7. Frost
SEVEN
Frost
WYATT
The heavy crunch of thick off-road tires on the gravel access road echoes violently through the freezing cabin. It's the sound of reality crashing back down on us. The isolation is officially over.
I stand by the frosted glass of the single window, my massive .338 Lapua slung tightly across my back. I've been awake for forty-five minutes. Watching the dark tree line.
Waiting for the inevitable arrival of my brother.
The pale gray light of the mountain dawn cuts across the floorboards, illuminating the wreckage of the small room.
It looks exactly like what it is: the aftermath of a violent collision.
My black tactical gear is scattered in a chaotic trail across the wood. The heavy wooden table we used to crack the syndicate network is pushed entirely out of alignment, the chairs kicked aside.
The air still smells faintly of woodsmoke, gun oil, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of sex.
Addy sits up in the narrow bed against the far wall, the rough wool blanket clutched tightly to her bare chest. Her dark hair is a wild, messy tangle falling over her pale shoulders.
Her eyes are wide, the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of the long night warring violently with the sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
She looks at me, searching my face for the man who held her in the dark. But he's gone. The ghost is back.
"Shower." My voice drops into a harsh, commanding rasp that offers zero comfort. "Change your clothes. Pack your gear."
"Wyatt—"
"I'll keep them outside."
I don't wait for her to argue. I can't afford the distraction. I turn my back on the narrow bed—the only genuine warmth I've felt in four brutal years—pull the heavy timber door open, and step out onto the wooden porch.
The freezing mountain air hits me, instantly cooling the heat still lingering in my blood.
Two matte-black, heavy-duty armored trucks sit idling in the snowy clearing. The heavy doors open simultaneously. Four men step out into the freezing dirt, moving with the terrifying, lethality of a highly trained assault team.
They don't speak. They don't hesitate. They fan out immediately, securing the perimeter of the cabin in absolute silence. Their weapons are drawn, their eyes scanning the tree line for threats.
Flint. Hawk. Kade. Riot.
Guardian HRS didn't just send an extraction detail. They sent the entire kinetic strike team.
The heavy, armored driver's side door of the lead truck opens.
Frost steps out.
He's exactly my height, built with the same heavy, brutal muscle mass and the same dark, unforgiving eyes. Only eighteen months separate us. We're so fiercely alike that we could easily pass for twins. We're a violent physical mirror of each other, forged in the same fire and share the same blood.
But the paths we've taken couldn't be more diametrically opposed. Frost is a hero. He's the iron-clad commander of the most elite private extraction team in the world. I'm a cold-blooded killer. A ghost who spent the last four years operating in the darkest, most corrupt corners of the globe.
He wears dark tactical gear, a heavy canvas jacket, and the cold, impenetrable expression of a man who commands absolute authority.
He looks up at the porch. The sheer, freezing weight of his stare could stop a heart.
"Reaper."
"Frost."
The call signs hit the frigid mountain air like thrown knives. He doesn't use my given name. He hasn't called me Wyatt since the day he exiled me. He uses the call sign to enforce the boundary. I'm not his little brother anymore. I'm a rogue variable. A potential threat to his operation.
He steps forward, his combat boots crunching on the frozen gravel as he moves toward the porch. His objective is Addy. He intends to secure the Treasury auditor, and leave as quickly as possible, minimizing his exposure to me.
I step perfectly into the center of the doorway.
I don't reach for the heavy sidearm strapped to my thigh. I don't break my relaxed, lethal stance. I simply plant my boots on the wood and turn my massive frame into an immovable physical barricade.
Frost stops at the bottom of the stairs. His dark eyes narrow, dropping to analyze my stance before slowly rising to meet my gaze. The rest of his teammates instantly go perfectly still. The tension in the clearing violently spikes, growing thick enough to choke on.
"She's showering." My voice is dead flat. "She'll come out when she's done."
Frost stares at me. He reads the feral protectiveness radiating off my body. He knows I'm prepared to fight his entire team to keep them out of that cabin until she's ready.
"Establishing a perimeter for a Treasury auditor." Frost's voice is a low, dangerous rumble that echoes across the clearing. "You're out of bounds, Reaper. Stand down."
"She's my responsibility."
"That I'm here to relieve, unless you suddenly don't need my team." Frost's jaw tightens. He holds my stare for a long, agonizing second, calculating the cost of forcing his way past me.
He doesn't push the breach. He crosses his arms over his heavy chest, planting his boots in the dirt.
We wait.
Ten minutes later, the heavy timber door creaks open behind me.
I step aside.
Addy walks out onto the wooden porch, stepping directly into the freezing Wyoming air. She is freshly showered and dressed in thick, dark denim and a heavy gray fleece jacket.
Her dark hair is still wet, pulled back violently tight into a sharp, professional braid that exposes the delicate curve of her neck. She carries her heavy canvas go-bag slung over one shoulder, and the reinforced, ruggedized laptop case gripped tightly in her opposite hand.
She doesn't look like a terrified Treasury auditor hiding from a syndicate hit squad. She looks like a highly calibrated weapon walking onto a battlefield.
