Chapter 13
EVELYN
Dutch returned just as dawn broke pale and quiet over the rimrocks.
I stood on the porch as his truck rumbled up the rutted path, the cold air sharp enough to sting my lungs.
Behind me, the cabin was silent except for the soft creak of old timber settling.
Sophia was still asleep, but sleep had been impossible for me after what happened between Trent and me.
My mind kept replaying our conversation, his confession about his mother, the raw vulnerability in his voice.
The memory of his hands on my skin, the weight of him above me—these sensations lingered, making it impossible to rest.
Dutch killed the engine and climbed out, moving slower than usual. His injured arm hung stiff at his side, the bandage visible beneath his rolled-up sleeve. He reached into the truck’s bed and pulled out two duffel bags.
“Figured you’d need these,” he called, mounting the porch steps with a slight wince. “Got into your place before anyone noticed. Grabbed what I could for you and the girl.”
I took one of the bags from him. “You shouldn’t have risked it.”
“Already risked plenty.” He handed me the second bag. “This one’s Sophia’s. Got her Mr. Hoppy, too. Found him on her bed.”
I unzipped the bag enough to see the worn stuffed rabbit, and my heart cracked open. “Thank you.”
Dutch grunted and moved past me into the cabin. I followed, watching as he headed straight for the coffee pot.
“How bad is it out there?” I asked.
“Bad.” He poured coffee with his good hand, the other arm held close to his body. “Maybe worse than bad. But it’s not everyone.”
Trent emerged from the back bedroom, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing the same black t-shirt from yesterday. His eyes sharpened the moment he saw Dutch. “You found others?”
“Found some.” Dutch took a long drink of coffee, downing half of it in one breath, then grimaced.
“Jeb Harper’s got his own spring water. Never trusted the town supply.
He’s fine. Tom and Lindsay Kline—those preppers who moved here last year—they filter everything through some complicated setup. They’re clear-headed.”
“How many total?” Trent moved to the table, his tactical mind already processing.
“Hard to say for certain. Maybe fifty, sixty people scattered around the county. Most of the folks who live outside town proper, the ones with wells or springs.” Dutch set down his mug.
“But the ones who are affected? They’re organizing.
Saw them moving through town in groups. All wearing the same damn thing.
Blue shirts, khaki pants. Walking in formation like soldiers. ”
My stomach dropped. “Formation?”
“Marching,” Dutch clarified. “Not walking. Marching. In perfect lines.” He looked at me. “They went to your house, Evie. Searched it. Systematically. One person per room, moving through like they were following orders.”
I thought of our little rental, the few possessions we’d accumulated over six months. The photos I’d tucked into a drawer. Sophia’s drawings on the refrigerator. “Did they take anything?”
“Not that I could tell. Just searched. Like they were looking for something specific.” Dutch’s jaw tightened. “Or someone.”
Trent’s hand found the small of my back. “You got out clean?”
“Yeah. But it won’t be long before they realize Evie and Sophia aren’t in town. When that happens—“ Dutch didn’t finish the thought.
The back bedroom door opened, and Sophia appeared, still in yesterday’s clothes, rubbing her eyes. She stopped when she saw the duffel bags, then her whole face lit up. “Mr. Hoppy!”
I knelt down and unzipped the bag, pulling out the stuffed rabbit. Sophia grabbed it and hugged it to her chest, squeezing so tight her knuckles went white.
“Dutch brought us some clothes,” I told her. “And Mr. Hoppy. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
Sophia looked up at Dutch with solemn eyes. “Thank you.”
The gruff old man’s expression melted like butter. “You’re welcome, little one.”
Trent was already moving, checking the perimeter monitors Dutch had set up. “How long until they figure out we’re here?”
Dutch refilled his coffee. “They’re organized, but they’re not thinking creatively yet. They’ll check the obvious places first. Store, school, motel. But eventually—“
“They’ll expand the search grid,” Trent finished. He turned to me. “Get Sophia changed and fed. My team’s ETA is—“
The monitors blinked. Motion sensors.
We all froze.
Dutch moved to the window, one hand reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall. Trent was already at the monitors, his whole body coiled tight.
“Multiple vehicles,” he said quietly. “Coming up the access road.”
My heart kicked into my throat. I grabbed Sophia and pulled her close.
“How many?” Dutch asked.
