7. Sloane
SLOANE
I 'm not what you'd call a trust-oriented person.
Trust is a luxury I can't afford—not in my line of work, not with my history.
When your father vanishes for telling the truth and your last source ends up dead, you learn to keep everyone at arm's length.
So I'm not sure what I expected from a place called "The Forge," but it wasn't this.
Steel and stone rise before me, glass and pine stretching toward a sky so blue it hurts. The buildings stand like sentinels against the Montana wilderness—utilitarian but striking. Not trying to impress, just... functional.
Every wall seems to hold weight. History. Secrets.
Kind of like the man who brought me here.
Caleb Maddox walks beside me with an easy grin and a spring in his step like this is a campus tour and I'm a new freshman.
Sandy blond hair peeks from beneath a worn ball cap, and his biceps stretch the sleeves of his thermal shirt as he gestures enthusiastically at the grounds.
He doesn't pry about who I am or why I'm here with Logan, which immediately tells me two things: he's been instructed not to ask, and he's trying to get the information anyway.
I know charm when it's being weaponized. Caleb wields his like a grenade—casual, devastating, and with absolutely zero subtlety.
"So," he says, sweeping his arm toward the Main Hall, "this is where the magic happens. Tactical drills, sparring, and the world's worst coffee."
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my expression neutral despite the unexpected humor. "Is that on the brochure?"
"Page one. Right next to the warning label: May cause emotional breakthroughs and minor bruising ."
A snort escapes me before I can catch it, and Caleb's dimples deepen in response.
Careful, Sloane. Remember why you're here. Survive first, investigate second, trust never.
The Main Hall opens before us—high ceilings, exposed beams, warm wood against iron detailing. Not at all what I expected from a security training facility. It feels almost... welcoming. That puts me even more on edge.
"What's with all the local outreach?" I ask, nodding toward a chalkboard schedule listing community classes, women's self-defense sessions, trauma support groups.
I keep my questions sharp. Controlled. I'm not here to make friends—I'm here to survive long enough to finish what I started.
"Because this town matters," Caleb says, his tone shifting slightly—less showman, more substance. "And because some people need protection before they realize they deserve it."
The answer throws me. It's not what I expected from a man who looks like he could bench-press a Buick while telling dirty jokes.
There's something beneath the surface here—something that doesn't match the mercenary aesthetic I assumed this place would embody.
I file it away.
Every piece of information is currency when you're a journalist. Especially when you're one with a target on your back.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, drawing my attention toward the far end of the hall.
Caleb glances toward the open doors of the gym section. "Looks like Rosa's running the afternoon class," he says, a hint of fondness warming his voice. "C'mon. You should see this."
My instinct is to resist—to maintain my distance—but I also need to understand this place. Knowledge is survival. So I follow him toward the sound of steady movement and focused breath.
Inside, a small group of women and teenage girls move through self-defense drills on padded mats—stance, step, strike.
No frills.
Just focused repetition under the keen eye of a woman in her forties with no-nonsense posture, soft crow's feet around dark eyes, and a ponytail pulled through the back of a worn Forge cap.
"That's Rosa Calderón," Caleb explains quietly. "Ex-military, single mom, teaches half our community classes. Don't let the size fool you—she once flipped Knox over her hip during a demo. He sulked for a week."
Beside Rosa, a young girl—maybe twelve, maybe thirteen—tries to mimic her every move. Her punches are small, but her face is fierce with concentration. Something about her intensity makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
"That's Lucia," Caleb murmurs, following my gaze. "Rosa's daughter. First one to clock me in the ribs during a takedown demo."
I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "You let her?"
Caleb winces, hand instinctively touching his side as if reliving the moment. "Define 'let.'"
On the mat, Rosa demonstrates a wrist break technique, her movements precise and fluid. She steps back and nods to Lucia. "Again. Think, then move."
Lucia bites her lip, brow furrowed in concentration, then snaps into motion. Her form wobbles slightly, but she finishes strong. Rosa taps her shoulder once—proud, quiet approval—before turning to spot Caleb lingering at the edge of the mats.
"You skipping your own class now?" Rosa calls out, voice sharp as cracked ice—but there's a smile tugging at her lips that softens the reprimand.
Caleb throws up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm on tour duty, Coach."
