Chapter 3
WILLA
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. ‘They're coming for you now.’
My medical training kicks in before panic can. Heart rate elevated but controlled. Breathing steady. Hands that just finished suturing Kane's wound don't shake. Dad's voice echoes in my head: ‘Fear is just information, baby girl. Use it or it uses you.’
I'm using it.
"How long?" I ask, surprised by how level my voice sounds. Around me, the men of Echo Ridge move with a precision that’s still new to me. I’ve only just stepped into their world, and already they’re planning how to keep me alive.
Kane checks his watch. "Twenty minutes. Maybe a little more with the storm."
"Then we need to move." The stocky one crosses to a weapons rack, selecting rifles with casual efficiency. "Tommy, what's their approach vector?"
The voice crackles back. "Highway 93, both directions. Two teams, six operators each. The Committee's not messing around—these are Tier One assets."
Kane’s jaw tightens. “Protocol Seven in action. They’re wiping the board—every name, every safe house, everyone tied to Odin. She’s on their primary list.”
"Fuck." The lean, feral one spits the word. "They're sending the varsity squad."
"Language." Rourke's voice is quiet but firm. "We have a civilian and a minor present."
The feral one shoots him a look that could cut glass but says nothing.
Kane moves to a tactical map spread across a metal table, and despite everything—the fear, the adrenaline, the knowledge that trained killers are coming—I notice the way he moves.
Controlled power in every gesture, nothing wasted.
The burns on his neck catch the harsh light, tissue pulled tight and shiny.
The scars should make him ugly. Instead, they make him real in a way that's almost painful to witness.
I look away before he catches me staring.
"They'll be searching a ten-mile grid pattern." Kane's finger traces routes on the map. "They tracked her general direction into the mountains but lost her in the storm. They're hunting blind."
"So we let them find something." The stocky one chambers a round with a dangerous smile. "Just not what they're looking for."
"Stryker." Kane's tone carries warning. "We intercept at the outer perimeter. Keep them miles away from discovering this place."
"Exactly what I meant." Stryker jerks his chin toward me. "She saved the dog. That makes her worth protecting."
The casual claim should offend me. Instead, something warm unfurls in my chest. After six years of looking over my shoulder, wondering if Jack would find me, someone I just met in a blizzard is standing between me and monsters I didn’t know existed yesterday.
"I can shoot." The words come out before I think them through. "My father made sure of it."
Five pairs of eyes turn to me. Six, counting Khalid, who's still got his fingers buried in Odin's fur.
"Doc." Kane's voice is gentle. "This isn't the shooting range. These are professionals coming to kill you."
"I know." My hands find Odin's collar. "I killed one of them already tonight. Ran him down like roadkill on Highway 93. I can still feel the impact through the steering wheel."
The memory chokes me. My stomach lurches.
Kane is suddenly there, one scarred hand steady on my shoulder. "Breathe through it. The first one is always the hardest."
"How many people have you killed?"
His eyes hold mine. Not pride. Not shame. Just weary acceptance. "Enough to know that it never stops being hard. You just get better at carrying it."
The moment stretches too long. His hand is warm through my jacket. This close, I can smell him—gunpowder and pine and something purely male. It's been six years since I let a man close enough to notice these things.
"Kane." Rourke's voice cuts through. "Tactical?"
Kane steps back, the commander sliding over the man like a mask. "Tommy, you're on comms and surveillance from base. Mercer, you're on overwatch. North approach. Rourke, south. Stryker, tunnel entrance. I'll take center."
"What about the kid and the civilian?"
"Khalid stays in the bunker with Sarah. Dr. Hart—you stay with them."
“They won’t stop,” Rourke says flatly. “Protocol Seven means they’ll keep sending teams until she’s gone or we are.”
"Like hell." The words are out before I can stop them. "You need medical support. Someone gets shot out there, who's going to keep them from bleeding out?"
"She's not wrong." Stryker checks his weapon. "And she's got steady hands."
"It's not her fight," Kane says, but there's doubt in his voice now.
"It became my fight the second I saved that dog." I straighten, channeling every ounce of Hart stubbornness. "You can lock me in the bunker and waste time worrying, or you can let me do what I'm trained to do. Your call, Commander."
Kane's jaw tightens. "You're a veterinarian."
