Chapter 44 Logan
Logan
The drunk tank smelled like sweat and bleach. My knuckles ached, my jaw was swollen, and I could still taste blood where the cop’s fist had split my lip.
They’d shoved me in here after I’d swung on one of them—because they wouldn’t let me take my bird up. Not even when the comms had gone dead. Not even when my sister was out there in the storm, with killers crawling all over the ridge. No one believed me, or acted like they didn’t believe me.
I slammed the heel of my hand against the steel bench, rage boiling up within me. “Damn bastards.”
The deputy outside didn’t even look up from his phone. To them, I was just another hothead ex-SEAL who didn’t know when to stand down.
But I wasn’t wrong. I could’ve gotten eyes in the air. Could’ve brought those kids home faster. Could’ve backed Adam’s team before they nearly got slaughtered. Could have gotten my sister out. I heard about what happened.
Instead, I was stuck here while my sister bled for it.
The door buzzed. Heavy boots echoed down the hall. A shadow filled the doorway, broad-shouldered, dripping with rain.
Adam Stoker.
His face was a wreck—mud, blood, exhaustion carved into every line. But his eyes… they burned.
“Carter,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “You and I need to talk.”