Chapter Two
The low thump of rotor blades kept rolling through the hangar. Closer this time, heavier. Gage’s instincts kicked in before his brain caught up. He started toward the doors, his boots echoing on concrete.
Could be a Crossfire Ops bird returning from a mission, he told himself. The teams rotated through odd hours all the time. But something about the cadence of the blades didn’t sit right.
Wrong pitch.
Wrong rhythm.
He glanced over at Noah, half expecting the man to give him a grin, a nod, something that said Relax, it’s part of the show. But Noah was already moving, his face tightening as he gave a small shake of his head.
So, not part of the show.
Gage kept moving. Rena fell in right behind him, quiet and sure, her hand brushing the sidearm on her hip. The glow from the birthday candles threw dancing shadows across the floor as they crossed the wide space.
At the doors, Gage pressed his ear to the steel. The rotors were close now. Too close. He could hear the whine of engines throttling down, the faint scrape of boots on gravel outside.
He grabbed the latch and pulled. Nothing. Tried again, harder. The handle didn’t even rattle.
“They’re jammed,” he muttered.
Rena stepped beside him, her expression already shifting from confusion to readiness. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah,” he said, his pulse pounding. “We’re not getting company. We’re getting hit.”
Behind him, the noise hadn’t died down. The kids were still laughing, voices echoing in the dark as a few kept their laser guns flashing red and blue across the equipment racks. They thought it was part of the show, some surprise twist that Lily’s uncle had cooked up.
Gage knew better.
Noah stepped up beside him, the faint glow from the candles catching on the sharp line of his jaw. He punched the override panel beside the door, muttering under his breath. The controls flickered once, then went dead.
“Come on,” Noah growled, trying again. “Manual’s not responding.”
Rena hovered close, weapon drawn now, her eyes tracking every sound. Then it came. The deep, rhythmic thump of another chopper. The second one was closer, heavier. Landing somewhere on the far side of the compound.
Noah turned, his voice cutting through the hangar. “Owen, Ruby, check the rear exit.”
The couple moved fast, cutting across the darkness toward the secondary door at the back of the building. A few of the kids called after them, still laughing, thinking it was all part of the act. The laser-tag sensors blinked like Christmas lights in the black.
Seconds later, Owen’s voice came back, rough with strain. “It’s jammed, too.”
Gage’s gut twisted. “Hell. What’s going on?” He looked at Noah, lowering his voice. “Could this be a prank? Maybe some of Lily’s friends trying to freak everybody out?”
Even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. The chopper blades, the jammed doors—it was too coordinated, too sharp.
Noah’s voice cut through the rising chatter, calm but commanding. “We need to get the kids out. There’s a corridor that connects to the main building. Safe room’s inside. Go now.”
He didn’t shout, but everyone heard him. That tone carried the weight of rank and a lifetime of being obeyed.
Ruby was the first to act. “Move,” she said, waving a handful of teens toward the side door. “Stay close. Don’t panic. Let’s go.”
The birthday excitement had started to drain from the kids’ faces, replaced with the wide-eyed uncertainty that always came before fear.
Gage motioned to the rest, corralling stragglers with Rena and Owen. “You heard her, move. Stick together.” His voice came out sharper than intended, adrenaline already threading through it.
Halfway across the floor, Gage’s earpiece crackled and died. Static hissed for a second, then nothing. He tapped it, then looked up at Noah.
“Comms are gone,” he said.
Noah didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The grim look on his face said he already knew.
Ruby had just reached the far side of the hangar with five of the kids in tow. She hit the access pad, and the corridor door slid open with a hiss. “Inside, go,” she ordered, shoving the last teenager through before stepping in behind them.
Then the door slammed shut. Hard.
Gage lunged toward it. “Ruby,” he called out.
No response. He hit the release. Nothing. The control panel was dead, same as the hangar doors.
He looked at Noah. “She’s trapped on the other side.”
Noah’s jaw locked. “How many with her?”
“Five,” Gage said, doing a quick mental headcount. “That leaves eleven here.”
Gage glanced around at the remaining cluster of kids, their frightened faces washed pale in the faint light from the birthday cake. The heavy silence that followed pressed down like a weight.
Owen’s voice broke it. “We’re sealed in.”
Outside, something metallic scraped against the hangar wall. Slow, deliberate. And Gage knew with absolute certainty that whatever had come in on those choppers wasn’t done yet.
