Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
KAYLEY
The first time I see them loading the SUVs, my brain tries to pretend it’s a movie.
Because it has to.
Otherwise I’ll think about what it means when men you trust pull on tactical vests and check weapons with quiet, practiced movements. Otherwise I’ll think about the fact that there are real bullets, real knives, real plans to hurt people who deserve it.
Otherwise I’ll think about Sophie.
And Aidan.
And how close I came to losing him.
The air is sharp with cold, but the compound yard is alive with motion—engines idling, doors slamming, equipment being checked twice.
Rhett is running comms checks, headset on.
Boyd is loading hard cases into the back of the lead SUV like they weigh nothing.
Chase and Wyatt are moving between vehicles, carrying gear with the kind of efficiency that says they’ve done this more times than I want to imagine.
Rafe’s voice cuts through it all, calm and controlled, giving final instructions.
And Gavin—
Gavin is a storm.
He moves around me constantly, not frantic, but always there. Like a shield. Like he’s tracking every angle even when he’s talking to me. His eyes flick to the tree line, to the gate, to the ridge, then back to me like he’s reassuring himself I’m still right where he left me.
I hate how much I need it.
I hate how much it comforts me.
Because it makes me feel safe… and I know nothing is safe.
I tug my coat tighter and try to steady my breathing.
“You sure you want to do this?” Harper asked earlier, holding Aidan like he’d been born in her arms.
Aidan’s sleepy and warm and safe right now. Poppi is babbling beside him, completely unaware that the adults around her are gearing up to hunt monsters.
Harper’s face had been gentle, but her eyes were serious. She understood what this costs.
I told her yes. Because if I don’t do this, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if I failed Sophie.
Gavin steps in front of me now, blocking my view of the SUVs, his gloved hands settling on my arms.
His touch is firm, grounding. “Hey,” he says quietly.
I blink up at him. “Hey.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.” I say it automatically, stubbornly, even though my teeth are literally chattering.
His mouth twitches. “You’re shaking.”
“Okay. Fine.” I blow out a breath. “I’m shaking.”
His gaze softens. Not weak. Not pitying. Just… there. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I’m not proving anything,” I whisper. “I’m… taking my life back.”
His jaw tightens like my words hit something deep. He leans in, forehead brushing mine for a second—too intimate for a yard full of armed men, but I don’t care. “I’m going to keep you safe,” he murmurs.
My throat tightens. “I know.”
He pulls back enough to look into my eyes. “Listen to me. When we get to the site, you stay in the SUV. Doors locked. No matter what. No matter who you see. No matter what you hear.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Say it,” he insists, voice harder now—the commander voice.
“I will stay in the SUV. I will lock the doors. I won’t open them for anyone. No matter what.”
His eyes hold mine like he’s imprinting the vow into my skull. “Good.” He kisses my forehead again—quick, rough, like he can’t help himself—then turns and motions me toward the second vehicle.
Chase catches my eye as I pass. “Hey, Kayley.”
I pause.
He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “When this is over, you’re officially one of us. We’ll throw you a welcome party. It’ll be lame, because Boyd doesn’t dance, but still.”
Boyd, without looking up from the gear case, rumbles, “I dance.”
Chase blinks. “You do not.”
Boyd shrugs. “I can.”
I let out a laugh—thin, shaky—but it helps. It reminds me these men are human. That they’ve built something real here. That I’m not walking into this alone.
Gavin opens the SUV door for me like I’m precious cargo, and I hate how much I like it.
I climb in and buckle myself into the back seat. My hands are cold even inside my gloves.
Gavin leans in close, his face inches from mine. “You keep your radio on. If anything feels off—anything—you speak up.”
My voice is small. “What if I get scared?”
His eyes darken. “Then you breathe, and you remember this: nobody gets you without going through me.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
He points at the lock. “Lock it.”
I do. I press the button, and the locks click down.
He watches me do it like it’s a test.
Then he nods once and shuts the door.
The engine hums. And we move.
The drive is quiet. Not because it’s peaceful. Because everyone is in that focused silence operators get into when their brains are already inside the mission.
The SUVs cut through the snowy roads in a tight line, headlights glaring against the gray. I sit in the back seat and stare out the window, my breath fogging the glass, trying not to think about what could happen.
Trying not to think about Aidan’s face.
Trying not to think about Sophie’s last text to me.
The one I never replied to because I was busy and thought I had time.
I hate myself for that.
We pull into a staging area near an industrial stretch outside Timber Creek—flat land, warehouse shapes looming in the distance like dark teeth.
