6. Logan
LOGAN
M y boots make no sound on the wooden floor as I move through each area, methodically reinforcing locks, checking window latches, and scanning sight lines from every possible angle.
The woman sleeps on my bed, curled into herself like someone who's learned to take up as little space as possible. Like someone who expects to run at any moment.
I know that posture. I've lived it. It’s a reflex I can’t shake, no matter how many walls I’ve built around myself.
The burner phone sits dismantled on my workbench, battery removed and SIM card stored separately inside a Faraday pouch designed to block all signals.
Old habits from my SEAL days. Never assume technology is on your side.
My rifle leans against the wall within arm's reach as I brew coffee, strong and black. My mind catalogs threats and contingencies with the quiet precision of muscle memory:
Cabin perimeter: clear.
Road access: one entry point, easily monitored.
Nearest neighbor: three miles east.
Armed response time from The Forge: seven minutes.
Through the kitchen window, I watch dawn crawl across the pines.
The woods look peaceful, pristine. Untouched.
But I know better. Someone tracked her here. Someone with tactical training and specialized equipment. The kind of someone who doesn't show up in small-town Montana without a reason.
A reason currently passed out on my bed.
I find her silhouetted in my bedroom doorway, chestnut hair falling loose around her shoulders, still damp from the shower.
She's changed into the spare clothes I left out—my old flannel drowning her frame, sleeves rolled three times at the wrists.
The thermal base layer peeks through at her neck, and she's cinched the borrowed tactical pants with what looks like a shoelace fashioned into a belt.
There’s something about seeing her in my clothes that stirs a possessive instinct I didn’t realize I had.
"Coffee?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
She hesitates, then nods once. I pour a second mug and slide it across the counter without stepping into her space.
Our fingers almost touch as she takes it, and the brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through me.
She brings it to her lips without looking away from me.
Watching her, I can’t help but notice the way the steam curls around her face, accentuating her features in the morning light.
"The flannel's on the chair," I say, nodding toward the shirt I left out for her. "Bathroom's stocked with whatever you might need."
She glances at the shirt, then back at me.
Measuring.
Calculating.
She doesn't say thank you, but she doesn't need to. The fact that she's still here, that she didn't try to bolt in the night, tells me more than words could.
I nod toward the chair again. “Base layers and wool socks are under the flannel. Pants might be a little big, but they’ll hold heat.” Her gaze flicks down, catching the neat stack I laid out hours ago.
“There’s a jacket by the door. Beanie and gloves too.” I pause. “Wind cuts harder than it looks.”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers curl tighter around the mug. Eyes sharper now.
Awake.
Alert.
The kind of alert that comes from living too long on the edge of something.
"I need to be at The Forge by nine," I say, keeping my tone flat and informative. Not a request. Not a suggestion. "We'll leave at eight-thirty."
Her spine straightens slightly. "We?"
"I'm not leaving you here unguarded."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No," I agree, "but you do need someone watching your six when there's a sniper in my woods."
She bristles at that, shoulders tightening like I've touched a nerve.
But she doesn't argue further. Instead, she takes the winter gear and brushes past me toward the bathroom, coffee still in hand.
I watch her go, noting the careful way she moves—keeping her back to the wall, eyes scanning for exits.
She's not military. Not the way my team is. But she's something adjacent to it. Something equally dangerous.
She steps out of the bathroom layered in the flannel and base gear I left—thermal shirt beneath, wool socks pulled high over borrowed pants she’s cinched at the waist with something improvised. The boots are laced tight.
Efficient.
Like she’s done this before.
Her hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, damp at the temples, face scrubbed clean but still sharp. The flannel hangs loose on her frame, sleeves rolled with precision.
She looks less haunted this morning.
More focused.
Like she's compartmentalized whatever sent her running through these woods and locked it behind a door in her mind.
I know that technique too.
"It's Sloane," she says suddenly, voice quieter than yesterday.
Like she's offering a peace treaty, but only the smallest corner of it.
I nod once, accepting the offering without comment. "Logan," I respond simply.
No handshake.