Gage’s gaze swept the hangar, cataloging what they had.
And what they didn’t. Hell. No real weapons.
The racks were empty. Even the training weapons had been swapped out for laser-tag gear, the safeties and bolts locked away to keep the teenagers safe.
He didn’t need to ask who’d made that call.
It was standard procedure for civilian events.
Standard. Safe.
And right now, completely useless.
He checked his belt. His Glock was still there, thank God for habit. Beside him, Rena had hers too, the metal catching the light from the still-flickering birthday candles. Across the room, Noah and Owen followed suit, each weapon coming up smooth and steady, practiced motions even in the dark.
“Ruby, come in,” Owen said into his comm. Static crackled back, sharp and empty. He tried again, louder. “Ruby, do you read?”
Nothing.
The silence felt thick, the kind that crawled under the skin.
Rena glanced at Gage, her mouth a tense line. “Comms are still jammed.”
“Yeah.” Gage scanned the walls again, every sense on alert. The kids huddled near the training barricades, whispering now, their earlier laughter gone.
Noah moved toward them. “Everyone, stay calm,” he said, his voice even. “We’ll get you out of here.”
Gage wanted to believe that.
He tightened his grip on the Glock, its familiar weight grounding him. Outside, the choppers had gone silent, but he could feel the vibration still, like thunder rolling closer under his skin.
A sound cut through the heavy silence. Metal flexing, the low groan of pressure on steel. Gage spun toward the hangar doors, gun up, and his breath stilled.
Then came voices. Men’s voices. Muffled through the wall but close. The cadence was crisp, purposeful. The kind that came from people used to giving orders and carrying them out under fire.
Movement followed. Boots. The rasp of gear. The dull, heavy clang of something being set against the door.
Gage’s stomach dropped. “Someone’s trying to get in,” he said.
Rena’s reaction was instant. “We need to hide the kids.”
Noah’s head snapped up. “Do it. Now.”
They broke into motion, training taking over where panic wanted to. Owen grabbed the nearest cluster—four kids frozen beside the mock obstacle course—and steered them toward the far side of the hangar.
“In there,” Owen ordered, pointing toward a concrete culvert used for low-crawl drills. It was half buried under a tarp and equipment crates, big enough for them to squeeze inside. “Stay low, stay quiet.”
The kids scrambled in, the sound of their quick breathing echoing inside the narrow tunnel.
Noah had Lily by the shoulder now, her face pale and frightened but holding it together better than most. He motioned for four more to follow him toward the old storage alcove near the utility corridor. It was lined with tool chests and spare gear. It wasn’t much, but it offered cover.
“Keep your heads down,” Noah told them. “Don’t move unless I come for you.”
That left two, one boy and one girl, who panicked before anyone could reach them. They bolted in opposite directions, sneakers squealing on the concrete.
“Wait—” Rena started, but they were already gone, vanishing behind the stacked cargo pallets and training barriers.
The noise at the hangar door intensified. Metal grinding, something heavy snapping under strain.
Gage’s pulse kicked hard. He ducked behind a steel beam, checked the Glock’s chamber, and he met Rena’s eyes across the dim light.
The noise at the hangar doors built into a deep, mechanical roar. Metal screeched, bolts gave way, and Gage could feel the tremor through the floor. The kids were huddled where they’d been hidden, eyes wide, hands clamped over their mouths to keep from sobbing.
“Quiet,” Noah said, voice low but steady, the kind of command that cut through panic. “Everyone, stay down and stay quiet.”
Noah moved to the front of the hangar, weapon up and ready. Owen took a position to his right, Rena to his left, and Gage flanked beside her. The four of them formed a loose line, backs to the scattered light of the birthday candles, faces toward the black outline of the door.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped. No movement. No sound but the hum of the emergency power grid dying its last breath. Then the doors jerked apart, an explosion of noise and light and wind—
Something small and metallic clattered across the floor.
Flashbang.
“Down!” Gage shouted.
The detonation ripped the world apart. The sound hit first, a brutal crack that shattered air and thought, followed by white light so violent it erased everything for a heartbeat too long. His eardrums screamed. His vision tore open into blinding streaks of white and violet.
He hit the concrete, blinking, shaking his head to clear the ringing. His stomach lurched, his pulse pounding behind his eyes. The kids were screaming now, raw, terrified sounds bouncing off the steel walls. Somewhere metal fell, skittering across the floor.