Chapter Six
The suite Ricky occupied in Ridge House had always been spartan—functional, not personal.
A separate walk-in wardrobe, a compact en suite bathroom, a small kitchenette tucked into the corner of the open-plan lounge, and a narrow desk in a nook of the opposite corner that doubled as an office.
The real luxury was the wraparound balcony that caught the mountain light in the morning and let the wind whisper through at night.
He’d never decorated. Just kept things clean, organized, lived in like he didn’t plan on staying.
But now Ezra’s presence filled the space in ways Ricky hadn’t expected.
A toothbrush beside his own. A spare hoodie draped over the back of the couch.
The faint scent of his cologne clinging to the sheets.
And it had started to make Ricky think—about permanence, about the future, about what it would mean to make this suite not just a safehouse but a home.
It scared the shit out of him. But he was done lying to himself.
He stood in the doorway of the bathroom, one hand braced against the frame, and watched Ezra step out of the shower, steam curling around his frame.
Water traced down the dip of his spine and over skin still marked by recovery—his once-compact muscle a little leaner now, carved sharper by trauma but no less captivating.
His dark hair was wet, curling slightly at the ends, and he raked a hand through it absently as he toweled off.
Even battered, even healing, Ezra Navarro was impossible not to look at.
A fighter’s frame. Bronze skin marked with fresh scars and old ones layered underneath. That sharp jaw, those cheekbones that looked like they'd been cut from glass. His body spoke of history—grit, resilience, and hunger.
Ricky exhaled quietly and turned back into the bedroom.
He’d been working with Blake on Ezra’s nutrition and strength programs, gently pushing to bring him back to full operational form.
But even more than that, he was thinking about the day—soon, he hoped—when Sophia was found.
When this man, this sharp, stubborn, scarred man, would be whole again.
He wanted all of it.
Ezra, still towel-wrapped, caught his gaze in the mirror. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it,” Ricky said, voice rough. “You’re hot.”
Ezra smirked faintly. “Still got it, then.”
Ricky’s chest ached. He wanted him. They’d made out like teenagers since Ezra had moved in, learning the maps of each other’s bodies with reverent, urgent hands. But they hadn’t crossed the line again—not yet.
And Ricky needed to tell him why.
That the night they’d spent together was Ricky’s first time. That he wanted more, wanted to take Ezra, to know what that felt like. But also needed to understand how to do it right, how to be what Ezra needed, because goddamn it, he wanted to please his man.
Probably some deep, psychological reason behind the hang-up, some flavor of inadequacy or guilt. But he didn’t care about the analysis.
He just knew he was in love.
And he wanted to be worthy of it.
Ezra stepped into the room, drying his hair, and Ricky felt his breath hitch. He was about to step forward and get a little closer to perfection himself, but his phone chimed, a particular sound that signaled they were to report to the conference room.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon he’d tell him. But for now, they had a meeting to attend.
The Ridge conference room felt like it always did—claustrophobic in the way only war rooms could be. The kind of space that remembered more than it recorded. Gray walls. Maps that whispered ghosts if you stared too long.
Ricky leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, trying to ignore the magnetic pull of Ezra seated just to his left.
The screen above the long table flickered to life. Normally, Bateman would be the one standing at the front, voice even, gaze sharp. Instead, it was Marsh, slightly rumpled, eyes bloodshot, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
Ricky knew why. Knowing that Van’s daughter was out there somewhere alone, would have driven him crazy. He wouldn’t stop until he had her safe.
“We found her,” Marsh said without preamble.
Ezra didn’t flinch, didn’t move. But Ricky saw it, the micro-stillness. The breath he didn’t take.
“Sophia,” Marsh confirmed. “We verified the ID from a flagged NGO transfer video. Cross-referenced with encrypted files we cracked last week. She’s alive.”
Beside him, Ezra finally exhaled. Tight. Controlled. Ricky felt the echo of it in his own chest.
“But?” Ezra said, voice flat but ragged around the edges. “There has to be a ‘but,’ right? If it were just a custody form and a family reunion, we wouldn’t all be here playing Cyberwar Christmas with your damn monitors lit up like Times Square.”
Marsh exhaled slowly, as if he’d expected the punch. “But ... she’s not safe.”
He clicked a few keys. A map popped up. Rural. Isolated. Fenced.
“She’s currently placed with a family tied to the Kavaci trafficking networks Van was investigating.
Name’s Kallashi. They operate under a humanitarian shell—foster care, aid distribution, relocation logistics.