Just acknowledgment between two people who've seen enough to know that names are sometimes all you can afford to give.
I hand her a thick wool coat from the hook by the door. "Temperature's dropping. Snow front coming in."
She takes it without protest, which tells me just how cold she must have been yesterday.
As she slips it on, I notice the careful way she checks the pockets—not for warmth, but for anything I might have planted there.
Smart.
Paranoid, but smart.
"The Forge," she says, testing the words as she follows me out to my truck. "What is it?"
"Security consulting. Training facility. Safe haven." I open the passenger door for her, more out of habit than chivalry. "Depends who's asking."
She climbs in, eyes narrowed slightly at the vague answer. "And if I'm asking?"
"Then it's where we're going, and that's all you need to know for now."
I close her door before she can push for more, circling around to the driver's side with measured steps.
My boots crunch in the fresh powder, laying tracks that I mentally note will need to be covered when we return. No sense leaving easy trails for whoever might be watching.
The truck roars to life, heat blasting through vents that haven't been cleaned since I bought the thing six years ago. We pull onto the snow-packed road in silence, trees closing in around us.
Through the corner of my eyes, I watch her.
Not obviously, but with the peripheral awareness I've honed over years of missions where looking directly at your target meant giving yourself away.
She's doing the same thing—memorizing the route, logging landmarks, noting each fork in the road and how long it takes to navigate between them.
Tracking exits. Always tracking exits.
"Why Iron Hollow?" she asks suddenly, breaking the silence as we pass the weathered wooden sign marking the town limits.
I consider my answer carefully. "It's quiet."
"Nowhere's that quiet without a reason."
A smile almost tugs at my mouth. Almost. "You're right about that."
She waits for me to elaborate. I don't.
I can’t help but glance at her, noticing the way the morning light catches the different shades in her chestnut hair.
The Forge appears ahead, nestled against the tree line like it grew there—three connected buildings of weathered stone, steel, and reinforced glass, arranged around a central courtyard. The massive forged-iron sign over the gate reads simply:
THE FORGE Come broken. Leave forged.
I pull into the gravel lot and cut the engine. "Stay close," I instruct, not looking at her as I exit the cab. "Don't wander."
"I'm not a child," she mutters, sliding out her side.
"No," I agree, "you're a target. Different problem. Same solution."
I lead her through the main entrance, tension coiling between my shoulder blades as we cross the threshold.
The Forge is more than a building to me. More than a business. It's sanctuary. Brotherhood. Redemption. And I'm bringing an unknown quantity straight into its heart.
Knox Walker spots us first.
He's by the map wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical precision that's made him our overwatch specialist. His dark eyes flick from me to Sloane, then back to me.
This man knows exactly how many steps it takes to reach any exit. How many breaths between a threat and a trigger pull.
Every movement calculated, controlled.
I know that look in his eyes. The silent question. The warning. We don't bring strangers here. I give him a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of my head—a silent command to stand down.
Knox won't challenge me. He'll watch. Wait. Gather intel like the ghost he's trained to be. And if Sloane proves to be a threat, he'll have a solution before any of us see it coming.
That's why he's our shadow. Our failsafe. The one who sees what others miss.
Caleb Maddox emerges from the tactical gym, towel slung around his neck, dimpled grin already in place. He's my demolitions expert. He's the heart that keeps this place from drowning in shadows.
The guy who'll crack a joke while diffusing a bomb, then teach self-defense to local teens with the same boundless energy.
Some days I envy his ability to keep things light. Some nights I glimpse what that constant performance costs him. The fatigue that seeps through. The nightmares he can't outrun. Those rare moments when the facade cracks.
"Boss! You're back!" His gaze shifts to Sloane, curiosity sparking beneath his usual charm. "Who's the guest?"
I catch the subtle shift in his stance—the way he positions himself to appear harmless while actually placing himself between her and the nearest exit. Always watching. Always assessing. Just like I trained him.
Before I can answer, he’s already extending his hand to Sloane with that easy smile that has disarmed half the women in three counties. “Caleb Maddox,” he introduces himself.
