Crossfire Creek Betrayal (Hard Justice, Crossfire Creek #5)

Chapter One

Garrett McCall braced under the bar, muscles tight as he pushed through another slow rep.

The ache in his shoulder was sharp, a reminder of the op that had gone bad a week ago.

He told himself the weight would work it loose, force the stiffness out.

He needed control. Discipline. The rhythm kept his mind steady.

If he let go of that rhythm, the memories crowded in. Not just the chaos from last week, but years of missions that never really left him. Some with his current team, Crossfire Ops. More from his time in the Marines.

Faces. Sand and blood. Screams that still clawed through his head in the quiet hours. Baggage stacked so high it threatened to crush him. He could feel it eating at the edges of him like acid, and the only way to fight back was to keep moving.

Push harder. Don’t stop.

He would have stuck with it until his arms gave out if the training room door hadn’t flown open.

“Garrett?” he heard the woman call out.

Isla Prescott. Crossfire Ops’ top tech. Of course, she was a whole lot more than that to him, and she was part of that old baggage he was battling.

Garrett racked the bar and sat up fast. Yeah, it was Isla all right. She stood in the doorway, breathless, short choppy blonde hair sticking damp against her temples, blue eyes wide and frantic. Her phone was clutched tight in her hand.

Hell.

Something was wrong. But then he’d known that when he heard her call out his name. Even though they worked on the same team and had that baggage filled history together, Isla didn’t make it a habit of seeking him out.

He swiped sweat from his face with the towel. “What is it?”

“Trudy just called,” Isla blurted. Her voice was sharp, uneven. “She says someone’s out back at the ranch. Lurking near the sheds. She sounded scared.”

Garrett got another blast of the old baggage. And instant worry. Trudy Darcel. His foster mother. The woman who’d actually given a shit about him and vice versa. Trudy also wasn’t the sort to blow anything out of proportion. If she had sounded scared, then she likely had a damn good reason to be.

Garrett tugged his shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to damp skin, and shrugged into his jacket. Isla stayed close on his heels as they cut through the hallway and pushed outside.

The early evening air slapped him in the face. Late February, cold enough to sting his lungs, a reminder that winter wasn’t ready to loosen its grip. Gravel crunched under their boots as they hurried to his truck.

He climbed in behind the wheel, Isla sliding into the passenger seat.

The engine rumbled to life, headlights spearing through the dark as he pointed them toward the road.

Ten miles of blacktop stretched ahead, ten miles to the ranch where he had spent a decade of his life.

Isla, eight years. Long enough for the place to carve itself deep into both of them.

“Did Trudy say anything else?” he asked, his voice low.

Isla shook her head. “No. Just that someone was out there. I considered telling her to call the county cops, but I figured we’d get there faster.”

They would. Because unlike the county cops, this wasn’t just a job for them. This was Trudy. This was a woman they’d protect at all cost.

He tightened his grip on the wheel. “Call Trudy,” he ordered, his voice activating the truck’s command system. The console lit up, dialing.

The line rang. And rang.

No answer.

His gut knotted hard, alarm spiking through him. Trudy might be seventy-three, but she sure as hell wasn’t fragile. She had a will of iron and the instincts to match. If she wasn’t picking up, then something was very wrong.

Garrett pressed harder on the gas. They had to get there. Fast.

The truck ate up the road, tires humming over the blacktop as the Hill Country rolled past in the dark.

Ridges loomed like jagged shadows against a clouded sky, live oaks knotting the land on either side.

It was country Garrett knew by heart. Every mile cut the distance between him and Trudy, and every mile tightened the coil in his gut.

Beside him, Isla shifted. He caught the gleam of metal as she drew a pistol from the slide holster at the back of her jeans and set it across her lap.

His eyes flicked to the weapon, then to her. “How you doing?”

She knew what he meant. He didn’t have to spell it out.

That mission a year back had left her broken, spine opened up on an operating table.

He knew the injury had been serious. Knew it was the reason she had been pulled from the field.

What he didn’t know was how far she could push herself now if it came down to a fight.

“I can still kick a trespasser’s ass if it comes down to it,” Isla assured him, her gaze steady on the road ahead.

Garrett nodded once, turned his focus back to the dark highway. He wanted to believe her. He had to. Because if someone was inside Trudy’s place, they’d both need to be at their best.

Four miles to go. The headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the dark, the road twisting tighter as they cut deeper into the Hill Country.

“When’s the last time you saw Trudy?” Isla asked quietly.

Garrett kept his eyes on the road. “Christmas.” The word landed heavy. Too damn long. Back to back ops wasn’t an excuse, and he knew it.

Isla shifted in her seat. “Same here. Christmas.”

But not at the same time.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, let the silence sit between them. Sometimes the past was a weight that made being in the same space too damn hard. That was what had happened with Isla and him.

The road narrowed, curving through stands of oak, and Garrett’s grip tightened on the wheel. He thought of the baby. Little Harris. The newborn who had gone missing from the foster home when he and Isla were sixteen.

Twenty-two years ago. A lifetime. And yet it felt like yesterday. Felt like it was still happening.

He could still hear Trudy’s voice calling from the kitchen, her laughter with the social worker, the ordinary sounds of the house. Harris had been in the nursery. He and Isla had been in the hall outside the door. Supposed to be keeping watch. Supposed to be responsible.

But they hadn’t been.

While Isla and he had been making out, someone had slipped in and stolen Harris. Gone. Vanished without a trace.

The guilt never loosened its grip. Impossible to overcome something like that. Being around Isla only drove the knife deeper, because she was tied to the same moment. To the same failure.

So, yeah. Avoidance had become their norm.

And now, with Trudy scared and not answering her phone, all of it came rushing back, jagged and raw.

The truck roared down the last stretch of road, and Garrett swung into the drive. The ranch came into view, dark against the low sweep of clouds.

The place wasn’t fancy. Never had been. A sprawling three-story Victorian house with peeling white paint and a barn tucked off to the side. Fences that needed mending. But it was home.

No lights burned inside.

Garrett’s pulse kicked hard as he braked to a stop in front of the house. He was already reaching for his gun, sliding out of the cab before the tires stilled. Isla hit the ground beside him, weapon in hand, keeping pace as they bolted up the porch steps.

The front door gaped open. Ajar.

Not good.

Garrett moved in close, heart hammering, ready to breach. Then he caught it. Movement out back. A shadow cutting fast across the pasture, darting for the cover of the tree line.

He swore under his breath. “Go. Check on Trudy.” His voice was low, hard.

Isla didn’t argue. She swung toward the door.

Garrett jumped from the porch and sprinted into the night, boots pounding frozen ground as he tore after the runner.

He cut across the yard, lungs burning as he pushed into the pasture.

The night was thick and black, no moon to cut the shadows.

His target stayed just ahead, a blur of movement, all in black with a hood pulled low.

He pressed harder, closing ground, but never enough to get a good look. The figure slipped through the barbed-wire break and vanished into the trees.

Garrett followed, pistol steady in his grip. Branches slapped at his arms. The woods swallowed sound, then cracked open with a gunshot.

The bullet snapped past his ear.

Garrett dropped flat, dirt cold against his chest, weapon up and ready. He scanned the dark, breath harsh in his ears.

Nothing but stillness.

He knew these trees, though. An old trail wound through, a path Trudy had walked a thousand times to gather firewood. Whoever he was chasing knew it too.

Another second of silence. Then the low growl of an engine. Tires biting hard.

Garrett rose to a crouch, fury boiling in his veins as the sound of a vehicle roared away into the night.