16. Jon
SIXTEEN
Jon
After we disconnect, I shower quickly, my mind already shifting gears. As I’m changing into street clothes, the facility intercom crackles to life.
“Delta Team to Briefing Room One. Repeat: Delta Team to Briefing One.”
The formal summons raises the hair on my neck. Briefing One is reserved for high-priority situations. Whatever this is, it’s not routine.
I finish dressing in record time, then stride through the corridors of Guardian HRS’s compound with growing unease.
Storm and Razor are already in the briefing room when I arrive, along with Mac, whose massive frame makes the tactical chair look like doll furniture. Jenny stands at the head of the table, deep in conversation with CJ and Blaze.
But it’s the man standing by the window that raises my pulse. Forest—Guardian HRS’s founder and the reason we all exist as a team. His presence at a standard briefing is unprecedented.
The room falls silent as I enter. Forest turns, his face unreadable as always. Our eyes meet, and he gives the barest nod of acknowledgment.
“Good. We’re all here.” His voice carries the weight of mountains.
Jenny takes her customary position at the briefing terminal. “We have a situation.”
Before Jenny can continue, the door opens again.
Mitzy strides in, tablet in hand, her expression sharper than usual—calm, but with an edge.
“Sorry, I’m late.” She slides into a chair, fingers moving across her screen. “Still pulling the threads together, but you need to see this.”
The main display lights up with surveillance footage—an exterior camera feed from a warehouse lot, timestamped three nights ago.
“This was a chemical supply facility in Houston. Not military, but with restricted access and decent private security. On paper, nothing about it screams high-value. But three nights ago, it got hit.”
She switches to interior cams—grainy black-and-white footage of armed men rushing in. Hoodies, jeans, cheap masks. Not pro. But fast. Brutal.
“Twelve dead,” Mitzy says. “All security or warehouse staff. Locals ruled it gang violence. Said it was a turf thing. But look…”
She zooms in on one of the attackers dragging a body. The guy’s forearm is bare—a full tattoo sleeve, crudely inked. The wolf skull in the center is unmistakable.
“That’s Night Pack.” A sharp scrape of metal against tile—Blaze pushes back from the table, jaw tight, fists curled at his sides. “Motherfuckers,” he mutters. “That’s their mark.”
He doesn’t look at the screen. Doesn’t need to. I see it in the way his whole body’s gone still, coiled—like violence is a tide rising fast beneath the surface.
“Exactly.” Mitzy taps to another angle. “Two of them had that same tat. Third had a version across his neck. It’s not armor or insignia—but it’s branding. And it’s consistent.”
“Night Pack?” Storm says it like a bad taste. “I thought they went down with Wolfe.”
Jenny shakes her head. “We crippled their leadership, but the network’s always been decentralized—local cells with their own muscle, same playbook.”
“What were they after?” Razor asks. “Why hit a supply warehouse?”
Mitzy’s jaw tightens. “Records show the facility was holding a short-term shipment of sedatives and paralytics. Medical-grade. Black-market value is high, especially if you’re moving product.”
No one needs her to explain what kind of product .
Children.
A knot tightens in my gut.
We thought we ended this. Six months ago, we raided Wolfe’s compound. Rescued Aria and Ember. Ryn too. Burned the place down.
“But Wolfe is dead,” Razor says, uncertain. “Ember killed him?” He looks around the room. “I read the reports.”
The room goes still.
Forest steps forward, placing his hands flat on the table.
“We never recovered a body,” he says quietly. “We assumed. The fire. The blast. But this?” He looks at the screen. “This doesn’t feel like someone picking up the pieces. This feels like orders.”
“From Wolfe?” The weight of it settles like concrete.
If he’s alive—if Night Pack’s rebuilding—then this isn’t unfinished business.
It’s the beginning of something worse.
“There’s more.” Mitzy swipes to a new image—a photograph taken in what appears to be a high-end shopping district. “This was captured yesterday in San Francisco.”
The image shows a tall man in an expensive suit, face partially obscured by sunglasses. But even with the disguise, there’s something familiar in the bearing, the way he carries himself.
“Facial recognition is inconclusive,” Mitzy continues. “But gait analysis gives us an 87% match.”
“Damien Wolfe.” The name falls from my lips like a curse.
Forest straightens, his gaze sweeping the room. “As of this moment, we operate under the assumption that Damien Wolfe is alive and rebuilding Night Pack’s operations. All previous targets should be considered at potential risk.”
“Aria, Ember, and Ryn…” I meet Forest’s eyes directly. “Previous targets.”
“They won’t get near her again.” Blaze is already on his feet, fists clenched against the table, tension radiating off him in waves.
He doesn’t say Ember’s name. He doesn’t have to. It’s written in the tight line of his shoulders, the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“If Wolfe’s moving pieces, this isn’t about leverage—it’s about revenge,” Blaze says. “He’s sending a message. We need to answer it.”
“We will.” Forest meets his eyes, something unreadable flickering across his features.
Jenny continues outlining preliminary security protocols, but my mind races ahead.
If Damien Wolfe is alive, if he’s rebuilding Night Pack, then Aria isn’t just dealing with her father’s controlling nature tonight.
She’s potentially walking back into the crosshairs of a man who nearly destroyed her life.
The briefing concludes with assignments for increased surveillance and intelligence gathering. As the team files out, Forest remains, his stoic presence a gravitational force in the room.
“Jon.” Forest’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “A word, please.”
