10. Logan
LOGAN
W here is she?
The thought pricks at my mind like a thorn. But before I can search for her, the door swings open.
At that moment, I knew something was wrong.
The temperature drops with her entrance, and it has nothing to do with the winter air rushing in behind her.
Her shoulders are rigid, her steps measured in a way that speaks of restraint rather than calm.
She doesn't speak. Doesn't meet my gaze.
Just shrugs off her coat, hanging it with precision on the hook beside the door. The soft thud of her boots against the floorboards echoes in the silence as she moves past me, disappearing into the back room without a word.
That silence?
It's not distance.
It's dread.
I know it intimately.
Felt it coil in my gut before the mission went sideways in North Africa.
Before the sand ran red and the extraction never came. That particular kind of quiet that means someone's world just collapsed, and they're still processing how to breathe through the ruins.
I follow her.
She stands by the window, staring out at nothing. The afternoon light catches on her profile, illuminating the severe line of her jaw, the tension gathered at the corners of her eyes.
Her fingers drum against her thigh—a tell she doesn't realize she has.
"Where did you go?" I keep my voice low, steady. The kind of tone that won't shatter fragile things.
She doesn't look at me.
"Nowhere."
The lie sits between us like broken glass. I take a step closer, careful not to crowd her space but close enough that she can't pretend I'm not here.
"Try again."
Still nothing.
Her back stiffens, breath catching just slightly.
A normal person wouldn't notice. But I've spent years reading bodies for signs of threat, fear, deception. The subtle tensing of her shoulders tells me everything her words don't.
I watch her carefully, tracking the micro-expressions that flicker across her face—calculation, hesitation, fear.
She's probably weighing options, running scenarios. I've seen that look on operatives deciding how much intel to share, how much to withhold.
"Whatever it is," I say, keeping my voice steady, "hiding it won't make it go away."
Her eyes meet mine finally, searching. Testing.
I hold her gaze without flinching. We've come this far. I've pulled her from the snow, given her shelter, kept her safe. If that hasn't earned a fraction of trust, nothing will.
"You think I haven't heard that before?" Her voice is tight, controlled. "Trust is what gets people killed."
"So does silence."
Something shifts in her expression—not surrender, but a tactical decision.
Her hand moves to her jacket pocket, fingers hesitating on the edge before withdrawing a folded piece of paper. She doesn't immediately hand it over, holding it between us like a barrier.
"If I show you this," she says quietly, "there's no going back. For either of us."
I don't reach for it. Don't push.
Just wait, giving her the choice.
After what feels like minutes, she extends her hand, offering me the note with reluctance etched in every line of her body.
"Your choice," she says as I take it from her fingers.
The paper is crisp, high-quality. The kind used for official correspondence, not casual threats. I unfold it, my pulse calm despite the adrenaline already flooding my system.
"You're not hard to find. But you are running out of places to hide." —G
The heat in my chest turns violent. It's not just anger—it's something deeper, more primitive.
The instinct to protect twisted with the certainty of threat. The world narrows, sharpens. Everything unnecessary falls away.
I turn toward her, unable to keep the fire from flickering behind my eyes.
"Who is G?"
"Logan—"
"No more dodging." I cut her off, my voice dropping lower. "I need to know now . If someone's coming, if someone already knows you're here, I need every name, every threat, every move. Otherwise?—"
My voice breaks off. The words stick in my throat, jagged and raw.
I pace to the window, fists clenched, jaw tight. The treeline beyond the glass reveals nothing but still shadows and silent snow.
But I know better. I've seen invisible threats materialize from quieter places.
"Otherwise, someone I care about is going to die."
The words hang in the air.
I didn't mean to say them. Didn't mean to admit that she's starting to be more than just a stranger I pulled from the snow.
In the reflection of the glass, I see her flinch—just barely. A micro-expression of pain, gone as quickly as it came.
"If I tell you…" she starts, her voice thin, fractured at the edges, "they'll come for you too."
"I'm already in it."
"No, you're not. Not yet." Her voice cracks like glass under pressure. "I've lost people, Logan."
I turn slowly, meeting her eyes directly. "So have I."
Our gazes lock—two ghosts recognizing each other across a battlefield.
I see it in her then: the same haunted vigilance that lives in me. The way her eyes drift to exits, to defensive positions, to anything that might become a weapon.
I exhale, the sound too loud in the quiet room.
Sloane has moved to the couch, curled into the corner of it like she's trying to disappear into the leather.
Her knees are drawn to her chest, a defensive posture I recognize from soldiers coming down from combat high. Her fingers trace the edge of a cushion, over and over, a mindless rhythm to ground herself.
"You don't have to tell me now," I say, moderating my tone. Softening the edges. "But you need to understand something."
"What?" The word comes out flat, guarded.
"If I don't know what's coming, I can't stop it. I can't shield the people who live here. I can't shield you ."
She closes her eyes. "I don't need a shield, Logan."
"Yes, you do," I say, with more force than intended. "We all do. That's what this place is for."
That's what I'm for.
The unspoken truth hangs between us.
That's what I built The Forge to be. A shield. A fortress. A place where people don't have to be afraid of shadows.
Where they can lay down their weapons for a night, or a week, or maybe forever. Where I could make up for the ones I couldn't save before.
A long silence settles between us, dense with all the things neither of us will say.
Sloane doesn't answer.
She won't say more.
Not yet.
That night, I walk the perimeter alone.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, the only sound in the stillness. My breath fogs in the cold air, joining the mist that hovers over the forest floor.
I check the motion sensors hidden in the trees, reinforcing the dead zones in our security net. Program new camera angles without consulting Asa. Watch the treeline until my eyes blur with fatigue and frost.
I don't tell Caleb. Don't call Knox. Don't loop Eli in. Not even Asa, who'd spot the new camera configurations in hours, or Ryker, who'd sense the tension from a mile away.
You can't lead if you put your brothers in the line of fire.
That's the code I carved into my bones the night Blackout burned.
When I watched allies become enemies, and comrades become casualties. When I learned the hardest lesson a leader can learn: sometimes the mission doesn't matter as much as the men.
The snow falls harder as night deepens, erasing my tracks.
That's fine. I don't need to be seen. I just need to see what's coming.
Because Sloane is hiding something tied to the same ghosts that haunt me. The word "Blackout" says everything. It's not a coincidence—nothing ever is.
Someone has found us. Found her . Connected dots I spent years erasing. And they've tracked her straight to my door.
I won't let them take another life. Not her. Not any of my men.
This time, I'll take the fallout myself.
I circle back to the cabin as midnight passes, checking windows, doors, sight lines.
Inside, the fire has burned low, casting long shadows across the floor.
The bedroom door creaks as I peek inside. I spot Sloane sleeping on my bed, curled tightly into herself, one hand clutched around something beneath her pillow.
A knife, probably. Smart.
I pull a blanket over her without touching, careful not to wake her. She stirs slightly, her brow furrowing even in sleep. Fighting demons I can't see.
I move to the kitchen, pour a glass of whiskey I won't drink, and stare at the note again.
G.
The initial snags at something in my memory. A fragment of intel, a passing reference, a ghost in the machine.
I can't place it, but the familiarity gnaws at me.
I feel it though, in the air, in my bones. The electric tension before the storm. The weight of a threat moving closer.
Someone is coming.
And this time, I won't let them get past me.