24. Logan
LOGAN
T he radio crackles into silence, but the sound still echoes in my ears like a thunderclap. My body moves before my mind can catch up, instinct taking over as I scan the room.
Iron Hollow Books. Dana Fletcher. Package delivered.
Granger's words twist in my gut like a knife. That son of a bitch didn't come for The Forge. He went straight for the heart of what I protect.
The town.
My town.
Around me, the team snaps into action with practiced efficiency. Knox and Ryker are already at the weapons locker, pulling tactical gear. Asa's fingers fly over his tablet, likely trying to trace the signal. Eli's shouldering a med kit while Caleb checks comms.
I turn to the map spread across the central table, my eyes finding Iron Hollow Books. It sits at the edge of the town square, a cornerstone of the community. Dana's been there for fifteen years, selling paperbacks and keeping secrets.
She doesn't know what's coming.
Movement catches my attention—Sloane, stepping closer to study the map. Her eyes are sharp, focused. There's no fear in her stance, just coiled readiness.
Our gazes lock, and something passes between us. Understanding. Trust. The weight of what's about to happen.
She doesn't flinch when I reach for my backup piece—a compact Sig P365 I keep for situations exactly like this. The metal is cool and familiar in my palm as I check the magazine, chamber a round.
"Ever handled one of these?" I ask, offering it grip-first.
She takes it without hesitation. "My father taught me. Before."
The word hangs between us.
Before.
Before he vanished. Before the truth became her shield. Before everything went to hell.
"Show me," I say quietly.
Her movements are smooth, practiced. She checks the safety, demonstrates proper trigger discipline, runs through a basic press check.
Not perfect, but skilled enough to stay alive.
"Good," I nod, fighting the urge to tell her to stay behind. To keep her safe in The Forge while we handle this.
But I know better. She'd never agree, and I respect her too much to ask.
Trust her . She's survived this long for a reason.
"Comms check," Asa calls out, tossing encrypted units to each team member. "New frequency. Pattern Delta."
The familiar weight settles in my ear as I catch the one he throws me. "Copy that."
Within minutes, we're loading into the trucks—two matte-black Ford Raptors, reinforced and modified for exactly this kind of operation.
Knox takes shotgun in my vehicle while Sloane slides into the back with Asa. Caleb's driving the second truck with Ryker and Eli.
The engine rumbles to life beneath us, a low growl that matches the tension humming through my veins. Dawn's just breaking over the mountains as we roll out, painting the snow-dusted peaks in shades of gold and shadow.
Iron Hollow wakes slowly, unaware of what's coming.
The drive into town is eerily normal. Shop owners flip their signs to "OPEN." The corner café fills the air with the rich scent of fresh-ground coffee. A few early risers trudge along the sidewalks, bundled against the morning chill.
But something's off.
I've spent years learning to read a scene—first in the Navy, then in places where missing details got people killed. My eyes catch every shadow, every subtle shift that doesn't quite fit.
The newspaper stand's empty. Usually stocked by 6 AM.
The diner's lights are on, but no movement inside.
And the town square? Too quiet. No birds. No distant chatter.
Just... waiting.
I scan rooflines as we approach—the old bank building with its decorative cornices, perfect for a sniper's nest. The water tower rising behind Main Street. The church steeple that overlooks the square.
So many angles. So many blind spots.
"Talk to me, Asa," I murmur into the comm. "What are you seeing?"
"No active signals yet," he replies, fingers still dancing over his tablet. "But there's interference. Someone's running counter-measures."
"Locals?"
"Higher grade. Military spec."
Of course it is . Granger never did anything halfway.
We round the corner onto Maple Street, and Iron Hollow Books comes into view. The historic brick building stands three stories tall, with large display windows showcasing leather-bound classics and local authors.
And there—crouched on the front step—is Dana Fletcher, the owner of the bookstore.
My heart rate kicks up as I watch her reach for a plain brown package, her fingers brushing the twine wrapped around it.
"Contact," I bark into the comm. "Move now."
I'm out of the truck before it fully stops, boots hitting pavement as I sprint forward. "Dana! Step back!"
She startles at my voice, the twine slipping from her grasp.
Smart woman—she doesn't argue, just stands and steps away from the package.
Knox and Ryker fan out, securing the perimeter with practiced efficiency. Asa's already scanning rooftops while Caleb blocks both ends of the street with the second truck.
"What is this?" Dana asks, her voice steady despite the tension I can see in her shoulders.
Sloane moves up beside me, her borrowed gun held low but ready. "You didn't order anything?"
"Not that I remember," Dana replies. "It was just... there when I arrived."
I crouch beside the package, studying it carefully. The brown paper is unmarked except for Dana's name written in precise block letters.
No return address. No postage stamps. No tracking numbers.
Just like Echo-13 . Clean. Clinical. Calculated.
"It's bait," Asa mutters as he joins me, his tablet scanning for electronic signatures.
"Or worse," I reply, because I know Granger. Know how he thinks. This isn't just about fear—it's about control.
The team locks down the street with practiced precision. Knox and Ryker establish a perimeter while Caleb and Eli clear nearby buildings. Asa keeps scanning, looking for digital tripwires.
A quick sweep with handheld detection gear shows no immediate explosive threat.
I slice through the twine carefully, unwrapping the paper with slow, deliberate movements.
Inside?
A newspaper—dated the day of Echo-13.
A thumb drive—probably containing proof we don't want seen.
And a single brass shell casing—.338 Lapua Magnum, match grade.
Granger's signature. His way of saying I'm watching.
The paper's headline screams about military corruption. The drive probably holds classified intel. And the casing? That's his promise of what's coming.
Story. Evidence. Threat.
The three pillars of psychological warfare.
I'm about to call for an evidence bag when I hear it—the distinctive crack of a high-powered rifle echoing through the buildings, followed by the sharp impact of a round finding its target.
A soft thud echoes behind me. My body reacts before my mind processes—spinning, dropping into a defensive stance.
And Sloane lies crumpled on the ground, her body limp against the concrete.