38. Sloane
SLOANE
P ain radiates through my limbs as consciousness slams back—sharp and insistent, like needles under my skin.
My head throbs, vision blurring as I try to focus.
Where am I?
The last thing I remember is snow, Granger's face, the red dot on my chest...
Instinct kicks in before full awareness does.
Years of investigative training have taught me to gather intel first, react second.
So I keep my breathing steady, my eyes barely cracked, and start cataloging my surroundings in quick, controlled sweeps.
Metal walls. High ceiling. The musty scent of abandoned spaces mixed with something mechanical—oil, maybe. Or gun grease. Thin shafts of gray light slice through dirty windows placed too high to reach.
The firewatch tower .
I remember seeing it through the trees before everything went dark.
The floor beneath me is concrete, cold enough to seep through my clothes. My shoulders ache from being twisted behind me, and when I try to shift, plastic bites into my wrists.
I look behind me.
Fuck.
They're military-grade zip ties. The kind that doesn't break no matter how much you struggle.
I test them anyway, rotating my wrists carefully.
No give.
Just sharp edges that promise to cut skin before they snap. My ankles are bound too, crossed and secured with the same black ties.
Professional work. The kind of restraints that say I've done this before .
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
The room is sparse but strategic—a command center stripped to bare function. Tactical gear lines one wall: radio equipment, surveillance monitors, weapon cases secured with biometric locks. The setup speaks of preparation. Planning.
This wasn't impulse.
This was orchestrated .
My chest tightens as implications slot into place. The scopes. The signals. The way he knew exactly where to find me. Granger hasn't just been watching—he's been waiting .
And I walked right into it.
Just like Dad.
The thought burns like acid in my throat. All this time I've been chasing his ghost, trying to finish what he started, convinced that truth would set us free. But maybe he knew something I didn't.
Maybe sometimes the truth just gives the monsters a road map to everyone you love.
Metal groans overhead—footsteps on the tower stairs. My pulse kicks up but I force myself still.
Stay calm. Once you panic, everything's over.
The door swings open with a screech of rusted hinges.
Granger fills the frame like a shadow given form.
Combat boots. Tactical vest. The easy, lethal grace of a predator in his natural habitat. But it's his eyes that make my blood run cold—flat and empty as spent shell casings.
"Good morning, Miss Carter." His voice carries the same emptiness. "Sleep well?"
I don't answer. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
But my mind is already racing, cataloging details through the fog of whatever he used to knock me out.
He moves with precise efficiency, checking equipment, adjusting dials. A professional going through his pre-mission checklist. Every motion calculated. Controlled.
"You know," he continues, not looking at me, "I expected more of a challenge." He tests a connection, nods once. "The way Bishop talked about you... I thought you'd be smarter than this."
The mention of Logan's name hits like a physical blow. Images flash through my mind—his face when he wakes to find me gone, the way his hands felt against my skin last night, how carefully he changed my bandages. All the moments I'm going to have to live without.
If I live at all.
Granger turns, something dark glinting in his hand.
A camera. High-end. The kind used for remote surveillance. He positions it on a tripod, adjusting the angle until the lens points directly at me.
"Hard to believe you're the one who brought Ghost One to his knees," he says, fine-tuning the focus. "The mighty Logan Bishop... undone by a civilian with a death wish."
"Is that what this is about?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "You're jealous he chose me over you?"
His hand stills on the camera. Just for a second. Then he smiles—the kind of smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"No, Miss Carter. This is about finishing what should have ended in Africa." He steps back, admiring his handiwork. "This is about reminding everyone what happens when you put sentiment above duty."
He moves to a steel table, unrolling what looks like blueprints. Building schematics, maybe. Or demolition plans. I can't see clearly from this angle, but I catch glimpses of red marks indicating strategic points.
My stomach turns as realization hits: He's not just setting a trap.
He's staging an execution.
"You're going to kill them," I whisper. "All of them."
"Only if they make the wrong choice." He doesn't look up from his work. "But Logan always did have a weakness for lost causes."
He continues methodically, laying out equipment with military precision. Each item has a purpose. A plan. Motion sensors. Pressure plates. Enough ordinance to level a building.
Or bury one.
A comm unit crackles to life on his belt. He keys the mic, voice shifting to something colder. More official.
"This is a message for Ghost One and his team," he says, eyes fixed on mine. "I have something that belongs to you."
He adjusts the camera angle, making sure I'm centered in frame. Making sure they can see every bruise, every zip tie, every silent scream behind my eyes.
"Are you watching, Bishop?" Granger continues. "I hope so. Because what happens next depends entirely on you."
Static hisses. I imagine Logan's face as he sees this. The way his jaw will clench. How his hands will curl into fists.
I'm sorry . I'm so sorry.
"Here are the terms," Granger says. "Come to the firewatch tower. Alone. Your team stays clear, your weapons stay holstered, and maybe she lives long enough to see tomorrow."
He pauses, letting the threat sink in.
"But if I see one sign of backup..." His smile turns cruel. "Well. Let's just say there are worse things than dying."
The camera light blinks red. A pulse like a heartbeat.
Or a countdown.
"You have one hour," Granger says, voice flat and final. "Choose wisely."