Chapter Eleven #2
The air smelled like wet concrete and jet fuel. Jackson led Avery across the tarmac and into the main building. The security door slid open at their approach, revealing Noah Riggs waiting inside.
His gait was uneven, boots thudding with a slight mechanical rhythm.
The prosthetic wasn’t obvious unless you knew to look, but Jackson had studied his file years ago and knew the story.
Noah was in his late forties, tall and lean, his face weathered by the sun and something deeper.
Combat lines marked his features, but it was the quiet in his eyes that spoke louder than any scar.
He moved with purpose, every step deliberate, every word measured.
“Good to have you both back in one piece,” Noah said. His gaze shifted between Jackson and Avery. “You look like hell.”
Jackson gave a dry half-smile. “You should see the other guys.”
Noah didn’t smile back. “I’ve already seen what’s left of your house, so I’ll take your word for it.” He turned toward the hall. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
Jackson fell in step beside him, the familiar hum of Crossfire Ops filling the air. Avery followed close behind, her eyes wide as she took in the controlled chaos of the command center.
For the first time in hours, Jackson felt something close to steady ground beneath his boots. But he knew better than to think it would last.
The storm wasn’t done yet.
Beck gave them a quick salute before heading back toward the hangar. “I’ll refuel and stay on standby,” he said. “Holler if you need me.”
“Appreciate it,” Jackson said.
When Beck was gone, Noah turned back to them. He handed Avery a canvas bag. “Clothes and toiletries,” he said. “If you need anything else, the supply room’s down that hall.” He motioned toward a corridor on the right.
“Thank you,” Avery said softly. She took the bag and slipped away to the nearest bathroom to change.
Jackson watched her go, the weight of everything they’d been through settling over him again. When the door shut behind her, he turned to Noah.
“This is eating her alive,” Jackson said. “She’s not going to sit here and do nothing. She’ll want to trade herself for those hostages.”
Noah nodded once, his expression tight. “Yeah, I figured. But let’s work the problem first. There’s no way I’m handing her over, and I know you won’t either.”
Jackson exhaled hard and rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re running out of time.”
“Then we use it smart,” Noah said. He met Jackson’s eyes, calm but unyielding. “We find the leverage before they do.”
Jackson gave a slow nod, but his gut stayed tight. Avery wouldn’t sit back for long.
And that scared him more than the Brotherhood itself.
When Avery came out of the bathroom, she looked different.
The jeans fit well, the boots sturdy, and the black tee hugged her just enough to show her shape.
The change wasn’t just in the clothes, though.
She carried herself straighter, steadier.
For a moment, Jackson thought she could have passed for one of their own. A Crossfire Ops operative.
Noah gave her a quick nod. “Good. Let’s move.”
He led them down the main hall into the operations room. The space was a blur of motion, filled with the hum of computers and the low voices of techs and operatives calling out updates. Screens lined the walls, each one showing live feeds, maps, and scrolling data.
At the far side of the room, Isla Prescott glanced up from her station. She had a pencil tucked in her messy bun, and her shirt read Sarcasm: My Superpower. Her fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.
“Hey, boss,” her tone all business, “the image the kidnappers sent had some background noise. I cleaned it up and ran it through enhancement filters.”
She pointed at the large monitor behind her. The photo of the hostages appeared—Riley and Megan, sitting on the concrete floor of a dim room.
“There’s reflection here.” Isla circled a faint glimmer in the upper corner of the image. “Metal siding, maybe corrugated. And this shadow on the right looks like the edge of a feed trough. My guess is an old storage barn or a feed warehouse.”
Noah studied the image, his arms folded. “You have potential coordinates?”
“Working on it,” Isla said, eyes never leaving the screen. “I’m cross-referencing locations that match those materials and light patterns. I’ll have a list in five.”
“Good,” Noah said. He turned to one of the nearby operatives. “Get eyes out there right away. Drones, patrols, whatever we can spare.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said and hurried off.
Jackson watched the feed as Isla worked. For the first time since the call came in, he felt a flicker of something that wasn’t anger. It was focus.
They finally had a direction.
The room was alive with noise. Keyboards clacking, voices calling out updates, the low buzz of equipment. Then one of the techs, a young guy named Ethan, lifted his head. “Incoming call,” he said. “Unknown number. It’s routed through a burner.”
Noah was beside him in seconds. “Patch it through.”
The speakers filled with static before a distorted voice came on the line. It was low and warped, impossible to tell gender or age.
“Crossfire Ops,” the voice said. “You’re not taking us seriously.”
Noah’s jaw tightened. “You have our attention. What do you want?”
There was a pause, a faint crackle in the background, maybe machinery. “We’ve decided to raise the stakes. The woman, Avery Hastings, has twelve hours to turn herself in. Otherwise, the hostages die.”
Jackson felt Avery go still beside him.
Noah leaned closer to the console. “You harm one of my people, and I’ll make sure there’s nowhere on this planet you can hide.”
The voice gave a soft, distorted laugh. “You think you’re in control. You’re not. And since you’re stalling, we’ve added an incentive.”
Jackson’s gut went cold. “What kind of incentive?”
The line clicked. A moment later, Isla’s computer pinged with an incoming file. She opened it, and the image filled the big screen at the front of the room.
It was a man, tied to a chair, his face swollen and bloodied.
Avery’s breath caught. “Oh God.”
Jackson stared at the photo, a jolt of shock running through him. What the hell? Even through the bruises and blood, he recognized the man.
Mick Barker.
Alive, but barely.
Suspicion crept in next, sharp and uneasy. If Mick was truly a captive, it meant the Brotherhood was ready to sacrifice their own.
Or maybe Mick was playing another angle.
One meant to get Avery killed.