"You're on ego recovery duty," she fires back without missing a beat, then glances at me with a warmer nod. "You new?"
I hesitate, uncomfortable under the direct attention. Everyone in this place seems to look at you like they're cataloging weaknesses and strengths in equal measure.
"Just visiting," I reply neutrally.
Rosa studies me—not rudely, just assessing. Like a woman who's seen more than she says. "Well. If you stick around, we've got a spot on the mat. No experience needed. Just a reason."
Lucia pipes up from the corner, eyes bright with mischief as she points at Caleb. "And a mouthguard. He talks a lot when he's losing."
Caleb clutches his chest dramatically. "Ouch, betrayed by my protégée."
"You love it," Rosa says with a knowing look before turning back to me. Her voice softens slightly, though her spine remains steel. "You don't have to fight the world alone."
The words catch me off-guard. But I don't answer.
I just watch them—the woman teaching her daughter to stand her ground, the laughter woven into resilience—and for one fragile heartbeat, I wish I'd met people like this before the world cracked open.
Before I became the kind of person who sleeps with a knife under her pillow.
Caleb steers me away with a hand hovering near but not touching my elbow, respecting boundaries I haven't voiced but somehow knew I have.
We continue through the compound, and I meet pieces of the team that make this place run.
As we round another corner, Caleb nods toward a hulking figure inspecting equipment across the room.
"The mountain over there is Ryker Quinn.
We call him Ryk. Former... well, let's just say his resume isn't for the faint of heart.
Extraction specialist. If you're trapped somewhere, he's who you want coming for you. "
I catch Ryker's eye briefly—massive, brooding, with the kind of presence that makes even hardened men step aside. He nods at me like he's scanning for weak points, measuring how many seconds it would take to neutralize me if necessary.
"And you've already met our ray of sunshine, Knox Walker," Caleb continues as we pass the man from earlier in a narrow hallway.
Knox Walker doesn't even bother nodding when our paths cross. He just walks past with the silence of a ghost, dark eyes flicking over me once before dismissing whatever he sees.
"Not much for conversation, is he?" I murmur as Knox's back disappears around a corner.
"Knox speaks when it matters," Caleb replies with a shrug. "Rest of the time, the silence does the talking. Best sniper I've ever seen. He's saved all our asses more times than I can count."
But apparently, there's one member of the team I haven’t seen yet.
"That's Asa Vale's domain," Caleb says, pointing to a glass-enclosed tech station surrounded by monitors and blinking equipment.
"Our eyes and ears. He sees everything." He gestures to a cluster of discreet cameras mounted near the ceiling. "He's probably watching you right now. Surveillance genius. Not big on face-to-face unless absolutely necessary."
"That's comforting," I say dryly.
"Only if you behave," Caleb responds with a wink that doesn't quite mask the warning beneath.
For all his easy smiles, there's steel in his spine too—the kind forged in places where laughter is sometimes the only defense against darkness.
By the time dinner rolls around, I'm cold, sore, and mentally fried from processing too much information while giving away too little.
My skin feels tight, my nerves raw. The constant vigilance—watching my words, guarding my reactions, scanning for threats—has drained me more than I want to admit.
Caleb steers me into the Barracks kitchen with a casual arm slung around my shoulders.
I tolerate it for exactly three seconds before shrugging him off, but there's no malice in the gesture. It's just habit—a boundary as natural to me as breathing.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of something savory and slightly burnt.
A long wooden table stretches across one end of the room, already set with mismatched plates and worn flatware. It looks strangely domestic for a place built on tactical precision and combat training.
And at the stove, stirring something in a massive pot, stands Logan.
Wearing a black henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing corded forearms marked with the faint white lines of old scars. His expression is locked in a frown that could curdle milk. The intensity in his glare sends an unexpected heat down my belly.
I lean toward Caleb, keeping my voice low. "He cooks like he glares?"
"Worse," Caleb mutters back. "But we eat it anyway."
As Logan plates up something vaguely chili-adjacent, Caleb ducks into one of the kitchen drawers and pulls out a foil-covered tray. With a flourish that reminds me of a stage magician, he peels back the silver covering.
"Fear not," he announces to the room at large, "salvation has arrived—courtesy of Lucia Calderon, age twelve, mouth of a trucker."
