Chapter Eleven
“Window seat or corner nook?” Blake asked, holding up two rough sketches of the future kitchen.
Ezra looked over the plans, a steaming mug of coffee warming his hands.
Outside, the midmorning sun bounced off the lake, casting light across the deck.
The kids were over at their classroom with Ricky, who had decided the three of them needed to burn off some steam with a little Uncle time that included paints and crayons.
It had been such a pleasure watching him blossom into the natural nurturer he was with the kids.
And if the truth be told, Ezra found that hot as fuck.
Ezra smiled softly. “Corner nook. She’ll want to sit there and draw. You know she will.”
Blake nodded, scribbling something. “With under-seat storage?”
Ezra lifted a brow. “For what? The entire crayon industry she’s hoarding?”
“Exactly.”
The soft clatter of a boot on wood made them both turn as Bateman stepped up onto the deck, nodding in greeting. “Morning.”
“You want coffee?” Blake offered as Bateman kissed him on the temple as he walked past.
“Always, my love.”
As Blake ducked inside, Bateman leaned against the railing beside Ezra. “So. Word is you’re sticking around.”
Ezra sipped. “Word’s right.”
“You sure about it?”
Ezra nodded. “I’ve got my niece safe and sound, and I’ve got ... this. A team. A purpose. I want to help build it. Train, protect. If there’s a mission worth fighting for, I want in.”
Bateman raised a brow. “You’ve been running solo a long time. What about your work?”
Ezra shrugged. “Independent contractor. No contracts at the moment.”
Bateman tilted his head. “Looking for new ones?”
“Not exactly.” Ezra took another sip of coffee, then added, “Van and I ... we were independently wealthy. Old family investments, a couple early crypto bets that paid off. More money than either of us could spend in ten lifetimes.”
Bateman blinked. “You’re telling me I’ve got a bona fide millionaire sitting on my deck?”
Ezra grimaced. “It rhymes with that, at least.”
Bateman huffed a laugh.
“I’ve been thinking about how to use it,” Ezra continued. “The kids we save—they’ll need help. Real help. Therapy, housing, a future. I want to build that. Make it part of Van’s legacy.”
Bateman nodded slowly. “That’s one hell of a way to honor him.”
Bateman glanced out toward the ridge, the breeze ruffling the edges of his jacket. “And I have another way. We’re going to burn that ring to the ground, you know. Van’s trail ... it’s still warm.”
Ezra turned toward him. “When I found the key for the trail that led me to that list in the post office box he and I used to send things through, I had no idea where it would lead me to. I followed it to half a dozen other threads and leads. Europe. South America. The last one gave me the full list. Everything he was building. Names. Routes. Accounts. The ring operates everywhere, but Van was close to blowing it wide open.”
“And now we will,” Bateman said. “Together.”
Ezra hesitated, then added quietly, “You know, I asked Van once if he’d found his happiness with the Pathfinders. He never answered me. Not until that message.”
Bateman turned his gaze on him. “The one he left you when he died?”
Ezra nodded. “He said the answer is yes and told me to go find mine. I like to think he’d be glad I did. That it led me to Sophia ... and to all of you.”
Bateman cleared his throat roughly. “He’d be proud.”
Blake reappeared with a third mug, passing it to Bateman before sitting beside Ezra and nudging his shoulder. “So, this house—how many bedrooms?”
Ezra smirked. “Depends. Are you planning on us having the kids every other night to get some alone time with your man?”
Blake scoffed. “Obviously.”
They were still laughing when the world cracked open.
The explosion rocked the Ridge, the sound so violent and close it cut straight through their chests. Windows rattled. Birds scattered from trees like shrapnel. Black smoke spiraled into the sky from somewhere near the Ridge’s perimeter wall.
“Jesus Christ—” Bateman growled as the three of them pulled comms pieces from pockets and jammed them in place.
“Where are the kids?” he barked.
“Over by Marsh’s office,” Blake called.
The alarms screamed to life, piercing and unmistakable.
The Ridge’s battle protocol. Not a drill.
Not a test. This was life and death. The three of them started running, heading for outside.
Ezra was getting to Sophia and would no doubt find Ricky there.
Bateman’s voice snapped through the compound, his voice sharp and steady as they moved.
“All units check in! Now!”
“Dale here—en route to impact site, visual on smoke by the gate.” As soon as they were outside, Bateman sprinted for his truck, no doubt heading for the gate where Ezra could see smoke rising up above the trees lining the driveway. Blake and Ezra turned together towards where the kids were.
“Hogan here. I’m moving through housing, almost to the south corridor. Will head to entry point.”
Then silence.
No answer from Ricky. No word from Marsh.
