Chapter 16
Ty
I shifted my weight, blocking Charlotte completely with my body. The destruction spread before us like a crime scene photo—deliberate, violent, thorough. Whoever did this wanted to send a message.
“Get to my truck.” I kept my voice low, controlled, even as adrenaline flooded my system. My hand moved to the Glock holstered at my hip. “Lock the doors.”
She stood frozen behind me, her breathing shallow and fast. I could feel the tremors running through her where her hand pressed against my back.
“Charlotte.” I turned just enough to catch her eyes, keeping my body between her and the house. “I need you to get to the truck. Now.”
“Should I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, tried again. “Should I call the police?”
“No.” The word came out harder than I intended. I softened my tone, reaching back to squeeze her arm briefly. “Let me check things out first. We’ll call the FBI directly. This is part of an ongoing case.”
She nodded, those green eyes wide with fear but trusting. Always trusting me, even when her world kept exploding around her.
“Lock the doors,” I repeated. “Don’t open them for anyone but me.”
Charlotte backed away slowly at first, then turned and ran toward the truck. I waited until I heard the click of the locks engaging before I stepped through her doorway.
Glass crunched under my boots, each piece grinding into the hardwood like tiny accusations.
The lamp that usually sat on the entry table—I’d noticed it that first time I’d picked her up—lay in pieces, its ceramic base shattered into a dozen jagged shards.
Picture frames had been ripped from the walls with enough force to leave drywall dust hanging in the air.
Whoever had done this had pulled books from shelves, but not just pulled—thrown with violence that left spines broken and pages scattered like confetti. The cushions on her couch hadn’t just been slashed; they’d been gutted, foam entrails spilling out in deliberate disembowelment.
This may have started as a search, but it had ended as a rage. Almost definitely because the stabilizer code drive they were looking for—had been told would be here—wasn’t anywhere in this house.
I moved through the living room, weapon drawn and held low, my finger indexed along the frame. The familiar weight of the Glock felt like an extension of my arm—muscle memory from years of training taking over even as my mind catalogued the devastation.
Check the corners. Watch the blind spots. Never assume a room is clear until you’ve cleared it yourself.
The kitchen looked like a tornado had hit it.
But tornadoes were random. This was methodical destruction dressed up as bedlam.
Dishes hadn’t just fallen—they’d been deliberately smashed, the pieces arranged almost artistically across the wood floor.
Every cabinet hung open, contents dumped and scattered.
Flour dusted the counters like cocaine at a drug bust. Sugar crunched underfoot, mixing with broken glass in a treacherous carpet.
The refrigerator door hung open, its contents spoiling on the floor.
Milk pooled around broken eggs, the smell already starting to turn sour in the warm air.
Even the coffeemaker—that ancient thing she’d probably had since college, held together with determination and electrical tape—lay in pieces by the sink, its carafe shattered into glittering fragments.
Whoever tore through here had wanted Charlotte to feel violated. To know that nowhere was safe. To scare her.
My jaw clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. I’d done this. I’d deliberately made sure everyone at the lab heard me tell Charlotte to take the drive home, my voice carrying just enough to reach the right ears. Or the wrong ones, depending on perspective.
Set the trap. Wait for the rat to show itself.
But I’d expected something subtle—a break-in tonight while they thought she’d be sleeping. Professional. Clean. The kind of thing that might not even be noticed immediately.
Not this systematic psychological warfare.
This was personal. Someone wanted to hurt her, scare her, break her down piece by piece until she couldn’t function. Until she made mistakes. Until she failed.
If Charlotte had been here alone when this had happened…
The thought sent ice through my veins. I’d seen what people were capable of when they wanted something badly enough. The lengths they’d go to. The lines they’d cross. In Afghanistan, I’d watched interrogators break strong men with less psychological pressure than this.
Charlotte wouldn’t have stood a chance. Brilliant as she was with code and quantum physics, she didn’t understand violence. Didn’t know how to read its language or predict its patterns. That innocence—that fundamental belief that the world operated on logic and reason—would have gotten her killed.
