CHAPTER 8
Callum
The human body is not designed to process violence and intimacy at the same time.
The neurological pathways for combat—the flood of cortisol, the hyper-awareness of the environment, the absolute suppression of empathy—are supposed to run entirely separate from the pathways that process comfort.
But standing in the cold, concrete basement, with the smell of gunpowder still burning my sinuses, those two systems collide.
Gemma’s hands are gripping the back of my t-shirt so tightly I can feel her knuckles digging through the fabric into my spine.
She is shaking. It’s not the subtle, nervous tremor she had in the car.
It is a deep, violent shudder, the physical manifestation of a nervous system trying to reboot after a near-death experience.
I don't let her go.
My left hand is pressed flat against the center of her back, right between her shoulder blades, anchoring her to my chest. My right hand is buried in the thick, chaotic mess of her dark hair.
I can feel the exact rhythm of her breathing. It is fast, shallow, and entirely out of sync with my own.
"I have you," I repeat, the words rough and completely stripped of my usual control.
I shouldn't be holding her.
Every protocol I have ever learned, every instinct I have honed over the last eight years, is screaming at me to step back.
The perimeter is compromised. There are three dead men in the woods, one dead man in the mudroom, and one dead man bleeding out on the concrete floor less than five feet away from us.
There are still three shooters unaccounted for.
I need to secure the house. I need to check the camera feeds. I need to reload my weapons.
Instead, I close my eyes and press my jaw against the top of her head.
She lets out a small, broken sound—a half-sob, half-laugh—and presses her face harder into the curve of my neck. "You’re bleeding on me."
"I told you," I murmur, my voice vibrating against her collarbone. "It’s not my blood."
"Right. Good. Because if you die down here, I have absolutely no idea how to hide the body." She takes a sharp, ragged breath. "And I don't think my back could take the strain of dragging you up the stairs."
The sarcasm is a defense mechanism. It’s a fragile, transparent shield she throws up to keep herself from completely falling apart.
I slowly loosen my grip on her, stepping back just enough to look at her face.
She keeps her hands on my chest for a second longer, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, before she finally lets go.
She takes a step back, her boots scuffing against the concrete.
She looks incredibly small, swallowed by the oversized cashmere hoodie, her face pale and smeared with gray plaster dust from the breached door.
Her dark eyes drop to the floor.
The mercenary I killed is lying at the bottom of the stairs. His neck is at an unnatural angle. The dark pool of blood spreading beneath him looks black in the pale light of the computer monitors.
Gemma stares at the body. The color drains completely from her face.
I step sideways, physically blocking her line of sight.
"Look at me," I order.
She doesn't immediately comply. Her gaze is fixed on the edge of the mercenary’s tactical boot.
I reach out, catching her chin between my thumb and index finger. My touch is firm, but not bruising. I force her head up until her eyes meet mine.
"Look at me," I say again, keeping my voice low and steady. "He is dead. He cannot hurt you. Do not look at him."
She swallows hard, her throat working against my thumb. "I shot at him."
"You did exactly what you were supposed to do."
"I missed." Her voice cracks. "I emptied half the magazine, and I missed."
"You laid down suppressing fire," I correct her, my thumb brushing lightly against the edge of her jaw. Her skin is freezing. "You forced him to take cover, which delayed his breach long enough for me to reach the stairs. You didn't miss, Gemma. You bought us time."
She blinks, processing the tactical assessment. The logic seems to ground her, pulling her back from the edge of the panic attack.
"Okay," she whispers. She pulls her head back, breaking the contact with my hand. She wraps her arms around her waist, shivering. "Okay. What now?"
I drop my hand, the sudden absence of her skin leaving a strange, cold sensation on my fingertips.
I turn my attention back to the room. The heavy steel door is hanging off its hinges at the top of the stairs, completely useless. The basement is no longer a secure environment.
"Now, we move," I say, walking over to the server desk.
I pick up the Sig Sauer she dropped. The slide is locked back, indicating the magazine is empty. I eject the empty mag, letting it hit the floor, and pull a fresh one from my cargo pocket. I slam it home and rack the slide. The sharp, metallic clack echoes loudly in the basement.
I look at the primary monitor.
The four-way camera grid she pulled up is still active.
