Chapter Four
Grace’s throat went dry. Jonah wanted protection from her? She shook her head, unable to stop the protest from spilling out. “I’m no threat to Jonah.”
“Of course you’re not,” Beck snapped, his voice steady enough to ground her. His eyes locked on hers. “But maybe Jonah is a threat to you. Maybe he’s the one who stirred Elena up, made her believe you wanted him dead.”
Grace’s stomach turned. “That doesn’t make sense. I had no motive for that. Yes, there was bad blood between us, but I’m not a killer.”
She hated how thin her voice sounded, how the accusation still stung even though Beck had shut it down.
Denny shifted, stepping closer. “Hey, nobody thinks you’re a killer,” he said. His hand lifted, almost touching her arm, like he meant to steady her.
Grace went stiff, her body refusing the contact. The moment stretched, heavy and awkward.
Denny’s hand dropped, his jaw tightening. The cocky veneer cracked, and for a flicker she saw something else. Not just offense, but hurt. A raw reminder that no matter how many years had passed, he still hated the fact that she had chosen Beck over him.
Grace looked away, her pulse thudding in her ears. The room suddenly felt tighter, charged with more than just suspicion.
The silence stretched until Noah cleared his throat. “Where are you supposed to drop off these supplies, Denny?”
Denny shifted his weight, his eyes flicking between them as if weighing whether to keep the information to himself.
Finally, he said, “An old hunting cabin on Crossfire Creek.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table.
“That’s the address. I had no intention of taking him weapons,” Denny added.
“Just food and the other supplies. That was all.”
“I’d like Jonah’s phone number, too,” Grace said.
That didn’t improve Denny’s sullen expression. “Yeah, sure,” he replied, maybe trying to sound casual, as if it were no big deal, but his tone said otherwise.
Denny grabbed a notepad from the table and took out his phone to retrieve the number that he then jotted down. “But just so you know, Jonah didn’t answer when I tried to call him back. So, he might have disabled it.”
Grace was debating whether she should try to call the man or not, but Noah took out his own phone and fired off a text. “I’ll have the tech check the number,” he said, and a few seconds later, he got a reply. He shook his head. “Disabled.”
Denny made a sound to indicate it’d been what he expected. “I’d like to go with you if you’re planning on speaking to Jonah,” he said, aiming that remark at Grace.
She shook her head. “No.” And she was about to launch into an explanation as to why that wasn’t a good idea when Beck spoke up.
“If Jonah is planning something dangerous, something criminal,” Beck clarified, “then it’s best if we map out a plan before just charging out to see him.”
Denny opened his mouth and then scowled. “I never planned on charging in. So no need to make me out like an idiot.” He stopped, cursed. “Coming here was obviously a fucking big mistake.” He then turned on his heel, walking out without another glance.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Grace exhaled, a long sigh that deflated her chest.
“You’re right about what you’re thinking,” Beck said as he studied her face. “Denny still has feelings for you, and he’s pissed you rejected him.”
Her lips pressed tight. She didn’t want to admit it, but he was right.
“Has he contacted you over the years?” Beck asked.
Grace nodded reluctantly. “Yes. He used to text me. Off and on. I ignored most of them. I finally changed my number a few months ago.”
Beck’s jaw tightened, his expression grim. Grace knew they were of a like mind on this. That Denny might still be circling, still holding a grudge. And that made him just as dangerous as their other suspects.
Noah turned to Beck. “Do you want in on going to the cabin to confront Jonah?”
“Absolutely,” Beck answered without hesitation.
“So do I,” Grace said quickly, her pulse kicking at the thought of finally getting answers.
Noah’s frown cut sharp. “You’re injured.”
“I know,” Grace said, standing her ground. “But I’m going anyway.”
For a long moment Noah kept his stony gaze on her, his expression set, the lines around his mouth deepening.
His frown only grew before he finally gave a short nod.
“Fine. But you’re not going in alone. I’ll assign two more operatives.
The four of you will go in as a team. Gear up and meet at one of the Crossfire Ops vans in the parking lot. ”
Grace’s breath steadied. She had a place in the fight again. Pain or not, she wouldn’t sit on the sidelines while Jonah, or whoever was behind this, kept pulling strings.