Frost immediately shifts his entire focus away from me. The cold, impenetrable professionalism drops back over him like a heavy tactical shroud. He is the commander again.
"Adelaide Hart." Frost takes a single step toward the stairs of the porch. "I'm Frost. Guardian HRS. This is my team."
He gestures to the four heavily armed men holding the perimeter of the cabin. "Call signs are Flint, Hawk, Kade, and Riot. Given names are Elias, Jackson, Marcus, and Dominic. You're safe now. We're going to escort you to a secure location."
Addy doesn't flinch at the overwhelming display of physical force.
She doesn't thank him for the rescue. She walks straight down the wooden stairs, moving right past me and stepping directly to the hood of the lead armored truck.
She sets the heavy laptop case down on the cold metal and unzips it with a sharp yank.
She pulls out the ruggedized laptop, my physical hit ledger, and her encrypted hardshell drive, laying them out side-by-side on the hood.
"My safety isn't the primary objective." Addy looks up at him, her dark eyes completely flat, her voice a low, raspy hum that cuts straight through the freezing mountain air. "Dismantling the syndicate network is."
Frost approaches the hood of the truck. He looks down at the chaotic spread of data.
He sees the decrypted offshore shell company profiles. He sees my handwritten physical ledger laid out directly next to her hard drive, matching the encrypted crypto transfers. He sees the hours of grueling, work that shattered the syndicate's firewall.
His dark eyes scan the screen before locking onto the final principal target.
Ares Global Logistics.
Frost goes completely still. A physical shockwave ripples through his strike team.
Flint shifts his weight, his hand dropping closer to his sidearm.
Ares Global is a ghost—a massive, heavily armed, and entirely untouchable private military contractor that Guardian HRS has been trying to corner and dismantle for years.
Frost slowly looks up from the laptop. He looks at Addy. Then, he looks at me.
The cold, impenetrable mask he wears for his men cracks, replaced by a raw flash of stunned, absolute approval. He realizes exactly what happened. We did it. We broke the uncrackable dark-money network using a ruggedized laptop in the middle of a freezing mountain cabin.
"You found the principal." The words are heavy with absolute disbelief.
"We found the principal." Addy's gaze is completely unwavering, anchoring the victory directly to both of us. "And I have the override codes to freeze every single one of their offshore assets. But we need to hit their primary server hub to execute it."
Frost stares at her for a long, calculating second. He snaps the laptop closed.
He looks back at the heavy timber door of the cabin, then back to the data resting on his truck. "How did you find this?"
"Your brother and I were working the same operation from different directions." Addy doesn't hesitate. "I noticed the overlap last night. We pooled our intel, worked through the night, and cracked the firewall."
"What operation?" Frost slowly turns to me. The heavy, impenetrable wall that has separated us for four years visibly shifts.
I don't answer. I just stare at him. The pride of a Harrison doesn't break easily. I'm fully prepared to let him believe exactly what he's believed for four years. I won't beg for my honor back.
"He's been tracking the man who hired him to execute a federal witness." Addy answers for me, stepping forward and fiercely defending the ground I refuse to take. "He spent four years trying to dismantle the network that forced him to kill an innocent man."
The words hit the frigid morning air like a violent detonation.
Frost goes completely still.
He stares at me. The silence of the mountain presses in on us.
Four years of bitter exile. Four years of bad blood and silence.
The shattering realization that his younger brother isn't the morally bankrupt monster he believed him to be hits him squarely in the chest. It all hangs in the freezing air between us, heavy and unresolved.
"Get your gear." Frost's voice is rough, completely stripped of its cold, professional detachment. "We could use the extra hand."
A violent, electric rush of adrenaline hits my blood. It is an olive branch. An invitation back into the fold.
But I don't go for him. I go because Addy is leaving with them, and there's no way in hell I'm staying behind.
I turn and grab my drag bag from the wooden porch. I walk past Frost's team without a word, the heavy weight of the .338 Lapua settling comfortably against my spine. I move directly to the rear passenger door of the lead armored truck, pulling it open and stepping back.
Addy walks past the heavily armed Guardian operators. Her head is held high, her spine straight as she climbs into the dark leather interior.
I don't look at Frost. I don't look at Flint, Hawk, Kade, or Riot. Opening the door for her is a physical, undeniable line drawn in the dirt for the entire strike team to see.
She belongs with me. She is under my protection.
I slide into the tight cab beside her, pulling the heavy armored door shut behind us with a solid, metallic thud that seals us inside the fortress.
The rest of the team piles into the two vehicles.
The heavy diesel engine of the lead truck revs, vibrating violently through the reinforced chassis.
In the dark of the cab, completely hidden from the sharp eyes of the other operators, Addy's hand slowly slides across the cold leather seat. Her fingers find mine, threading tightly through them.
Her grip is resolute, heavy, and deeply anchoring. It is a silent vow. We are in this together.
She doesn't let go as the truck shifts into gear, tearing away from the isolated mountain cabin.
I hold on. I wrap my scarred hand around hers, feeling the steady pulse at her wrist.
I'm no longer a rogue variable operating alone in the dark.
I have her.
And we're going to war.