2. Necessary Risk #2
I don’t flinch. “You and I both know he didn’t lose that spot because of me.
He had it locked—right up until he went cowboy and almost got a teammate killed.
” Callahan wanted him gone. Hale fought to keep him, and Bishop backed his play.
Mercer didn’t get the boot, but he was bumped off Alpha and reassigned to Bravo.
I glance over. “Remind me again why you signed off on that?”
Bishop shrugs. “Guy’s solid behind a scope. One of the best we’ve got. He just needed an attitude adjustment.”
I know the type. Guys like Mercer don’t admit their mistakes—they double down. Justify them. Blame someone else. And right now? I’m that someone.
Bishop claps a hand on my shoulder, steering me away before things escalate. “Let it go, man,” he says. “He’s been looking for a reason to take a swing, and Callahan doesn’t want blood on his floors.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a fight.”
“Yeah, yeah—save the dick-measuring for after the mission,” Bishop mutters.
I watch Mercer disappear down the corridor—posture stiff, shoulders squared. A problem for another day.
Bishop and I step into the briefing room.
The low murmur of conversation ends as heads turn.
The space feels utilitarian—not quite military, not quite corporate.
A long mahogany conference table takes center stage, surrounded by black leather chairs.
Screens cycle through maps, surveillance feeds, and mission data, their bright LED glow cutting across matte-black walls.
Bravo Team is already here. Not surprising—when Aegis calls a briefing like this, it usually indicates something bigger is happening. Callahan doesn’t waste time on redundancies. If both Alpha and Bravo are in the same room, we’re about to be pulled into something.
Alpha Team is positioned near the end of the table.
Hale leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Ramirez flips a knife between his fingers, calm and casual. Dangerous.
Brooks has a clipboard in front of him, but his eyes are on me—sharp, clinical, always assessing.
Steele doesn’t even look up. He’s working on a portable console, eyes fixed on the mission screens, hands moving with practiced precision.
When Callahan walks in, the room straightens.
Not because he demands it, but because he commands it.
A former Delta Force operator with a record of black-ink missions no one’s allowed to talk about.
The lines at the corners of his eyes don’t mark age.
They mark experience. He’s not past his prime. He is the prime.
He steps to the front of the room, arms folded behind his back. “This one’s bad. We’ve got a kidnapped U.S. national. High-value target. And we’re on a tight clock.”
Steele, already tuned in, taps a command into the tablet. A photo appears on the main screen—a young woman, early twenties, with long dark hair and bright green eyes.
“Isabel Reyes,” Callahan says. “Daughter of Ambassador Daniel Reyes, a high-ranking U.S. diplomat stationed in Colombia. Taken three nights ago outside Medellín. Cartel hit.”
Ramirez lets out a low whistle and snaps his knife shut. “Mierda. They don’t usually take hostages.”
“They do when they think they can get something for themselves,” Steele mutters, already overlaying data onto the screen. A map of Colombia floods into view, with red markers pinning key locations.
Hale leans back, arms crossed. “What the hell was a diplomat’s kid doing in Medellín?”
Callahan doesn’t miss a beat. “She wasn’t there playing tourist. She’s been in-country for the past year, working with a humanitarian aid organization.
Medical relief. Supply logistics. Education.
The real deal. She wasn’t sitting in an embassy office.
She was out in the field, getting her hands dirty. ”
Ramirez shakes his head. “Gotta respect that.”
Brooks exhales, always the pragmatist. “Humanitarian work or not, someone had to know who she was. Cartels don’t just snatch people for fun—not someone with a father like hers. We talking ransom?”
Callahan’s expression hardens. “No. That’s what makes this different. They’re not looking to negotiate. They’re looking to sell her.”
The room falls silent. Trafficking. Once she’s deep enough in cartel hands, she’s gone. No negotiations. No second chances.
“Jesus Christ,” Bishop mutters, shaking his head. “That auction happens—she disappears. Forever.”
Callahan’s jaw tightens. “We move quickly. The auction’s scheduled for forty-eight hours from now. That gives us a firm deadline.”