I pause, staring at the screen. I didn't give her the password to the surveillance system. I didn't tell her the IP address.
"You hacked the internal network," I say, glancing over my shoulder at her.
She rubs her arms, looking defensive. "I got bored. And I didn't want to sit in the dark waiting to be murdered. Your password security is terrible, by the way. Control ? Really? You might as well have used Password123 ."
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth. I should be angry that she breached my system, but the sheer, stubborn competence of it is difficult to criticize.
I focus on the camera feeds.
Camera One: Front driveway. Empty. Camera Two: Living room. Empty. Camera Three: Rear perimeter. The three bodies I left in the brush are still there. No movement.
I switch the feed to the external thermal cameras mounted on the roof line. The screen shifts from grayscale to deep blue, searching for heat signatures.
Nothing.
The remaining three mercenaries have pulled back.
They lost five men in under ten minutes. A professional team doesn't continue a blind assault after taking sixty percent casualties. They retreat, regroup, and wait for daylight or reinforcements.
"They fell back," I say, turning away from the monitors.
"Are you sure?" Gemma asks, her eyes darting toward the broken doorway at the top of the stairs.
"They are mercenaries, not martyrs," I reply. "They won't push a fortified position without a tactical advantage. We have a window."
"A window to do what? Run?"
"We can't run. The Audi is compromised, and trying to hike out of these mountains on foot in the dark is suicide." I walk over to the dead mercenary on the floor. I crouch down, gripping the heavy nylon straps of his tactical vest. "We hold the position. But we cannot hold it from the basement."
"Why not?"
"Because there is only one exit," I say, hauling the dead weight of the body up.
The man was easily two hundred pounds in full gear.
My muscles strain as I drag him toward the dark corner of the room, behind the server racks, out of the immediate line of sight.
"If they drop a fragmentation grenade down those stairs, we have nowhere to go. "
I drop the body. It hits the concrete with a dull thud.
I turn back to Gemma. She is watching me, her expression a complicated mix of horror and grim acceptance.
"Grab the drive," I tell her.
She reaches into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out the black rectangle, and holds it tightly in her fist.
"Follow me," I say, walking toward the stairs. "Step exactly where I step. Keep your head down."
I lead the way up the wooden stairs, my Glock raised, sweeping the dark hallway as we clear the broken doorway. The house is still dead silent. The smell of cordite and plaster dust is thick in the air.
We move through the hallway, bypassing the kitchen, and enter the living room.
The destruction is absolute.
The moonlight pours in through the massive, jagged holes in the ballistic glass, casting long, sharp shadows across the ruined furniture. The cold mountain wind sweeps through the room, carrying the scent of pine needles and impending rain.
Gemma stops just inside the doorway, staring at the shattered glass.
"They really hate your interior decorator," she whispers.
I don't smile, but the corner of my mouth twitches. Her ability to find humor in a war zone is a psychological anomaly I still haven't fully categorized.
"Stay away from the windows," I instruct, moving toward the hallway that leads to the master bedroom. "Keep to the interior walls."
We reach the bedroom at the end of the hall. It is the most secure room on the upper floor, positioned at the center of the house, with only one small, high window that is currently covered by a steel shutter.
I open the door and step inside, clearing the corners before gesturing for her to follow.
The room is pitch black.
I walk over to the nightstand, open the top drawer, and pull out a heavy, tactical flashlight. I click it on, pointing the beam at the ceiling so the light diffuses across the room without creating a direct target for anyone outside.
The soft, ambient glow reveals a large, unmade king-size bed, a dark wood dresser, and a heavy oak door leading to an en-suite bathroom.
"Sit," I say, pointing to the edge of the bed.
Gemma doesn't argue. She walks over and sits down, the mattress sinking slightly under her weight. She pulls her knees up to her chest again, resting her chin on them. She looks exhausted. The adrenaline has completely left her system, leaving behind a hollow, fragile shell.
I set the flashlight on the dresser, ensuring the beam stays pointed upward.
I need to check the perimeter. I need to drag the body out of the mudroom. I need to barricade the broken basement door.
But I don't move toward the hallway.
I look at Gemma. There is a streak of gray dust across her left cheek, and a small, angry red scrape on her jaw where she must have hit the floor when she fell.