Sloane shakes his hand briefly, her posture guarded but not hostile. "Sloane Carter."
And hearing the commotion, Elias Rios approaches.
His movements are calm, measured. Always the peacemaker.
Everyone calls him Eli—except when they're calling him Mom.
He mothers the whole damn team, though he'd never admit it.
Even now, I catch the way his eyes scan Sloane for signs of injury or distress—old habits from too many years of combat medicine.
"Nice to meet you, Sloane," Eli greets with a nod, his movements measured and calm like always. "What brings you to Iron Hollow?"
Before she can answer, I step in, asserting my control over the conversation. “Sloane's a contact from out of town, helping me on a personal project. It's temporary.”
Eli nods, his expression unreadable but intrigued. “Interesting. Hope it works out for both of you.”
"I was thinking of giving the grand tour to our potential client," Caleb continues, looking to me with a raised eyebrow. "Want me to show Sloane around while you handle the boss stuff, Logan?"
It's a good solution. Keeps her visible and occupied while I deal with whatever fallout her arrival has already triggered.
And Caleb, for all his flirtation and bad puns, is observant. He'll notice if she asks the wrong questions.
"Fine," I agree. "Main buildings only. Stay in sight of the cameras."
Sloane shoots me a look that could strip paint. "I don't need a handler."
"Think of it as a guide," Caleb interjects smoothly. "The coffee machine alone requires a PhD to operate."
Her mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close.
She nods once, then follows Caleb toward the Main Hall, her gaze sweeping the room in that way of hers—cataloging, assessing, storing details for later examination.
As soon as they're out of earshot, Knox steps in.
"You bringing strays into town now?" His voice is low, laced with the quiet distrust that's kept him alive through worse situations than this.
"She's not a stray," I reply evenly.
"But she is hiding something," Knox mutters, eyes tracking Sloane's retreating form. "I can smell it on her."
I shut that down with a look.
One that reminds him who built this place. Who calls the shots.
Knox doesn't argue—but he doesn't drop it either. The tension remains in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers rest a little too close to his sidearm.
Eli interjects, his voice, concerned.
"You trust her?"
"No," I admit. "But I know what she's not."
Eli nods, understanding what I'm not saying. Sloane's not military. Not an agent. Not someone sent to drag us back into the shadows we escaped.
She's running from something, not chasing us.
The Forge is a fortress.
Built on trust.
Discipline.
Safety.
I've spent years protecting that. Created this place out of guilt, out of fire, out of blood.
And now there's a woman inside it with secrets leaking from her pores—and every instinct tells me to get her out.
But I can't.
Because something deeper pulls at me.
The way she looked in the scope of a sniper rifle. The way she wouldn't flinch even when she should've begged. The way she hides behind sharp words and steady hands—just like I do.
And I'm not ready to admit what that says about me .
I move through the morning meetings with half my attention, one eye always tracking Sloane through Asa Vale's camera feeds.
He's our ghost in the machine, the man who sees everything but rarely leaves his tech nest. Five years of working together, and I still catch him watching me through his screens, cataloging patterns, reading tells that even I don't know I have.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows more about my habits than I do. Probably. That's why I trust him with the compound's security.
Asa doesn't miss details—and he never lets emotion cloud his data. In our line of work, that kind of precision keeps people alive.
Sloane follows Caleb through each section of the compound, asking questions I can't hear but can imagine. Her stance gradually relaxes, though her eyes never stop moving.
After lunch, I find them in the tactical gym. Caleb is demonstrating something with exaggerated flair, gesturing with those broad hands of his like he's painting the air. And Sloane?—
She laughs.
It catches me off guard.
The sound is brief, rusty, like something long disused.
But it transforms her face, softening the hard edges, illuminating something I hadn't seen before.
She looks younger.
Less haunted.
Almost beautiful in the weak winter light streaming through the high windows.
Something sharp and unwanted digs into my chest as I watch.
Something dangerously close to...
I know that laugh. I know what it costs when you've been running too long. I know how quickly it can disappear.
But for a few moments, I find myself wanting to preserve it.