Brooks leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Extraction plan?”
Callahan taps the map. “Static-line drop, five klicks from the compound. Dense jungle. No air support on the way out—we move on foot to the fallback LZ once the package is secure.”
“Standard Friday night,” Ramirez mutters.
Callahan doesn’t react. “We take two teams. Alpha handles primary extraction. Bravo provides overwatch and support. Priority is to retrieve the girl alive and intact. Secondary objective—eliminate all high-value cartel targets on site. We don’t leave anyone standing.”
Silence stretches until Bishop speaks. “What’s our confidence level with this intel?”
Callahan’s expression shifts—just slightly. “That’s where it gets complicated.”
Steele taps the console, and a new photo appears on the screen—a middle-aged man in a suit. Sharp eyes, with a hint of calculation behind them.
“James Atwood,” Callahan says. “Embassy official. Works directly with Isabel’s father. Our source inside the U.S. embassy in Bogotá.”
His tone makes my teeth grind. “You don’t trust him.”
Callahan meets my gaze. “I trust that he’s giving us information. What I don’t trust is why.”
Steele frowns. “How’d he get the intel?”
“CIA contact inside the embassy,” Callahan says. “One of their field officers passed it up the chain.”
Hale’s brow furrows. “They got this fast.”
Callahan nods. “Too fast.”
Bishop leans in. “You think it’s bullshit?”
Callahan exhales. “I think it could be real. Or I think someone wants us to believe it’s real.”
“So, we could be walking into a trap.” Hale’s voice is flat. Controlled.
Callahan gives a single nod. “But if we hesitate, she ends up in a cage. Drugged, used, passed around until there’s nothing left.”
“Over my dead body,” Mercer cuts in, voice hard as steel. Every head turns toward him. Mine too. And as much as I can’t stand the guy, I can’t argue with the sentiment. Not when a girl’s life is on the line. This is one of those necessary risks. And that’s that. The mission's on.
But before we gear up, I have something I have something to take care of. Steele’s the man for it—Alpha Team’s intel and tech specialist, resident hacker, and all-around pain in the ass. If there’s information to be found, he’s the one who’ll find it. And right now, I need him to work his magic.
He’s exactly where I expect him to be—at the far end of the room, typing on his laptop, face lit up by the screen. He barely glances up as I step beside him, but I know he notices me. Steele doesn’t miss shit.
“Need a favor,” I say.
That grabs his attention. He leans back in his chair and finally looks up, expression unreadable. “That so?”
“I need you to get me a number.”
His eyebrows lift. “And here I thought you were the kind of guy who could pull your own.”
“Not like that, asshole.”
Steele smirks but leans forward again, fingers already moving. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Her name’s Melina Roderick,” I say. “She lives in my neighborhood. I helped her out this morning. She had a flat.”
“Not seeing how that warrants a favor.”
“The tire was slashed,” I say, jaw tightening. “Then I saw a guy parked outside her house—just sitting there. Watching. When I went to confront him, he took off.”
That gets his full attention. “You get a plate?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s have it,” he says.
“Kilo-Sierra-Two-Niner-Eight-Tango. Texas plates.”
Steele enters the info without another word. “This’ll take a little longer, but I should have something when we get back.”
“Good. And the number?” I pause, then add, “She’s got a kid. I don’t like the idea of her going home alone without a heads-up.”
Steele studies me for a moment, then nods. “Give me a few.” That’s all: no prying, no commentary, just a promise. I leave him to it, knowing better than to hover. Steele doesn’t half-ass anything, and I trust him to get it done.
Thirty minutes later, as I finish my gear check, he appears beside me. Doesn’t say anything at first—just hands me a folded slip of paper.
“Here you go, Romeo,” he says.
I take the number from him and exhale, feeling tension I didn’t realize I was carrying ease up just a little.
“Appreciate it,” I tell him.
“Uh-huh.” His smirk widens. “Careful, Mason. Next thing you know, you’ll be picking out china patterns.”
I flip him off and walk away, already pulling out my phone. Now I just have to hope she picks up.