Chapter 5
Aweek later, I push open the door to the breakfast room, located off the primary dining room, which has been converted into a workspace.
The familiar scent of coffee and the buzz of electronics hit me before anything else.
My side twinges as I step inside, despite the wound being almost two weeks old at this point.
I might have done some additional damage when I yanked out the stitches before I was healed more, but what’s done is done.
Micah hunches over his command center in the corner, three monitors displaying scrolling code, a custom mechanical keyboard clacking beneath his flying fingers, and a tangle of external drives blinking with activity.
Across the table, Milo sits surrounded by tablets and paper maps, his red hair catching the light from the screens as he takes notes.
“If I override this system first,” Micah says, not looking up as his fingers continue their dance across the keyboard, “the secondary firewall drops for twelve seconds before the backup kicks in. That’s your window.”
Milo corrects his timeline. “Twelve seconds is tight. We’d need someone who can move fast.”
“I can move fast,” I say, letting the door swing shut behind me.
Both Omegas raise their heads, and Micah brightens with welcome, while Milo assesses the way my hand rests against my side.
“Jade,” Micah says, gesturing me closer. “Perfect timing. We’re mapping the digital and physical entry points for the warehouse raid.”
I cross to the large table dominating the center of the room. Three monitors glow with blueprints and security schematics, casting blue-white light across stacks of paper and abandoned coffee mugs. A tablet displays what appears to be a guard rotation schedule.
“Which warehouse?” I ask, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. The movement tugs at my wound, and I hide the wince.
“It’s one of Tony’s remaining holdings.” Milo slides a paper toward me. “It’s supposed to be abandoned, but our surveillance shows activity three times this week. We think it’s a meeting point for the remnants of his operation.”
I study the blueprint, already noting the weak points in the security layout. “Southeast corner has a blind spot.” I tap the area. “Camera coverage overlaps there. Create a distraction on the northeast side, and I can slip in through this service entrance.”
“That matches what I found in their system.” Micah turns his monitor to show me a camera feed schematic. “There’s a four-second lag between feeds here.” He points to the area I identified. “Time it right, and you’re invisible.”
I lean forward, my focus sharpening. For a moment, the constant background noise in my head goes quiet. This is familiar. This is what I’m good at.
“When do we move?” I ask.
“Once you’re cleared,” Milo says, careful but firm. “When the team is ready.”
The invisible collar tightens around my throat.
“I’m cleared now,” I inform him. “Wound is all healed up.”
Micah and Milo exchange a look I could interpret in my sleep.
“We’re still gathering intel on the current guard rotations,” Milo deflects, returning to his timeline.
Before I can argue, the door swings open again, and Phoenix shuffles in.
The scars on his arms catch the light as he offers a tentative smile.
Oliver, his older brother, follows behind.
While taller than Phoenix, the two Omegas share an uncanny resemblance with their big brown eyes and olive-hued skin.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Phoenix says softly. “But if you want to take a break, we’re heading up to visit with Leo now.”
Micah straightens. “Is everything okay?”
“More than okay.” Oliver’s plane face lights, becoming almost pretty. “The baby gained half a pound this week. Doctor says he’s thriving.”
“And Leo?” Micah asks, closing his laptop.
“Happy,” Phoenix laughs. “But exhausted. His dark circles have dark circles.”
“We’re bringing food and offering to take care of the little one so Leo can sleep,” Oliver says. “You’re all welcome to join.”
Micah’s entire demeanor changes as he bounces out of his seat. “I’d love to! I’ve been working on a custom mobile that projects little stars on the ceiling.”
Oliver turns to Milo and me. “What about you two?”
Milo shakes his head, his fingers twisting the silver band on his ring finger, the one Liam had given him months ago when they’d started trying for a baby, so far with no success. “I need to finish these timelines. But send them my regards.”
Everyone turns to me, and I force a tight smile. “I’m not good with babies.”
Phoenix’s expression flickers with understanding or commiseration. I don’t want either.
“You can come next time,” Oliver offers, not pushing the issue. “We should head out. Mrs. Bustley will have the food cart ready soon.”
As they prepare to leave with Micah in tow, gathering bags and shutting down equipment, Milo moves closer to me.
He studies me with the same intensity I’ve seen him use on difficult problems. “You need a distraction?”
I shrug, then regret it when my side twinges.