"I was a trauma nurse before I switched to veterinary medicine." I hold his gaze. "The cardiovascular system works the same whether you're working on a dog or a human. Gunshot wounds don't care about species. I can keep your men alive if they get hit."
The cave goes silent. Every man is watching this exchange, still weighing whether the stranger who drove through a kill team belongs here.
"Can you handle a rifle?" Kane asks finally.
"Dad's preference was the M4. Said if I was going to learn, I should learn on what the military uses."
Something shifts in Kane's expression. "Stryker, get her a vest and a weapon. Show her the sight lines."
"Kane...” Mercer starts.
"She’s right. We need medical. She proved when she stitched me up." Kane’s eyes find mine. "But you stay behind cover. You don't engage unless you have no choice. Understand?"
I nod. Because what I understand is that these men are willing to die for me, a stranger who stumbled into their war through compassion for an injured animal.
Stryker returns with body armor. He helps me into it with surprising gentleness, adjusting the straps until it sits properly.
"Heavy," I observe.
"Better heavy than dead." He hands me an M4, checking my handling. I don't fumble. Dad's training runs deeper than memory. "Magazine release here, safety here. You remember the rest?"
"Sight picture, trigger squeeze, controlled breathing." The checklist comes automatically. "Never point at anything you're not willing to destroy."
"Good girl." He grins. "You might survive this after all."
"Stryker." Kane's voice carries warning.
"What? I'm being optimistic."
Despite everything, I almost laugh. These men have found humor in hell. It's how they survive.
Tommy's voice crackles through the speaker. "Update. Lead team is getting close."
"Everyone in position. Now." Kane's command snaps through the cave.
The men scatter with military precision. Mercer disappears up a ladder. Rourke vanishes into shadows. Stryker takes position near the entrance, rifle tracking sectors only he can see.
Kane turns to Khalid, voice gentling in a way that makes my chest ache. "Take Sarah and Odin deeper into the bunker. Lock the door behind you. Don't open it for anyone except one of us. Understand?"
The boy nods, standing with Odin still pressed against his leg.
"Tommy, you stay in the command center. Keep comms open and monitor thermals."
"Doc." Kane's hand finds my elbow, guiding me toward the exit. "You're coming with us to the forward position. You stay behind cover. If someone comes through that tree line who isn't one of us, you shoot them. Don't hesitate. Don't wait for confirmation. Just shoot."
"I understand." My hands tighten on the rifle. "Kane?"
He pauses, and in the harsh light I see the exhaustion carved into his features. The scars. The weight of command.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For coming for me. You didn't have to."
Something crosses his face too quick to name. "Yeah. I did."
Then he's gone, moving to his position with that controlled power that makes me notice things I have no business noticing.
I settle into position behind a rocky outcropping, the rifle familiar despite the years. Muscle memory takes over. Breathing steadies. Heart rate drops.
The forest goes quiet except for the wind moving through the pines and the distant howl of the storm. We're positioned on a ridge half a mile from the base, invisible from any approach. Somewhere below, men are searching for me because I refused to let a dog die.
The minutes crawl past. My finger hovers near the trigger guard, not on it—Dad's voice in my head about trigger discipline. The cold bites through my body armor despite the layers.
I think about Jack. About the last time I saw him. About driving away from that hospital parking garage six years ago. About all the years I've spent looking over my shoulder.
But Jack was just one monster. The Committee is something else entirely.
"Contact." Mercer's voice cuts through the silence. "North ridge. Three tangos moving in formation. Professional spacing."
"South ridge clear." Rourke sounds almost disappointed. "Wait. Movement. Two tangos. No, three. They're spreading out."
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is real.
"Weapons tight until my call." Kane's voice is steady as stone. "Let them commit."
The wait stretches into agony. I watch the tree line below with burning eyes, every shadow a potential threat.
Then I see it. Movement through the trees. A figure materializing from darkness, tactical gear and night vision, weapon held in a combat carry.
He's not one of Kane's men.
My finger finds the trigger. Breathing slows. Sight picture acquired. Center mass. Controlled squeeze.
The rifle kicks against my shoulder before conscious thought processes the decision. The report echoes through the forest like thunder. The figure drops.
"Contact center!" I speak into the comms unit, already acquiring the next target. Because there's always a next target.