Trent studied the screens. “Three SUVs. One truck. Moving fast but not aggressive.” His shoulders relaxed. “That’s them. That’s my team.”
Relief and terror hit me in equal measure.
The storm had arrived.
And we were standing directly in its path.
I’d barely gotten Sophia into clean clothes when the vehicles pulled up outside. Through the window, I watched as doors opened in synchrony, disgorging what looked like a small army.
These were Trent’s people. His family.
I settled Sophia at the table with a bowl of her favorite cereal—another thing Dutch had grabbed from our house—then headed outside with Trent to meet them.
His hand settled against the small of my back as we descended the porch steps. The touch was protective and reassuring, but it did little to calm my flutter of nerves.
The man who reached us first had blue eyes that took in everything and gave away nothing.
He extended his hand with a grip that was firm without being aggressive.
Up close, I could see the network of fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from squinting against desert sun or making hard decisions or both.
“Evelyn,” Trent said, his voice taking on a formal quality I hadn’t heard before. “This is Ethan Voss. He leads Edge Ops.”
“Call me Grim,” the man said, his voice deeper than I’d expected. “Everyone does.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring,” I replied before I could stop myself.
A flicker of something crossed his face. Maybe amusement. “It’s better than the full version.” He turned to Trent. “Sit-rep?”
“Inside,” Trent replied with a slight nod toward the cabin. “Dutch has maps of all the key locations.”
“So you’re the one who got our brooding brick wall to actually use his phone,” came a cheerful Irish accent.
The man grinned at me as he strode toward us.
He had windswept dark brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners.
He extended his hand with a flourish. “Nolan Riley. Team pilot. The handsome one.”
“Ignore him,” Trent said dryly. “Everyone else does.”
Nolan clutched his chest in mock offense.
“You wound me, Bricks. And after I flew all night to save your sorry arse.” His eyes found mine again, his smile softening.
“But seriously, it’s good to meet you, Evelyn.
We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you because this one communicates primarily in grunts and tactical hand signals. ”
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. There was something infectious about Nolan’s irreverence, a deliberate lightness that felt like a counterbalance to the danger surrounding us.
“Don’t let his charm fool you,” came another voice as a tall, broad-shouldered man approached. “Nolan crashes more helicopters than anyone in the business.” His amber-brown eyes assessed me with open curiosity. “Flynn Shepherd. Extraction specialist.”
“He means professional kidnapper,” Nolan stage-whispered.
Flynn rolled his eyes. “I prefer ‘strategic removal expert.’”
Trent grumbled something under his breath as they started to bicker and guided me away from them, toward a woman unloading gear from one of the SUVs.
Her platinum blonde hair caught the morning light, cut in a sharp bob that framed striking features.
She moved like a dancer, all flowing grace.
When she looked up, her green eyes assessed me with a cool intelligence that felt almost like a physical scan.
“Lyric Renard,” Trent said. “Undercover operative. Best I’ve ever worked with.”
She extended her hand, her grip firm and confident. “Evelyn. Good to finally put a face to the intel.” She scanned my clothes, and one manicured eyebrow lifted into a perfect arch. I hadn’t had a chance to change into my own clothes yet and still wore Trent’s. “Nice shirt.”
My cheeks flamed, but before I could respond, a Latino man with carefully styled dark hair approached, carrying what looked like high-end communications equipment.
“Leo Santiago,” Trent introduced. “Intelligence and interrogation.”
“Just intelligence today,” Leo corrected with a smile that seemed practiced to put people at ease. “The woman who got to Bricks. I was starting to think you were mythical.”
Trent shot him a look that would have wilted most people. Leo just grinned wider.
“And this,” Trent said, moving us toward a man carefully unpacking some kind of specialized equipment from a hard-shell case, “is Rafe Castellanos. Demolitions.”
Unlike the others, Rafe didn’t immediately offer his hand. Instead, he finished securing whatever delicate component he was handling before acknowledging us with a slight nod.
“Ms. Phillips.” His voice was quiet but carried a natural authority. “Your daughter is safe?”
The question caught me off guard. Not ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘heard a lot about you,’ but an immediate concern for Sophia. I felt some of my tension ease.
“Yes. She’s inside eating breakfast. Thank you for asking.”
He nodded once, satisfied, then returned to his work. I noticed how everyone gave him a wide berth, respecting both his space and the volatile nature of what he handled.