I pushed deeper into the house, forcing myself to move methodically despite the urgency clawing at my chest. The hallway stretched ahead like a throat, three doors waiting—bathroom, guest room, Charlotte’s bedroom.
The hardwood creaked under my weight, each sound seeming to echo in the defiled space.
I cleared the bathroom first, sliding around the doorframe before entering. Medicine cabinet was hanging open like a scream. The shower curtain had been ripped down, rod bent at an angle that must have taken considerable force.
Clear.
I approached Charlotte’s bedroom last, the door slightly ajar. That was when my body went completely still, that hyperaware state that had saved my life more times than I could count. A soft scrape, barely audible—fabric against wood. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in an empty house.
Someone was still here.
My pulse actually slowed, that combat calm settling over me like armor.
Time stretched the way it always did before violence.
I could hear my own heartbeat, steady and strong.
Could feel the exact weight of the Glock, the texture of the grip against my palm.
Could smell the lingering destruction—broken perfume bottles, scattered powder, fear-sweat that wasn’t Charlotte’s.
I took a breath, held it for a count, and burst through the door.
The man on the other side spun toward me, dressed in black tactical gear that screamed professional. Ski mask covering his face, but his body language spoke volumes—trained, ready, dangerous. This was an operator.
He moved fast—faster than I expected. Before I could get a shot off, he lunged, closing the distance with experienced skill.
His shoulder slammed into my midsection, driving me back into the doorframe hard enough to knock stars across my vision.
My weapon flew from my hand, the polymer frame clattering across the hardwood before disappearing under Charlotte’s dresser.
We crashed into the wall, his forearm crushing against my throat with enough pressure to make black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My left shoulder—the one that had taken a bullet two months ago—screamed in protest as it hit the wall.
Of course. Because a healing gunshot wound was exactly what I needed in a fight with a professional.
I brought my knee up hard into his ribs, feeling the satisfying give of impact through his tactical vest. He grunted but didn’t let go. This guy knew what he was doing. Military training, maybe, or private sector. Either way, he was good.
Too bad I was better. Well, usually. When I wasn’t operating at seventy percent capacity, thanks to some asshole’s lucky shot in my shoulder.
I grabbed his wrist with my right hand, compensating for the weakness in my left, twisting hard while pivoting my hips.
Basic physics—Charlotte would appreciate that.
Hell, she could probably calculate the exact force vectors involved.
He went over my hip in a textbook throw, but instead of staying down like a considerate opponent, he rolled immediately, coming up in a fighter’s crouch.
Son of a bitch.
We circled each other in the destroyed bedroom, Charlotte’s clothes scattered around us like casualties. The intimacy of her personal space made the violence feel more obscene.
He feinted left, came in right with a jab that caught me in the ribs.
Pain bloomed along my side, sharp and immediate.
I absorbed it, grabbed his extended arm, pulled him into a headbutt that sent lights dancing across my sight but dropped him to one knee.
Blood immediately soaked through his mask where his nose should be.
Good. Maybe now we were both operating at less than peak performance.
He swept my legs with a move I should have seen coming—would have, if I hadn’t been favoring my left side. I went down hard, catching myself on my hands. The impact jarred up through my wrists and straight into my wounded shoulder, white-hot agony lancing through the still-tender tissue.
His boot connected with my shoulder—the bad one, naturally, because why would the universe give me a break—spinning me sideways into Charlotte’s nightstand. The lamp crashed down, bulb exploding in a shower of glass.
A distant part of my brain noted that Charlotte was going to need new everything. Maybe I should have gotten her extra renters insurance before setting this trap. Did they cover “ransacked by probable corporate spy”? Probably not.
I rolled with the momentum, came up swinging with my good arm, and caught him in the solar plexus with enough force to double him over. He gasped, the sound muffled by the mask, but when I moved in to finish it, he surprised me with an uppercut that snapped my head back.
Blood filled my mouth, metallic and warm. I spat it out, grinned at him through red teeth. “That all you got?”