Chapter Eleven #2
“Eyes,” Bateman said. “Names, routes, location. Anything that puts us on their trail faster than they expect. I’ve sent you two files, guys who infiltrated the Ridge. I want them found.”
Kai nodded sharply. “Give me ten. I’ll be back with answers.”
The screen cut out.
No one spoke.
Then the door banged open.
Bravo Team entered the room, loaded for bear.
Dev Roberts strode in first, followed by Aiden, Nick, Riley, Sam, Marcel, Glenn—and bringing up the rear, Maddox, built like a mountain with a smirk sharp enough to cut steel.
They were all kitted out, weapons slung, comms ready, eyes hard.
“Pathfinders,” Dev said, voice calm and cool. “You rang?”
Bateman met him halfway. “You have no idea how glad I am to see your ugly face.”
Dev shrugged. “We heard about Ricky. We’re here to help you bring him home.”
Maddox made a slow loop around the room, slapping backs, bumping fists—greeting his old team. When he got to Ezra, he didn’t offer a handshake. He just nodded once.
“You’re his?”
Ezra nodded, jaw clenched.
“Then we’ll get him back for you,” Maddox said simply.
Ezra felt emotion well within him, but he shut that shit down so he could focus on the task at hand. “Fuck, yeah, we will.”
At the console, Bateman and Dev fell into step like they’d never stopped. Words barely needed. A shared glance. A tap on a map. Finishing each other’s sentences like field surgeons assembling a battle plan.
“Ridge perimeter’s tight—”
“—but they’ll circle wide for exfil if they’re smart.”
“Snipers?”
“Glenn and Maddox. High ground.”
“Extraction?”
“Fast and loud.”
The screen flickered back to life.
Kai.
Hair messier, expression grim. “Got him.”
Everyone turned.
“The bastards who took Ricky are holed up in a farmhouse fifteen clicks south of your location,” Kai said. “About thirty men. Ex-military, cartel bleed-over. This isn’t just a kidnapping. This is their new command post.”
He uploaded a topographical map with heat sigs and tactical overlays. “They’ve set up a perimeter, two fallback zones, internal radio frequency and encrypted sat feed. This is organized. And dirty.”
“Who’s running point?” Bateman asked.
“Name’s Vuko Kallashi. Albanian national. High on every agency’s shit list, but too smart to get pinned. Until now.”
Blake’s voice came over comms. “Kids are safe. I’ve got Finn helping me guard the panic room. They know Ricky saved them. They’re scared, but stable.”
Maddox stepped up, eyes on the map. “Glenn and I will take high ground—sniper and spotter. Clear the perimeter, take eyes out.”
Dev looked at Bateman. “My team will take the low road. Split force, meet in the middle.”
Bateman nodded. “Ezra, you’re with me. We go in hard.”
Ezra didn’t speak. He just grabbed his gear.
The room was heavy with silent vows, locked gazes, and weapons ready to kill.
Kai’s voice came through one last time, quiet and dead serious. “Bring him home.”
Dev looked around the room, then cracked a grin.
“Sniper Team Bravo and the goddamn Pathfinders,” he said. “They don’t stand a fucking chance.”
****
Pain was a constant now.
Ricky’s world narrowed to the throb in his shoulder, the sticky warmth of blood seeping through his shirt, the ache in his ribs every time he tried to breathe.
His arms were bound behind him—plastic ties cinched tight enough to cut circulation—and the concussion he knew he had made everything blurry and images swim before him.
He was slumped against a wooden post in what smelled like a livestock shed. Dust. Rot. Blood.
His own.
He blinked slowly, head lolling to the side. One eye was already swollen shut. His lip was split. Someone had taken pleasure in working him over. They hadn’t asked questions. This wasn’t about intel.
It was punishment.
Revenge.
For what happened in Albania. For burning their compound to the ground. For stealing what they considered their property. Sophia. And the other kids they pulled out of that hell hole.
Ricky’s chest hitched, and pain lanced through his ribs. He sucked in a shallow breath and gritted his teeth, forcing his mind to focus on something else. Anything else.
He pictured Sophia’s smile—the real one, not the too-perfect mask she’d worn when he first saw her. He pictured Ryan and her playing tag around the Ridge, Celia toddling after them like a pint-sized tornado, all toothy grins and baby growls.
He’d helped give them that. A chance to be kids. A chance to be safe.
Please let them still be safe.
He thought about Marsh—about the explosion, the way the truck had flipped. He’d seen the blood. Heard the scream.
He didn’t know if Marsh was still alive.
The nausea that rolled through him had nothing to do with blood loss.
And Ezra.
God. Ezra.
He remembered the feel of him—skin on skin, lips soft and breath ragged, laughter in the dark. The way he looked at Ricky like he was the only thing in the world worth holding onto. The way he said, “You’re mine,” and made Ricky believe it.
Ezra had waited for him in Albania. Stood in the storm and trusted Ricky to come.
Now it was his turn.
They were coming.
He knew it with the same certainty he knew his own name.
Pathfinders didn’t leave their own behind. Ezra would burn the world to find him. So would Bateman. Marsh. Dale. Hogan. Every single one of them.
That was what family did.
He just had to hold on long enough for them to get here.
He flexed his fingers, trying to keep blood flowing. Forced his breaths to stay even.
Stay alive. Stay conscious. Stay ready.
Because when the cavalry came, he wasn’t going to be dead weight.
He was going to fight his way out right alongside them. If he could just stop seeing stars and maybe bring things into focus, yeah, that would be a great start.
Ricky’s head tipped back. Blood trickled down his arm.
“Come on,” he whispered to the dark, voice raw and cracking. “Come on, baby. I’m still here.”