He clears his throat and adopts a high-pitched voice with exaggerated sass: " Even tough guys need carbs. "
The tray holds cinnamon rolls—homemade, golden-brown, still glistening with melted frosting.
The sight and smell hit me like a memory I didn't know I had—of Sunday mornings before everything fell apart, of kitchens that felt safe, of a world where sweetness wasn't suspicious.
Caleb's performance earns a round of snorts and grins from the team members gathering around the table.
Even Logan's scowl softens—barely, but I catch it.
A microscopic relaxation around his eyes before he locks it down again.
"They're still warm," Caleb adds, shoving one toward Elias as he takes a seat. "And before you ask, yes, I already called dibs on the gooey one."
"You mean the one Lucia clearly meant for someone who actually survived adolescence with humility?" Elias deadpans, accepting the plate with a small smile.
"You wound me, Mom," Caleb clutches his chest.
I hover awkwardly at the edge of the gathering, old instincts screaming to keep my distance. But then Knox—silent, watchful Knox—slides a plate in my direction without meeting my eyes. Not an invitation, exactly. More like begrudging acknowledgment of my existence.
I take it carefully and find a seat where my back is to the wall and I can see both exits.
The chili is edible—barely. I take a bite and can't help myself.
"So this is what tactical training tastes like," I say with a smirk, just loud enough to be heard across the table. "Survivable, but just barely."
Logan's head snaps up, his glance sharp enough to flay skin.
Caleb clutches his cinnamon roll to his chest, miming a swoon. "Thank God for Lucia. This, friends, is what heaven tastes like after Logan's culinary hell."
"Logan cooks like he's still on a mission," Ryker mutters, breaking his usual stoic silence. "Everything's fuel, nothing's food."
"Says the man who eats protein bars for breakfast," Elias counters.
"At least protein bars don't try to fight back," Caleb adds, poking at a suspiciously solid chunk in his bowl.
"And this," Caleb announces as footsteps approach from the tech wing, "is our resident ghost."
A tall, wiry man emerges from the hallway, his movements precise and economical. Wire-rimmed glasses catch the fluorescent light. Every item on his person—from his meticulously ironed black button-down to the security badge clipped at exactly 45 degrees on his belt—speaks of careful routine.
"Asa Vale," he says, voice quiet but clear. His eyes scan me with the same efficiency as his security cameras. "Director of cybersecurity and intelligence."
"And professional vampire," Caleb adds with a grin. "Seriously, when's the last time you saw daylight?"
"Tuesday. 2:47 PM. Perimeter check of the east fence." Asa doesn't miss a beat, doesn't even look at Caleb as he adjusts the fork and spoon until they align perfectly. "The sun was approximately 43 degrees above the horizon."
"Your phone," Asa says suddenly, those keen eyes fixing on my pocket. "It's a Kyocera. Burner. Model E4610. The same type favored by certain intelligence contractors due to its easily removable GPS module."
A chill runs down my spine. How did he-
"The outline is visible through your left pocket," he explains, answering my unspoken question. "And you've checked it exactly seven times in the past four minutes."
Damn.
"Don't worry," he adds, turning back to his screens. "If someone's tracking it, I'll know before they do."
"Tracking's not what worries me," Logan says, his voice low and controlled. His jaw tightens as he glances at my pocket. "It's what happens when they catch up."
"Let them try." Ryker cracks his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Been itching for some exercise."
"Not everything needs to end in violence," Elias cuts in, giving Ryker a pointed look. "Sometimes the smartest move is to disappear."
Like I've been trying to do for weeks.
I watch them, these men who move like weapons but bicker like brothers, and something inside me... loosens.
Just a fraction.
For half a second, I don't feel hunted. Don't feel like a story unraveling. Just a woman at a table full of people who've also seen the dark and decided to live anyway.
I let myself smile.
Tiny. Barely there.
But real.
And that's when I catch Logan watching me—those storm-gray eyes tracking the curve of my mouth like it's a breach in his defenses.
Something flickers across his face, too quick to name.
Then it's gone, locked away behind walls I recognize all too well.
Careful, Sloane. Remember what happens to people who let their guard down.
Because I didn't come to Iron Hollow to be saved.
I came to finish what I started.
Even if it kills me.