They’re a Bratya-funded front. She’s not just in danger, she’s an asset in a laundering pipeline. ”
Ezra’s hands curled into fists on the table. The fury coming off him wasn’t loud, but Ricky felt it brewing.
“They’re based outside Vlore,” Marsh went on. “Guarded, off-grid. Local authorities are either complicit or paid off. Getting in clean is a long shot.”
“She’s in Albania?” Ezra’s voice cracked—just slightly.
He stepped forward and reached out without thinking, placing his hand on Ezra’s shoulder. An attempt to try and offer support and strength.
“You didn’t know,” Marsh said, his voice quieter now.
Less data analyst, more friend. “It took me weeks just to sort through what Van left behind. It wasn’t organized—half the files were fragmented or buried under dead-end leads.
I had to code two custom decryptors just to make sense of it.
You couldn’t have found her on your own, Ezra. You didn’t fail her.”
Ezra let out a bitter huff of laughter. “Appreciate the pat on the head, Marsh, really. But it doesn’t fix the fact that I was in the same damn country she was, and not only did I not know, but I also left her there.”
“You’re good at getting inside the machine, Ezra,” Marsh replied, gaze steady. “I’m good at tearing it apart. We did our jobs. And we’ve got her location now because of it.”
“I know, thank you,” Ezra muttered.
Dale’s voice cut in from the far side of the room. “How guarded are we talking?”
“Enough to make noise a risk,” Marsh said. “They rotate the kids through multiple sites. If we spook them, they’ll move her.”
“They’ll vanish her,” Ricky said, teeth clenched.
Marsh nodded grimly. “Exactly.”
The screen shifted to a grainy photo. The compound. Trucks. Buildings. A playground in the corner, too new to be real.
Ricky’s stomach turned.
“We’ve got a window,” Marsh said. “One of Kai’s sources pinged on an incoming shipment set for ninety-eight hours from now. If we piggyback on the delivery manifest, we can embed one of ours inside. Confirm eyes-on. Then we move.”
Ezra straightened. “Who’s the source?”
“Former Bratya logistics runner. Kai flipped him last year. He’s dirty but scared. Name’s Dren. We’re tapping him for route data.”
“We take out the one they are sending and put in one of ours,” Marsh added, switching the screen to a crude diagram of the incoming shipment route.
“They’ll need to ride in as freight crew—gear familiarity, fast read on logistics, fluent in Albanian dialects.
Limited cover, tight timeline. We get one shot. ”
Ricky straightened from the wall. “Then it’s me. I’ve run ops like this before. I speak the language. I know how to work a crate line without blinking.”
Ezra stood abruptly, his chair scraping hard against the floor. “No. It should be me.”
“Why?” Ricky shot back. “Because you’re feeling guilty?”
“Because she’s my family,” Ezra snapped.
“Fuck you, Ezra, she was Van’s family,” Ricky snarled, stepping forward. “And last I checked, Van was our brother, too. You don’t get to stake a fucking blood claim when the rest of us bled for him, too.”
The room froze. Even Marsh paused, eyes flicking between them like he was bracing for impact.
Bateman cleared his throat. “We’ll need a hell of a backup plan in case this goes south.”
“You’ll have it,” came a voice from the comms tablet on the table—Kai, patching in clean and steady. “And if you’ll have me, I’ll be on-site to support.”
Hogan arched a brow. “You any good in a firefight?”
“Baby, I am the firefight.” There was no missing the confidence in the man’s tone.
“Okay, so this sounds like a plan coming together,” Bateman said from the corner, arms folded. “This isn’t a snatch-and-run. We do this smart. We do it fast. We do it clean.”
Ezra’s voice was quiet steel. “We’re not leaving her behind.”
He looked at Ricky—and it was like staring into open flame. Grief, guilt, rage. All of it wrapped in those dark, defiant eyes.
And under it, something else. Something just for him.
“This isn’t just about intel anymore,” Marsh said. “It’s about Van. His legacy. It’s about all of us.”
Ricky nodded, his voice soft but certain. “It’s family. We bring her home.”
Bateman stood up. “Kai, you, Marsh, Hogan, and I need to work out the logistics of what we need to do. Dale?”
“Sir?” Dale asked. You can take the man out of the military, but you can’t take the military out of the man.
“You’re on gear—get everything ready. If I know Marsh, he already has the list together and will flick it to your phone.
” He glanced at Marsh and got a nod. “And you two,” Bateman waved his hand between Ricky and Ezra.
“You two need to sort whatever shit out that exists between you. This op is too fucking important for you two to be caught in a fucking pissing contest.”
No one argued.
****