12. Ellie #3
Killian’s focus sharpens, his eyes pinning me with a sudden, dark intensity. “Damn right we are,” he says. “But it’s going to be bloody, Ellie. You don’t have the stomach for what’s coming.”
“I’m not afraid of bloody,” I tell him, and mean it. “I’ve spent my career looking at the worst humans can do to each other.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Then we get you ready.”
And he does. We work through the day and into the evening.
Extraction routes. Security sequences. Gabriel’s massive hands drilling my fingers through the panel codes until muscle memory replaces thinking.
Killian walks the perimeter with me twice, his voice flat and calm.
Aim center mass. Don’t hesitate. End it before they can touch you.
By the time the light drops, I barely recognise the place.
“You’ve got a security problem.”
The voice is low, lazy, and comes from exactly where there shouldn’t be anyone. I spin, my hand instinctively reaching for the Glock holstered at my hip.
A man is leaning against my kitchen island, tossing a silver Zippo between his hands.
He looks like a high-end nomad, with careless ink-black hair and a silver ring hooked through his bottom lip.
His eyes are a bright, startling blue, and when he moves, the sleeve of his shirt pulls back to show a map of burn scars on his left forearm, partially masked by intricate black-ink tattoos.
He grins, and it’s all teeth and trouble.
“Jesus Christ, Kai,” Gabriel growls, his hand dropping from his own weapon. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what? Entering a building?” Kai pushes off the counter. He moves with a loose confidence that makes Gabriel’s massive frame look stationary. “Your back door sensor has a three-second lag. Slipped through during the gap. Fixed it now. You’re welcome.”
“Kai,” Killian says, stepping into the room. “Apparently breaking and entering needs to be added to his resume.”
“I prefer ‘tactical entry,’” Kai corrects, his eyes scanning me with a boldness that bordered on insulting. “Doc, heard you’ve got yourself into a situation. Don’t worry, I brought enough hardware to start a small war and enough medical supplies to patch up whatever’s left.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I reply, holding his gaze. “You’re the demolition expert?”
“Among other things,” he winks, his smile widening. “Field medic too. So try not to get shot somewhere... inconvenient.”
“I’ll do my best,” I laugh dryly.
Kai’s arrival completes the team, and they gather around the dining table. I join them, determined to be part of the conversation.
Kai chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Almost forgot. Got a little something special in my ride.”
He gestures toward the window where his black SUV sits in the driveway. “Packed enough firepower to start a small fucking war. Everything from long-range to up-close-and-personal nasty shit. Military-grade explosives too, all custom-modified. Even brought my field surgery kit.”
“Smuggled it all in under a false floor. Highway patrol didn’t suspect a thing when he pulled me over for ‘testing the speed limits’.” His lip ring catches the light. “Always come prepared, Doc. That’s the only rule that matters.”
These men discuss violence with the same ease I talk about therapy techniques. I decide not to think too hard about what that says about me.
I watch four dangerous men spread papers across my dining table. The same table where I used to write patient notes and drink my morning coffee. Now it’s covered in blueprints of my home, red marks showing where they’ll position themselves, where they expect the attack to come from.
“These Cell 7 guys follow a pattern,” Jackson says. “Send two scouts first, then hit hard with the main group. They’ll kill your power, your phone lines, everything.”
“You’re the primary target,” Gabriel tells me. “Your father’s research is secondary.”
Six weeks ago, I had a home. Now I have a kill zone. I watch them leaning over the blueprints. Something crawls up my throat that I know too well from sitting across from patients. The difference is I’m the one on the table now.
“What do you need from me?” I ask.
“We need layers,” Killian says, marking positions on a property map. “Gabe handles the perimeter. Jackson runs surveillance and comms. Kai sets up internal defenses and preps medical.”
“And you?” I ask, noting he hasn’t assigned himself a position.
“I stick with you,” he says simply. “Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be.”
I believe him. That’s the part I don’t know how to explain.
As the afternoon wears on, the plan takes shape. Defensive positions are established, escape routes confirmed, and contingencies mapped out. I contribute where I can, offering insights about the property that only I would know.