Floodlights glare harshly against snow. There are FBI vehicles here—unmarked SUVs, a couple of black vans, men and women in tactical gear with FBI patches moving with clipped efficiency.
This is real.
Gavin comes to my door and opens it just enough to speak to me.
“You stay here,” he says again.
I nod, heart hammering. “I will.”
He leans in, his hand bracing on the door frame. His eyes search mine like he’s trying to memorize my face. Like he’s afraid this is the last time.
Don’t think that.
Don’t even let that thought exist.
“Lock it,” he says.
“I know.”
“Do it anyway.”
I press the lock again. Click.
He watches. Satisfied.
Then he touches my cheek—just one gentle brush of his thumb. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod, throat tight. “Go.”
He shuts the door and moves away, joining the others as they form up. I watch through the windshield as Haven 7 merges with the FBI team like they were built for this.
Rafe signals.
Rhett checks comms.
Boyd shifts his weapon, scanning the building.
Chase does something that looks like a joke to Wyatt, but Wyatt doesn’t laugh—just nods.
And then they move. They disappear into the night, swallowed by the looming warehouse and the harsh lights and the wind.
And I am alone. In a locked SUV. With my heartbeat pounding like a drum. I keep my hands in my lap and force myself to breathe. One inhale. One exhale. I glance at the rearview mirror.
Nothing.
I glance out the side window.
Nothing.
Just snow and empty lot and the shadow of the warehouse.
Minutes pass.
I try not to count them.
Then my radio crackles—voices, clipped, urgent. I can’t make out all the words, but I catch phrases like “breach” and “clear” and “east side”.
They’re inside.
They’re doing it.
My stomach twists. Fear and pride tangling together.
Maybe this ends tonight.
Maybe the nightmare stops.
A shape moves at the far edge of the lot.
I stiffen.
It’s a man. Walking too calmly. Too casually.
He’s not FBI. No patch. No visible gear.
He heads toward the SUVs.
My heart slams into my ribs.
Don’t open the door.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I try to call for help with the radio but there’s nothing. No answer. Silence.
The man comes closer, and the floodlights catch his face. Sharp jaw. Dark hair. A smile that isn’t warm at all. My blood turns to ice.
I know him.
Even though I met him once—just once—and it was a year ago, when Sophie was still Sophie and not a ghost in my heart.
Damon Ford.
He stops at my door and looks right at me through the tinted glass like he knew exactly which vehicle I was in.
Like he knew exactly where I’d be.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
He raises his hand slowly, almost like he’s greeting me. Then he swings something hard—metal, maybe—and smashes it into the window.
The glass spiderwebs, cracks racing across it.
I scream—finally, instinct taking over—but my scream is swallowed by the sound of shattering glass as he hits it again.
The window explodes inward. Cold air rushes in.
My body recoils, hands coming up. He reaches through, grabs my coat, and yanks me toward the broken opening.
I kick. I claw. I twist. “No!” I scream. “Gavin!”
Ford’s eyes are cold. “Wrong mountain, sweetheart.”
Two more men appear behind him, moving fast.
One of them opens the other door—how?—like they have a jammer or a tool, like locks are just suggestions to people like this.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth.
I bite.
Hard.
The man grunts, jerking back, but Ford catches my wrist and twists it, pain shooting up my arm.
“Stop,” he says, voice low and furious. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
I shake my head wildly, trying to scream again, but the hand over my mouth stays firm. My eyes burn with tears and rage as I thrash.
Ford leans in close enough that I can smell him—clean cologne and something rotten underneath.
“You took something that belongs to us,” he murmurs. “We’re collecting.”
“I don’t have him!” I choke out the words against the hand.
Ford’s smile is sharp. “No. But you know where he is.”
My stomach drops.
They’re not here for just me.
They’re using me.
A horn blares in the distance. A shout.
But it’s too late.
They haul me out of the SUV, dragging me across the icy ground toward a plain white van parked just beyond the lights. My boots slip, and I go down hard, knees slamming into ice.
Pain bursts, but I fight anyway.
Hands grip my arms, yank me up, shove me forward. The van doors open. A dark mouth waiting to swallow me.
I scream again, throat ripping, hoping—praying—someone hears. Then a cloth presses to my face.
Chemical, sharp, dizzying.
My head swims. My limbs go heavy.
No—no—no—
The last thing I see is Ford’s eyes, calm and certain, as if this was inevitable.
As if I was never going to win.
And then the van doors slam shut, and the world becomes darkness and shaking motion, and my thoughts fracture like glass.