Chapter Three
The Ridge had changed.
Even in the few short months he had been gone, it had changed.
Reinforced gates. Cameras hidden in every corner.
A fresh layer of security fencing that hadn’t been there when Ricky left.
Buildings that had still smelled like sawdust and paint three months ago now stood complete, humming with purpose.
And the obstacle course? Upgraded. Hardened.
Built like they were training for a mission into hell itself.
It felt like coming home to someone who’d moved on.
He pulled the truck in slow, tires crunching against gravel slick with the rain that had been falling steadily for the past few hours.
Figures stood waiting near the main entrance to Ridge House—Bateman, Dale, Hogan, Marsh.
Spread just far enough apart that no one could mistake it for a warm welcome.
He cut the engine.
Sat there for a second, hands clenched around the wheel, the rain drumming on the windshield like it had a countdown.
Then, he grabbed his duffel and got out. No one moved at first. Marsh didn’t nod. Dale stayed still. Hogan watched him with that unreadable look he got in the seconds before a mission went hot.
Only Bateman stepped forward.
“Message was clean,” he said. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just fact. “We’ve already started recon.” He paused, eyes searching Ricky’s face for something he couldn’t name. “It’s good to see you.”
Ricky’s throat tightened. He looked away, jaw ticking. “Yeah. You, too.”
He sounded like a teenager who’d just come home after screwing up his first night of freedom.
Bateman turned without pressing. “Briefing room.”
They followed in silence, boots thudding across damp concrete, through the heavier, newer steel doors. Inside, the Ridge hummed with energy—brighter, more efficient, like the team had been grinding forward without him and hadn’t missed a step. It stung. And it made sense.
He trailed the team to the first floor, and as he stepped off the stairs, nearly collided with Blake coming down the hallway, Celia balanced on one hip and Ryan trailing behind him with a plastic soldier clutched in one fist.
“Hey!” Blake grinned wide and without hesitation. “Well, hell. Look who finally remembered where home is.”
Before Ricky could answer, Blake had pulled him into a one-armed hug, solid and real. “It’s good to see you, man. Whatever you need—gear, backup, extra rations, bourbon—it’s yours.”
Ricky nodded, throat tight. “Thanks, Blake.”
Ryan stepped forward, bright-eyed. “I got a new Recon Ranger!” he announced, holding up the scarred little figure like it was a trophy. “He’s got a radio backpack and everything. Marsh says he’s a comms guy like you.”
“Yeah?” Ricky managed, crouching slightly to examine it. “Bet he’s the best damn Ranger in the box.”
Ryan beamed.
But it was Celia who broke him.
She looked at him when he stood back up, like she was studying something behind his face—those big dark eyes soft and knowing in a way a not-quite-two-year-old shouldn’t have known how to be.
Then, she held out her arms. Ricky blinked, stunned, before reaching out and lifting her gently from Blake to cradle her in his own arms. It felt comforting just having her in his arms.
She placed her tiny hands on his cheeks, palms warm against his stubble.
“Missed you,” she said solemnly.
His chest fractured. Just a hairline crack—but it went deep.
Then her brow furrowed. “Stay home.”
His breath caught. He pressed a kiss to her temple, eyes burning.
“I’ll try, pumpkin,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll try.”
He passed her back to Blake before she could see the tears welling, nodded once, then turned toward the stairs, going up a floor to the conference room.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he became a soldier again.
The second-floor conference room was already active. Screens glowed, maps layered the far wall, gear bags stacked under the table. The ficus in the corner looked slightly more alive than the last time he saw it.
Ricky didn’t sit. He dropped his bag against the wall and stood with his arms crossed.
Bateman dropped a hard copy of the message onto the table and looked at him like it was time to do more than just show up.
Bateman pointed at the sheet of paper. “This is what Ezra sent you.”
Ricky stepped forward, scanning Ezra’s message like it might flicker into clarity if he stared long enough. “Yeah, but I don’t know the full story,” he said finally. “Ezra didn’t give me one. Just the message—and the list.”
Hogan leaned forward, frowning. “What kind of list?”
“Six hundred and twenty-seven names. Girls. All trafficked through cartel-backed orphanages. Legit-looking organizations—charity fronts. The file included encrypted birth records, ID codes, movement logs. Ezra flagged one,” Ricky said.
“Her file had a redacted genetic profile ... but he cracked it. The DNA string matched Van.”
Silence dropped like a hammer.
“Van?” Marsh echoed. “Our Van?”
Ricky nodded once.
“I didn’t even know he was—” Dale started, then stopped. “Shit, I didn’t even know he was straight.”