Beck’s eyes met hers, concern flickering there, but also something else. Resolve. They were in this together, whether the past between them was settled or not.
Noah left the briefing room, his boots striking a steady rhythm down the hall.
Grace followed Beck out, her body already bracing for what came next.
They made their way to the armory, the familiar scent of gun oil and metal filling the air as racks of weapons lined the walls and gear was stacked in neat rows.
She pulled a vest from the shelf and slid it over her head. The weight pressed against her ribs, sharp enough to make her catch her breath from the pain, but she straightened her shoulders and forced her expression still. She had worn worse. She could manage this.
Beck’s gaze cut to her anyway. He let out a huff, sharp and disapproving, and reached for her hand before she could adjust the straps. His touch was warm, steady, anchoring her where she stood.
“You can sit this out,” he said quietly. “We can loop you in on the camera feed for the entire op.”
Grace met his eyes, letting him see the fire in hers. “I need to know if Jonah is the one who tried to kill me.”
For a long moment he didn’t answer, his jaw tight. Then he gave a short nod, the reluctance clear in his face.
Grace let out the breath she had been holding and adjusted the vest again, ignoring the pain in her side. This was her fight, and she wasn’t going to back away from it.
Beck watched her for another beat, then gathered his own gear, and together they left the armory.
The hall stretched wide and bright, sunlight spilling through tall windows as they headed toward the front of headquarters. The steady rhythm of their boots echoed until two figures came into view near the main doors.
Garrett McCall was already there, keyed up like a live wire.
He moved like a man who didn’t trust shadows, his broad shoulders squared as if he expected something to strike at any moment.
His buzzed dark hair caught the light, and his eyes never stopped scanning, flicking from window to door to hallway.
Beside him, Cal Granger leaned against the wall with the ease of someone who could make a battlefield look casual. His gait carried a lazy rhythm that masked the steel beneath. Tall and rangy, a Texas Rangers ballcap tugged low over his brow, he wore a half-grin like it was part of his uniform.
The sight of them together struck Grace with an odd comfort. One wound tight as a spring, the other loose and easy, but both dangerous and very capable in their own ways.
Beck slowed as they approached, his voice low. “Looks like Noah’s sending us in with the right mix.”
Grace only nodded. Her ribs ached and her arm still throbbed, but the fight ahead felt real now. With Beck at her side and two seasoned operatives waiting, there was no turning back.
They stepped through the glass doors into the sunlight, the chill in the air sharp against Grace’s skin. The four of them angled toward one of the black Crossfire Ops vans parked in the lot, the vehicle gleaming like a predator ready to move.
Before they reached it, the crunch of tires on gravel drew every eye toward the drive. A dark sedan rolled up fast and braked hard, dust curling around its wheels, and Grace saw someone she certainly hadn’t expected to see.
Silas Kemp climbed out.
Early thirties, wiry build like Jonah, though softer around the edges. His clothes looked expensive but ill-fitted, and the sheen of sweat on his brow made him appear more sleazy than sharp. His eyes were jittery, his movements restless, like a man who had burned through his patience hours ago.
“Where is he?” Silas demanded, his voice pitched high with agitation. “Do you have my brother?”
Grace’s stomach twisted. The timing of his arrival scraped against her nerves. They were just about to head to Jonah, and here came Silas storming in. Coincidence?
She doubted it.
Her mind raced, suspicion cutting through her chest. Maybe Jonah and Silas were working together. Maybe this entire thing had been orchestrated.
Or maybe not. Maybe Jonah truly was in hiding, terrified for his life. And someone—Silas, or Denny, or Elena—had poisoned him with the idea that Grace was a threat.
Silas’s gaze dropped to the vests and weapons strapped to them. His eyes darted from Beck to Garrett to Cal, then back to her. “What’s all this? What the hell is going on?” Before anyone could answer, he added, “Does this have anything to do with Denny?”
Grace blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
Silas shifted his weight, his expression twitching with unease.
“Jonah was worried about Denny. Said he couldn’t trust him.
And you, of course.” His gaze flicked to Grace, sharp and accusing before sliding away.
“He was worried about anybody from Strike Force and Crossfire Ops who might be out to get him.”
Grace’s pulse kicked hard. She knew of no one out to get Jonah. But that didn’t mean the man didn’t believe the threat was real.