I comply, years of military discipline kicking in automatically. Forest is a legend in our world, a man who built Guardian HRS from nothing into a premier private security and hostage rescue organization globally.
“Your relationship with Aria Holbrook.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. “How serious is it?”
“Excuse me?” The directness catches me off guard.
“Don’t insult either of us by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about, loverboy.” His tone remains neutral, but his eyes don’t miss a thing.
“Wasn’t pretending. Just caught off guard.” I weigh my response carefully. “It’s—significant.”
“I see.” Forest leans back, fingers steepled. “And Marcus Holbrook’s awareness of this significance?”
“Limited.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Aria’s choice, though that’s changing tonight. She asked me to join her for dinner with him.”
Forest nods slowly, as if confirming something to himself. “Marcus Holbrook is not just a wealthy man. He’s powerful. The kind who makes problems disappear.”
“I’m aware of his reputation.”
“Are you?” A rare smile touches Forest’s lips, there and gone in an instant. “Marcus and I have history. Complex history. When his daughter was taken, he came to me specifically because of that history.”
This is new information. Forest’s connection to our clients typically remains professional and detached. The implication of personal history with someone like Marcus Holbrook raises questions I’m not sure I want answered.
“Marcus Holbrook protects what he considers his, and he very much considers his daughter his to protect. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You’re warning me off.”
“I’m providing context. I’ve learned warning men off from the women they protect is an exercise in futility.” Forest stands, moving back to the window. “Guardian HRS operates in the shadows by necessity. We cannot afford complications with clients of Marcus’s caliber.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “With respect, sir, my personal life?—”
“Is inextricably linked to your professional one.” Forest turns, his expression softening marginally.
“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m certainly not telling you who you can and can’t date.
None of you listen to me anyway. I’m smarter than that, but I’m telling you to proceed with your eyes open.
Especially now, with Night Pack potentially back in play. ”
My phone vibrates again. This time, I glance at the screen. A text from Aria: Meet me at the shop?
“I appreciate the concern.” I stand, straightening my shoulders. “But I can handle Marcus Holbrook.”
“For your sake, I hope that’s true.” Forest’s expression suggests I’ve just claimed I could handle a hurricane with an umbrella. “If Damien Wolfe is targeting Aria again, Marcus will pull out all stops to protect her. Including removing anyone he perceives as—complicating factors.”
The warning settles like ice in my veins. Not for my safety—Marcus is many things, but not a murderer—but for what it could mean for Aria. For us.
“I should go.” I check my watch. “I’m meeting her at six.”
Forest nods, dismissal clear. As I reach the door, his voice stops me.
“Jon.” When I turn, something almost like concern shows on his weathered face. “You’re one of my best. Don’t let personal feelings cloud your judgment when it matters most.”
The advice—warning, really—follows me out into the corridor. I check my phone again, typing a quick reply to Aria: On my way. Be there soon.
As I head to my truck, Storm falls into step beside me, his expression unusually serious.
“So. Damien Wolfe.” He keeps his voice low. “Think the boss is right?”
“Forest is always right. Whether I like it or not.”
“And Aria?” Storm’s question carries layers of meaning.
“Could be in danger again. Along with Ember, the shop, and everything they’ve built. Ryn too.” Although I hope that’s not the case.
“Want me to run surveillance tonight? I’ll get Razor to join. Although I bet Blaze beats us to the shop. “Quiet, unobtrusive. Just an extra set of eyes while you’re playing bodyguard at dinner.”
“That would help. We’re meeting Marcus at Mastro’s.” The offer reminds me why I trust this man with my life.
“Fancy.” Storm grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wear your good suit, pretty boy.”
I shoot him a look. “Just keep an eye on the shop. Razor can back you up. I don’t want Ember or Ryn alone tonight.”
“Consider it done.” Storm claps me on the shoulder. “Watch yourself with Holbrook. Men like that don’t share their toys easily.”
“Aria isn’t a toy.”
“No.” Storm’s expression turns serious again. “But I doubt Daddy Warbucks sees it that way.”
The observation follows me to my truck, mixing uneasily with Forest’s warning and the specter of Damien Wolfe’s return. As I navigate toward The Little Matchstick Girl, I can’t shake the feeling that tonight’s dinner is about to become much more than just an awkward meeting with Aria’s father.
The shop comes into view, its warm glow a beacon against the darkening evening. Through the front window, Aria moves about, her graceful figure haloed by soft light. Something in my chest tightens at the sight—a feeling I’m still learning to name.
I park across the street, taking a moment to survey the area. Old habits. The commercial district is winding down for the evening, and most stores are closed or closing. A few pedestrians stroll the sidewalks, headed home or to dinner. Nothing out of place, nothing suspicious.
And yet…
My gaze catches on a sedan parked half a block down. Dark, nondescript. The kind designed to blend in. The driver’s silhouette sits motionless, face obscured by the gathering dusk.
It could be nothing. A rideshare driver waiting for a fare. Someone checking their phone before heading home.
Or it could be something else entirely.
I exit my truck, making a show of checking my watch while angling for a better view of the sedan. As I do, it pulls smoothly away from the curb, merging into traffic.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But in my experience, coincidences are usually anything but.
My phone buzzes with a text from Razor: In position at north corner. Storm taking south. Locked and loaded for Operation Dinner Date.
Despite everything, I smile. Then I cross the street toward the warm light of the shop, toward Aria, and toward whatever complications the evening holds.