Vehicles can’t, not without announcing themselves.”
He gestured, the image zooming. “These trails here and here are old logging routes. Overgrown, but still passable. Ideal for dirt bikes. Motorcycles would favor the western spur, harder ground, less mud.”
Ayla watched him out of the corner of her eye.
He was good. Calm. Grounded. There was a settled ease to him. He spoke like a man who trusted the land and expected it to answer honestly. She felt the brief, unexpected tug of it, the way she always did when competence came without ego.
Safe, a treacherous little voice whispered.
She shut it down and turned back to the screen.
The satellite feed was paused on the meeting site, a deceptively quiet clearing stitched together by shadow and movement.
Ayla let her attention drift, still focused on the briefing, but deeper into the feed.
She scanned faces she already knew, positions she’d already marked.
Her mind ran parallel tracks, recon layered over memory.
Than’s face surfaced unbidden. The way grief had hollowed him, how she hadn’t been there when Mei died. Couldn’t be. Duty had pulled her here, same as it always did. She told herself he understood. She hoped that was true.
Her gaze slid back to Tyler. He smiled briefly at something Lindstrom said, easy and unguarded, and Ayla felt that strange, aching contrast settle in her chest.
Maybe it would be nice, she thought, to be with a man who didn’t live in the dark. Who didn’t disappear into classified silences and kinetic violence. Someone solid. Present.
Not long-term, she corrected immediately. She knew herself too well for that fantasy.
She craved edge. Always had. Maybe because she’d survived too much on her own. Threat and danger were familiar, almost comforting in their honesty. It had probably been why she’d joined the Navy in the first place. The chaos made sense. The rules were clear.
Her eyes flicked, involuntarily, to the far side of the room where Blair stood near one of the monitors, focused and composed, one hand braced on the table as she tracked the discussion.
Breakneck was there, too, close enough that Ayla could feel the gravity between them even without looking directly at him, the quiet alignment, the ease of two people who had already chosen each other.
He was smiling, just slightly, something unguarded in his expression that caught Ayla off balance.
Happiness looked good on him. That was the problem.
The realization landed harder than she expected. She didn’t just miss him, she missed the idea of what he represented. Steady, lethal, capable of devotion when he finally gave it. A man who could be dangerous and still be…whole.
So why, she wondered for the thousandth time, did she always gravitate toward trouble?
Toward men who lived on edges in rooms like this?
Maybe because danger spoke a language she already understood.
Maybe because she’d learned early that calm never lasted.
Or maybe she’d mistaken intensity for connection for so long that she no longer trusted anything that felt safe.
Could there be such a man? Full of that kind of trouble and still safe?
The thought hovered, absurd and tempting all at once, like the opening line of a romance she would never let herself write.
She knew better. Men like Breakneck didn’t exist in halves.
You didn’t get the fire without the fallout.
She pulled her eyes away from him, deliberate this time. Breakneck wasn’t for her. He never had been. Whatever they’d shared, whatever spark still lingered uncomfortably in her chest, belonged firmly in the past.
Her gaze shifted and landed on Tyler. He had caught the direction of her gaze, and his expression softened as he met her eyes. Just quiet recognition, as if to say, Yeah. I see it. I know what that costs.
The simplicity of it unsettled her more than intensity ever had.
Ayla turned back to the screen, pulse steady again, and focused on the work in front of her before the thought could soften her further.
This wasn’t the time. This wasn’t the place.
Whatever ache stirred in her chest, whatever questions surfaced after her disaster with Breakneck had been her misconception.
She didn’t blame Breakneck or herself, really.
It just happened and they got past that awkward stage.
She sighed softly, folding her feelings away with practiced precision.
She was definitely not getting anywhere near another Tier 1 operator.
She had a job to do.
Ayla was half-listening to the room when the face on her tablet snapped into focus.
Carlos Ramos.
Her pulse kicked. Got you, you slippery, murdering bastard.
Her thoughts went to Breakneck’s muscular body and the healing, mottled bruises that probably still marred his skin.
She slowed the feed, fingers steady now, tagging the frame.
Ramos stood near a line of vehicles, posture alert, talking to someone just out of view.
She adjusted the angle.
Her breath sucked in hard enough that she felt it catch in her throat.
No. No way.
The man who stepped into frame was quite the HVT. His hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, eyes scanning the perimeter like he owned the land beneath his boot stood there talking to Ramos like this was routine.
Ayla stared at the tablet, disbelief locking her in place for a beat too long.
Another vehicle rolled into the clearing, flanked on all sides by rough riders on bikes built for brutal terrain, engines idling low and predatory.
Hell’s Eight hounds, every one of them, and that kind of protective force could only mean…
The doors opened and a second man emerged.
Her jaw dropped. “Guys,” Ayla said sharply, already moving. “You need to see this.” She pushed the feed to the main screen.
The room went silent.
No chairs. No breath. Just images and the low hum of electronics as the full scope settled in.
Ayla didn’t bother modulating her voice now. Excitement threaded it, bright and unmistakable. “Talk about multiple jackpots. That’s the King of the North himself. Hector Manuel Torres. The man near the vehicles is the Road King. Joaquín Montoya. Overseer of logistics, routes, transport.”
Iceman stepped closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as another figure shifted at the edge of the frame.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he growled, “but isn’t that the Money King?”
Esteban Valdivia.
Carver and Jones exchanged a look, then grinned like men who knew exactly what this meant.
“Talking about hitting three birds with one joint task force stone,” Ayla said.
The room buzzed, energy crackling now, plans already beginning to form.
Iceman turned back to Ayla, that steely gaze as cold and sharp as the Arctic. “We got lucky with our logistics analyst, people. Damn lucky.”
Blair stepped in beside her, confidence solid and unshakable. Breakneck nodded once in agreement.
“It’s not luck, Ice,” Blair said. “Not luck at all.”
Ayla smiled faintly and dropped her gaze back to the tablet, fingers already moving again. “It’s always a team effort.”
For just a moment, before the weight of what came next settled in, she let herself feel the thrill of it.
Tyler’s gaze met hers across the table. Steady, as if he understood the weight she’d just dropped and accepted it without flinching. The look grounded her more than she expected.
“Now we’ve got ourselves the kind of HVT missions we can sink our teeth into,” Iceman said finally.
“Yes,” Ayla replied. “We came for one HVT. We found four.”
Around her, the room began to move again, questions, adjustments, plans forming in low, controlled voices. Ayla stepped back, returning to her quiet place at the edge, tablet warm in her hands.
The map had changed and so had everything else.
Lindstrom’s gaze flicked from the screen to Iceman. “This just turned into a larger rodeo. Let’s get the planning down while Sergeant Brown—”
“Staff Sergeant Brown,” Breakneck interjected.
Lindstrom nodded his approval. “Staff Sergeant Brown, the DEA, and I brief the higher-ups. You keep this tight and be ready to execute the moment we get the green light.”
Ayla watched Blair accept the moment with steady grace, and she knew, with absolute certainty, that this would follow her long after today was over.
Blair stepped inside the armory with her hands shielding her eyes, the low thrum of helicopters bleeding through the walls like a second heartbeat. “Your rides are here,” she announced.
“Afraid you get shocked and awed if you peek?” Skull asked with a sly dig in his tone. A low ripple of laughter moved through the room.
“Ma’am,” someone drawled, “this is a perfectly respectable jock-up.”