Chapter 8 Tristan #2
"She’s locked down." I walk to the map pinned to the wall.
"Good," Logan says. "Now explain how a shooter gets within three hundred yards of my Road Captain’s hideout without triggering a tripwire."
I stare at the map. Contour lines. Ridges. Elevation drops. The blind spots I ignored while watching Alexandria sleep.
"He didn’t cross them," I say, tracing a line on the map. "Eastern ridge. High angle."
"That’s a six-hundred-yard shot," Austin points out. "Through dense pine."
"He wasn’t shooting to kill the brothers.
" The realization hits hard. "The original shooter on the ridge was a low-level local hire meant to end the problem quickly.
Once they realized she had the master drive, the professionals moved in.
They didn't want a corpse on the ridge anymore; they wanted the biometric key only she can provide.
They herded us toward the compound to trap us. "
"So what’s he doing?" Chase asks.
"He flushed us out of the loft. He wanted us here."
Silence descends. If they wanted us all in one place, they plan something loud.
"Photos," Shane’s voice comes over the intercom. "Reviewing the trail cam footage. The guy taking pictures... he’s not alone. Three distinct heat signatures in the woods."
Three. A fireteam.
"This isn’t a random psycho." I turn to my brothers. My hands curl into fists. "This is professional."
"Why?" Logan asks. "She’s a biologist, Tristan. She looks at martens."
"The martens were a smokescreen; her data on their colony was the only thing stopping a multi-million dollar expansion. She stumbled onto something lethal."
I walk to the gun locker. I punch the code. The metal grate swings open. I grab the Remington 700 with the thermal scope.
"I don't care who paid them." I rack the bolt. Empty. I grab a box of .308 rounds and start loading. Snick. Snick. Snick.
"Tristan," Austin says. "We need a plan."
I look at him. My eyes feel dry. The beast inside my chest claws at my ribs, demanding blood for the fear in Alexandria’s eyes.
"You handle the defense. Lock down the compound. Nobody gets near that Vault."
"And where are you going?" Logan stands.
I sling the rifle over my shoulder and sheath a Ka-Bar knife at my hip.
"I’m going to the ridge. They took pictures of her. They invaded my home. They scared my woman." I pause at the doorframe. "I’m going to cut off their hands. Then, I’m going to ask who sent them before I bleed them out."
"Tristan—"
"Let him go," Blake says. "The leash is broken, Pres."
I step into the cold afternoon. Big, fat flakes of snow fall, covering tracks. Good. I don't need tracks. I can smell them. I slip into the gray shadows of the forest. Death is coming for them, and it’s wearing my face.
The climb up the eastern ridge burns my lungs. The terrain is steep, a jumble of granite boulders and slick pine needles.
I move silently. No snapped twigs. I become part of the mountain. The constant stream of data in my head goes silent. It only happens when I’m with Alexandria, or when I’m hunting. Wind direction: North-Northwest, 10 knots. Visibility: Dropping. Target: Three hostiles.
I reach the plateau. The thin layer of new snow is disturbed. Deep lugs. Military issue. I crouch, digging my fingers through the slush to touch the cold mud beneath.
Inside the tread mark, the earth is darker. Fresh. They’re still here.
A glint of metal flashes fifty yards up. A scope. My heart rate slows. Thump... thump... thump.
I unclip the knife.
I circle, closing the distance with the silence of a grave.
It takes twenty minutes to cover fifty yards.
I belly-crawl through the freezing slush—the previous days of heavy rain turning into a jagged, icy slurry as the snow begins to settle over the mud.
I don’t feel the cold biting into my chest. I only feel the phantom heat of Alexandria’s pussy and the way she arched when I claimed her in the loft.
I come up behind the rock formation. Two of them. Spotter and shooter. They lie prone, weapons trained on the clubhouse. Waiting for a target. Waiting for her.
The third man must be on the flank.
I rise behind the spotter. Thick neck. He never hears me. I clamp my hand over his mouth and drive the knife into the soft hollow between his collarbone and neck. He thrashes once. I ride him into the ground as life spurts out in a hot gush over my hand.
The shooter hears the scuffle. He turns, reaching for his sidearm. Too slow.
I drop the dying spotter and lunge. Two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and rage hits him like a freight train. His head cracks against the granite. He goes limp.
Good. Alive.
I pin him, forearm crushing his windpipe. His eyes bulge. He sees the patch on my chest. He sees the blood on my face.
"You took pictures." I lean close. "You watched her."
He gurgles, clawing at my arm.
"Where is the third man?" I ease the pressure.
"Radio..." he wheezes. "Called... called it in..."
"Called who?"
"The... Cleaners."
My blood runs cold. The Cleaners aren't mountain rescue. They are high-priced mercenaries.
"Why her?" I press the knife tip against his eyelid.
"Not... her... The data... she has the data..."
"Tristan!"
Austin’s voice crackles over my earpiece. "Tristan, we have vehicles approaching the front gate. Black SUVs. No plates. Four of them."
I look down at the man beneath me. He smiles. A bloody, broken expression. "Too late," he whispers.
I jerk my knife across his throat.
I stand, wiping the blade on my jeans. The snow falls harder, turning red around my boots.
"Austin," I key my mic. "Extraction team. Do not let them breach the gate."
"Copy that." The racking of shotguns echoes in the background. "Get back here, T."
"I’m coming."
I look down at the clubhouse. A fortress in the trees. Alexandria waits in the basement, and these bastards are at my gate.
I don't just run; I descend like an avalanche. I hit the tree line as the first black SUV breaches the perimeter fence. I don’t wait for them to exit. I shoulder my rifle, tracking the lead driver through the thermal scope. Crack. The windshield spiders as the vehicle veers into a snowbank.
I’m a ghost in the trees, a predator in my own woods.
I flank the second vehicle as three mercenaries spill out, weapons raised toward the clubhouse.
They never see me coming. I slide the Ka-Bar from my hip, taking the first one from behind, my hand covering his scream as I open his throat.
The others turn, but I’m already moving—a blur of leather and lethal intent.
I drop the second with two precise rounds to the chest before the third can even find his sight.
The air is thick with the scent of cordite and iron. I hear Logan’s roar from the porch, the heavy rhythmic thrum of his shotgun joining the chorus of death.
A fourth SUV skids into the clearing, the tires kicking up a spray of red-stained slush.
I don't wait for the doors to open. I sprint, my boots hammering the frozen earth.
One merc spills out, reaching for a grenade.
I hit him at full speed, my shoulder caving in his chest before I drive my thumb into his eye socket.
I spin, catching the second one's wrist. The bone snaps with a wet, splintering pop.
I wrench the pistol from his grip and fire point-blank, the heat of the muzzle flash singeing my hair.
A third man lunges with a combat blade. I don't flinch.
I take the edge across my shoulder, the sting only fueling the fire in my gut.
I grab his head and slam it against the steel frame of the vehicle.
Again. And again. My knuckles shred against his teeth and the metal, the skin peeling back, but the adrenaline is a shield.
I don't stop until his skull gives way. I don't stop until the only thing left of his face is a memory of my rage.
I don't stop until the last heat signature in the yard goes cold. I won’t just burn the world for her. I’ll tear it apart with my bare hands until there’s no one left to even remember her name.