“He was bi,” Bateman said
Ricky’s throat worked. “Looks like it. A daughter. Five years old. Ezra didn’t know either. He must’ve been following something Van left behind. A trail, a code—hell, maybe just instinct. But he found that list. And he vanished right after.”
Dale exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. “So, we don’t know where he was heading?”
“No,” Ricky admitted.
Marsh looked up from where he was tapping away at his laptop. “But the message came from an encrypted server with Bratya fingerprints all over it. One of their humanitarian fronts. Could’ve been anywhere in the Balkans, but it pinged from somewhere near the Albanian border.”
“That’s thin,” Hogan muttered.
“It’s enough,” Ricky snapped. “Ezra’s out there. Hurt. Maybe worse. I’m not letting that message be his last words.”
“And we don’t exactly have the best reputation in Albania,” Dale said with a grimace. “The Minister of Defense and his poker buddy Ganglord, Shkurti, don’t exactly have us on their Christmas card list.”
Bateman held up a hand, calming the edges. “We need more than theories. And we might have it.”
He moved to the comms console and keyed in a secure frequency. The screen blinked to life a moment later, revealing a man with a handsome olive-skinned face, deep tan, and a tactical vest over a garish Hawaiian shirt.
“Pathfinders, meet DEA Special Agent Kai Kealoha,” Bateman said.
Kai grinned wide. “Look at this collection of overachievers. What’s the occasion, Bateman?”
“We need help tracking down a contact,” Bateman said. “Ezra Navarro. You had contact?”
Kai’s smile faded. “Yeah. Two, maybe three weeks ago. Said he was tracking something Bratya-adjacent—an arms dealer-slash-trafficker named Mirsad Kavaci. Name ring any bells?”
Bateman nodded slowly. “Used to operate under UN cover in Kosovo. Got pulled into black arms dealing after a joint task force collapsed.”
Kai leaned forward. “Ezra thought Kavaci had ties to a ‘rescue’ orphanage funnel. Said it connected to cartel money. Was trying to cross-reference disappearances. That’s all I got before he went dark.”
“Was Tirana one of the confirmed locations?” Ricky asked.
Kai looked off screen for a moment and they could hear tapping on a keyboard.
“Closest I can get. Last ping came from just outside Tirana. Abandoned clinic network Kavaci’s people used as a waystation.
But listen—this guy’s connected. You go in loud, he’ll vanish, and you’ll never see Navarro again. ”
“We won’t go in loud,” Bateman said, and Ricky tensed. Bateman’s gaze landed on his. “Not unless we have to. They don’t exactly hold us in high regard over there.”
Kai’s voice turned serious. “Ezra also mentioned a message Van left him. Something about unfinished business. You know anything about that?”
Bateman’s brow furrowed but he nodded. “All the Pathfinders have a message to loved ones we pass on in the event of our deaths—if anything happened to Van, I was to reach out to his brother who turned out to be Ezra. Said he’d know what to do.
” He looked at the others. “Three days after Van died, I sent a message. Just one line. The key is where it should be. The answer is yes. Now go find yours.”
“That was the message?” Ricky asked, startled.
Bateman nodded. “Van’s words. I just passed them on.”
Kai, on the monitor, leaned forward. “Then you set him on the path. He used that message to pull the first thread. From there, my guess would be that he tracked a sequence of clues left for him by Van. It would have had to be something that only Ezra could decipher.”
“You’ve been following him?” Bateman asked.
“Only the echoes,” Kai said. “Ezra checked in once, three weeks ago. Said he was closing in on something in Tirana. Asked for intel on Mirsad Kavaci—arms broker with ties to Bratya and child trafficking channels. Said he thought Van was after Kavaci before he died.”
“Sounds about right. I’ll send you what we have,” Bateman looked at the team. “We spin up in six hours. Dale, Hogan, prep logistics. Marsh, pull everything we’ve got on Kavaci and that clinic. Ricky—” Ricky looked up. “—don’t make this personal.”
Too late, he thought. But he nodded anyway.
“Kai—” Bateman turned back to the screen. “Many thanks brother, but I have one more favor to ask. Can you support us on the ground?”
Kai hesitated. “Possibly, but I’ve got limited intel. I can relay locations, contacts, safehouse coords. I’m still shadowing Kavaci’s routes. But that’s about it.”
“I’ll take it. Be in touch.” Bateman disconnected the call.
They moved. Splitting off with purpose. Marsh hesitated only a second before stepping into Ricky’s path.
“You still going solo in your head?” he asked.
Ricky dropped his gaze and shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“Good.” Marsh’s voice dropped. “You and me—we’re still not righteous. But I’m not letting you walk into that fire alone. Not again.”