Ezra’s stomach twisted as he and Blake sprinted towards the communications buildings, comms buzzing in their ears.
“Pathfinder two, check in,” Bateman snapped. “Ricky, do you copy? Pathfinder four, Marsh, respond.”
More static. Then—finally, Marsh’s voice crackled through—hoarse, painfilled.
“Ricky was taken—van with blacked-out plates, logo on the side—some kind of delivery cover—transmit the scan now. Four men minimum, maybe five. Two of them were on site yesterday—confidence course. Fucking plants.”
Ezra’s heart stopped for a minute at the words Ricky was taken and then started pounding even wilder within his chest.
Marsh coughed, it sounded wet. “I checked the chips—the kids are in the panic room off the classroom.”
Ezra’s heart lurched. “Copy that. I’m en route.”
“I saw the van. Ricky was slumped against the glass, bleeding, but he saw me. Alive. I tried to flank them but grenade—too much blood. Couldn’t follow. Couldn’t get up.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck,” came Dale’s voice. “Bateman, Marsh’s truck is toast. I see blood, lots of it. Oh, shit, Marsh, don’t you fucking die on me. Somebody get me a goddamn tourniquet!”
Blake skidded to a halt, eyes wide. Ezra gave a single nod. “Go. Help him.”
Blake bolted, already yelling for med staff and evac protocols.
Ezra kept running, mind racing, ears pinned to the comms.
“Marsh, stay with us,” Bateman snapped. “That’s a goddamn order.”
“Too much blood,” Marsh rasped, a note of sarcasm curling beneath the agony. “If I die, someone tell Blake his playlist’s shit.”
He reached the classroom at a full sprint. The door was half off its hinges. Blood smeared the walls. Two bodies lay in the hallway—one face-down, one folded over a desk. Ezra stepped over them, sweeping corners on instinct, the copper tang of blood thick in the air.
He reached the secure door.
He keyed in the override and it hissed open. Three small figures hurtled toward him—Celia, Ryan, Sophia—throwing their arms around him with wild sobs.
Ryan, brave and shaking, pulled back first. “Uncle Ezra ... Ricky fought. They came in with guns. He told us to get in here. Locked us in.”
Ezra crouched down, voice low. “You’re safe now. What else do you remember?”
Ryan’s eyes were huge. “There were five. Two of them helped with the ropes yesterday. Ricky tried to fight, but one shot him just before the door closed. I didn’t see where they took him.”
Ezra hugged them close, throat tight.
Over comms, voices crackled—Blake and the med team.
“We’ve got Marsh. Leg’s gone. We need a medevac now—he’s bleeding out.”
“Helicopter’s inbound,” someone said. “ETA ten.”
Ezra’s jaw locked.
He tucked the kids close and whispered, “I’ve got you. Uncle Ricky’s going to come home. And the people who did this...”
He looked out the window, across the field of the smoke still rising above the trees.
“...they’re going to pay.”
****
The command center smelled like gun oil, sweat, and vengeance.
Ezra stood near the far end of the ops table, arms crossed, rage simmering just beneath his skin. Around him, the Pathfinders moved with lethal efficiency—checking weapons, syncing maps, preparing for extraction. The room, usually a calm hub of training exercises, now pulsed with raw purpose.
Bateman stepped forward, jaw tight. “Marsh is stable, for now. Lost his left leg. Blake’s coordinated with the trauma team that has in him surgery from the evac heli.”
Ezra closed his eyes briefly. The image of Marsh’s blood on the pavement flashed behind them. It hadn’t even been twenty minutes.
“Now. We have to focus. We’ve got one of our own out there,” Bateman continued, voice low and hard. “And we’re getting him back.”
No one argued. The room was silent but crackling, like a storm waiting to hit.
Bateman turned to the console and activated the secured uplink. “Calling in Kai.”
The screen flickered to life with Kai’s face—tousled hair, devil-may-care smile, a coffee in hand like he’d just strolled out of a café instead of being dragged into a rescue op.
“Bateman,” Kai drawled. “You were obviously devoid of hot Hawaiian man candy in your day, and you decided to call me? I am honored. Where is that walking sex on legs man of mine? Hogan, I can’t—”
Before Bateman could respond, Hogan stepped forward, his voice clipped and tight with restrained emotion.
“Cut that shit out, Kai.” Ezra had never heard Hogan use a tone so harsh before.
“Marsh is in a critical condition. Lost a leg. Obsidian Ridge was compromised. Ricky’s been taken.
We’re operating under full lock and load, so unless you’ve got something useful to say, I suggest shutting your fucking mouth. ”
Kai’s expression shifted instantly, every trace of casual charm gone. “Shit. Okay. What do you need?”