40. Logan
LOGAN
T hirty-eight minutes and counting.
The firewatch tower looms ahead, a rust-scarred skeleton against slate-gray clouds. My breath fogs in quick bursts as I check my gear one last time, hands moving with the precision that comes from decades of muscle memory.
Asa's voice crackles in my ear, barely above a whisper: "Cameras spotted. North face, east corner, southwest approach. All angles covered."
"Confirmed," Knox adds. "Motion sensors too. Military grade."
I scan the terrain, letting my eyes adjust to the pre-dawn shadows. The forest floor is a maze of snow and shadow, each drift potentially hiding a pressure plate or tripwire.
This isn't just a sniper's nest—it's a kill box.
And Granger knows exactly how to use it.
"Knox, Asa—stay out of sight." I keep my voice low, though we're well outside visual range. "Team Fish, same protocol. Radio silence unless emergency. Let him think I'm alone."
"Copy that," Caleb's voice comes back, uncharacteristically serious. "Going dark."
The comms fall silent. I breathe in deep, tasting pine and gunmetal on my tongue. The cold bites through my tactical gear, but I barely notice. My world has narrowed to a single point of focus:
Get to her.
I move out, each step placed with deliberate care. Thanks to Asa's drone reconnaissance, I have a mental map of every trap Granger's laid. The bastard's thorough—I'll give him that. But thoroughness creates patterns, and patterns can be predicted.
First camera, twelve o'clock.
I slide the rifle from my shoulder, sight down the barrel. The shot cracks through the stillness—precise, controlled. The camera explodes in a shower of sparks and frosted glass.
Moving again. Never still. Never predictable.
Second camera, northwest face.
Another shot. Another spray of components.
The tower grows larger with each step, industrial and unforgiving. My mind catalogs entry points, structural weaknesses, potential choke points. Old habits from darker days.
At one mile out, the first sniper round kicks up snow three inches from my left boot.
I don't flinch. Don't dive for cover.
Just keep moving.
Because that wasn't meant to hit me. That was Granger saying hello.
I see you, that shot whispers. Do you see me?
The next round comes closer—deliberately closer. Testing my nerve. Seeing if I'll break the pattern.
I don't.
Instead, I push forward faster. More aggressive. Let him think the pressure's getting to me. Let him think I'm getting sloppy.
Keep watching the windows, Granger. Keep thinking you know what I'll do.
The tower base is thirty yards ahead when my comm unit crackles again. Not team frequency.
Echo-13 band.
"You're alone," Granger's words seep through the static like venom through a wound. "I knew you'd choose her over your men. Just like last time."
I say nothing. Let him fill the silence.
"Still armed, I see." A pause heavy with threat. "Drop everything. Or the next red you see won't be dawn."
My jaw locks. But my hands are already moving, stripping off my tactical vest. Weapons clatter to the snow one by one—Glock 19, combat knife, backup piece, flash bangs. I arrange them deliberately, making a show of it.
See? I'm playing by your rules.
But what Granger doesn't see—what he's too focused on me to notice—is how the falling snow is already covering my tracks. How the shadows are deepening as clouds roll in.
Perfect conditions for ghosts to move unseen.
I start climbing. The tower stairs groan under my boots, ice crackling with each step. More cameras watch my ascent. I just smash them with my fist as I pass.
Let him think I'm angry. Let him think I'm desperate.
Twenty feet up, I hear it—boot scuffs above. Granger's moving. Repositioning.
I quicken my pace, blood thrumming hot despite the bitter cold. The last flight of stairs stretches ahead, leading to a heavy metal door.
When I push it open, my heart stops.
Sloane's there. Alive. Zip-tied to the balcony railing, but alive.
Our eyes lock.
In that moment, everything else falls away—the mission, the timer, the threat. Just her. Just us.
I cross the space in three strides and pull her against my chest, mindful of the restraints but needing to feel her breathe. To know this isn't another ghost I'm chasing.
"I'm sorry," she whispers against my neck. "Logan, I'm so sorry?—"
"Later," I cut her off, already working at the zip ties. "We'll deal with everything later."
The plastic is military-grade, reinforced. Won't break by hand.
So I grip it anyway.
Pull until my palms slice open.
Until blood makes everything slick and warm.
"Stop!" Sloane hisses. "You're hurting yourself?—"
"Don't care."
The zip tie finally snaps, and Sloane immediately grabs my bleeding hands, pressing her sleeve against the cuts.
"Are you insane?"
I catch her face between my palms, leaving red smears on her cheeks. "If it means keeping you alive? Yes. Always."
Something flickers in her eyes.
I free her ankles next. My blood drips faster. The cuts sting, but I barely notice.
I tap my ear once, our signal that the team is near. That she needs to find cover and stay quiet.
She nods, understanding instantly.
Which leaves me with one last task.
End this.
The tower's top floor has two doors. One leads back to the stairs.
The other...
I approach it slowly, every sense heightened. I can feel Granger behind it. Waiting. Watching.
The handle's cold under my bloody fingers.
I turn it.
Lead starts flying before I clear the threshold. Rounds snap past my head, my chest, my legs—each one precise. Calculated.
But the room's dark, and I'm already moving.
Rolling.
Changing position.
Never still.
Never where he expects.
Another burst of fire tracks my movement, but I'm counting rounds now. Marking Granger's position by his muzzle flash.
Six shots. Standard mag holds fifteen.
Nine left.
I keep moving as more rounds punch through the darkness. Some find flesh—grazing my shoulder, my ribs, my thigh. But nothing vital.
Nothing that stops me.
Eight shots left. Seven. Six.
My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. I can make out shapes now—storage crates, old equipment, support beams.
And somewhere in those shadows, a light switch.
Five shots. Four.
The next burst comes closer—too close. Pain blazes across my bicep as a round tears through muscle.
But I hear something else too.
Granger's starting to breathe harder.
Three shots. Two.
My hand finds the switch.
One.
Light floods the room.
Click.
Empty mag.
I see Granger's shadow and launch forward, covering the distance in two strides. My boot connects with his weapon, sending it spinning away.
Then it's just us.
No guns.
No distance.
Just fists and fury and fifteen years of buried history.
I strike first—a right cross that would shatter concrete. Granger slips it, counters with an elbow that catches my jaw.
Copper floods my mouth.
We crash together like storm fronts—all lightning and thunder and raw force. Every punch has killing intent. Every block costs blood.
I use my size, my reach. Try to overwhelm him with pure power.
He responds with surgical precision. Targets joints. Pressure points. Known weaknesses.
My ribs crack under his boot. His nose breaks under my knuckles.
We separate. Circle. Crash together again.
This isn't a fight anymore.
It's an execution.
The question is just... whose?
I see the shift in Granger's stance too late. The way his weight changes. The way his hand drops to his ankle.
A backup piece, small caliber, appears in his grip.
The barrel levels with my forehead.
"Any last words?" he asks, voice colder than the wind howling outside.