“Shooting range,” he murmurs so only I can hear. “Caleb’s down there running drills. It’s not a mission, but at least you’ll have a weapon in your hands.”
The suggestion hits like a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart. My fingers twitch, yearning for a gun and the control it represents.
I push to my feet with renewed energy. “Lead the way.”
As we exit the workspace, I catch Phoenix watching me. He’s been where I am. We met while in cages next to each other. We both escaped, but the difference is that he had someone willing to claim him through the worst of it.
I follow Milo down to the basement, our footsteps echoing on the concrete stairs. The air grows cooler as we descend, carrying the mingled scents of chlorine and antiseptic from the underground medical facility.
“How are things going with Aaiden?” Milo asks, his voice neutral.
The Alpha has been avoiding me since the almost-moment in his study, the coward.
I grind my teeth in frustration. “Non-existent. He treats me as if I’m made of glass.”
“He’s not as unaffected as you think,” Milo says, giving me a sideways glance. “I’ve seen how he watches you when you’re not looking.”
Hope flutters behind my ribs, dangerous and unwelcome. If I keep pushing his buttons, maybe the Alpha will finally crack.
Outside the practice range, Milo pushes a button on the wall. The mechanism clicks, followed by a muffled thump from inside. We wait in silence, my pulse quickening at the prospect of holding a weapon again.
After a few heartbeats, the light above the door switches from red to green, the soft electronic hum signaling it’s safe to enter.
The acrid scent of gunpowder still hangs in the air as we step inside.
Caleb stands in the center lane, feet planted shoulder-width apart, his stance perfect as he inspects the three fresh holes clustered tight in the center mass of the target downrange.
Milo stays by the door while I step forward, drawn to the familiar space like a moth to a flame.
Soundproof panels line the walls, though they couldn’t completely absorb the visceral thump of shots I’d heard through the door moments earlier.
The overhead lights cast everything in harsh clarity, leaving no shadows to hide in.
Caleb ejects the magazine from his weapon and checks the chamber before setting the gun down on the table, barrel pointed downrange, and turns to us.
He scans me from head to toe without a hint of warmth or concern, and my spine straightens on instinct.
“You’ve gotten sloppy,” he states, his hazel eyes lingering on the spot where my wound hides beneath my shirt. “You deserved to be stabbed for losing focus.”
Unlike anything Aiden’s said, Caleb’s harsh criticism settles the restlessness inside me, missing pieces clicking back into place.
This is what I need. Not the kid gloves everyone else uses around me.
I clasp my hands behind my back and stand with my feet shoulder-width apart. “Won’t happen again.”
“Good.” Without ceremony, Caleb reaches to the table beside him, picks up a Glock 19, checks it, then holds it out grip-first.
“Show me,” he says.
The gun drops into my palm as if it belongs there. My fingers curl around the grip, muscle memory taking over as I check the chamber, the magazine, and the sights. The metal cools my skin, solid and real in a way nothing else has felt since my return.
“Lane three,” Caleb directs, already moving to stand behind me. “Twenty rounds, alternating targets.”
I step into position, aware of my body in space in a way I haven’t been for weeks. My side throbs with a dull ache, but I push it aside to focusing on my stance, grip, and breathing.
The first shot goes wide.
“You’re compensating for the wound,” Caleb says. “Stop leaning away from the pain and fix your stance.”
I adjust, planting my feet and squaring my shoulders. The second shot lands better, clipping the edge of the target’s center mass.
“Again,” Caleb barks. “Tighter grip. You’re anticipating the recoil.”
I fire again. And again, each shot is accompanied by Caleb’s corrections.
“Breathe through the pain.”
“Trigger pressure is too heavy.”
“Focus on the front sight, not the target.”
No coddling, no breaks, no concern for my comfort. With Caleb, it’s down to the pure mechanics of what works and what doesn’t.
After ten rounds, my arms burn and sweat beads on my forehead, but my grouping tightens, shots landing closer to the center with each pull of the trigger.
Milo stands on the sidelines, his arms crossed over his slender chest.
“Better,” Caleb says after my fifteenth shot lands dead center. “Now speed drills. Three targets, two shots each. Go.”
My body responds before my brain processes the command, pivoting from target to target as the rhythm takes over.
Breathe, aim, squeeze, reset.
Breathe, aim, squeeze, reset.
The pain in my side fades to background noise, overwhelmed by the focus required to hit each mark.