Chapter Eight
Steam still clung to the mirror when Gage stepped out of the shower. His shoulder ached like hell, the stitched wound pulling with every movement, but it wasn’t the pain keeping him awake. It was the waiting.
He’d managed maybe two hours of sleep, if that, and even those had been restless, filled with flashes of gunfire and smoke. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the hangar. The kids. The chaos.
Now, with the dawn creeping pale light through the barracks window, he moved on autopilot.
Training uniform of camo pants, olive Crossfire Ops tee.
Boots next, laces cinched hard. He holstered his Glock that he’d retrieved from the hangar floor before even thinking about coffee.
After last night, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d walk anywhere in the compound without a weapon.
The barracks were quiet, the hum of the air system and the faint drip of the shower the only sounds. He caught his reflection in the mirror. Eyes bloodshot, jaw dark with stubble, exhaustion stamped into every line. But beneath it all was a focus that burned steady.
Thirty minutes, maybe less. Then Noah will give them answers. Names. Motives. Something to make sense of the madness that had blown their world apart.
When Gage stepped out of his cubicle, the smell hit him first. Coffee.
Hot, dark, and exactly what he needed to keep his eyes open.
Rena was leaning against the wall, a go-cup in each hand.
Her hair was pulled back, a few damp strands framing her face.
She looked as if she’d slept even less than he had, but somehow still managed to make fatigue look good. Too good.
“Tell me that’s for me,” he said, nodding toward the cup she held out.
She arched a brow. “Depends. Are you planning to bite anyone before breakfast?”
He gave a half-grin and took it from her. “Not unless they come between me and caffeine.”
The first swallow burned down his throat, strong enough to wake the dead. “You might’ve just saved my life for a second time,” he muttered, taking another gulp.
Rena smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There were shadows there, same as his. The tension still clung to her like static. Part of that tension was from the kiss. He knew that. But he also knew she wouldn’t let that kiss get in the way of what they had to do.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice breaking through the thoughts.
He nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go find out who tried to kill us.”
The coffee was already cooling in Gage’s hand by the time they crossed the corridor into the main headquarters building. The compound felt different this morning, still quiet, but with an undercurrent of energy, as if everyone was braced for impact.
Rena walked beside him, both of them moving on muscle memory, caffeine doing the heavy lifting to keep them upright.
When they stepped into the briefing room, it was already buzzing. The wall of monitors glowed in shifting blues and greens, data feeds and satellite images flickering across the screens. It wasn’t even zero-seven-hundred yet, but most of the key players were already there.
Noah stood at the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, already working.
Owen and Ruby flanked him, both looking as if they’d been awake all night.
Sheriff Arden Chase leaned against the end of the table, coffee in hand, her short blonde hair pulled back, every inch the no-nonsense former soldier she was.
Isla sat at her usual station, typing fast, two other techs working beside her, screens casting cold light across their faces.
On the far side of the room, there were two men Gage hadn’t expected to see.
Cal Granger and Garrett McCall were in quiet conversation.
Both operatives, both former special forces.
“Guess we’re not the only ones who couldn’t sleep,” Rena murmured beside him.
Gage gave a dry grunt. “Yeah. Looks like it’s gonna be a full house.”
They made their way toward the table, nodding to a few familiar faces. Gage caught Noah’s eye for a brief moment, enough to see the resolve there. They were all running on fumes, caffeine, and fury.
“How are the kids?” Gage asked. The images of those terrified faces in the hangar weren’t leaving his head anytime soon.
“They’re all safe. With their parents.” Noah paused, glancing toward the far corner where the sisters had sat last night.
“Riley and Lily are with their dad now. I’ve got guards on all of them, twenty-four-seven.
I’m not taking chances. Whoever planned this might try to tie up loose ends, or send a message. ”
Good.
After what happened last night, Gage wouldn’t put anything past the son of a bitch behind the attack.
The smell of eggs and bacon suddenly filled the room as someone wheeled in a tray of breakfast sandwiches.
It didn’t do much to soften the tension, but the food disappeared fast. Fuel, not comfort.
Gage grabbed one mostly out of habit, unwrapping the foil as his gaze drifted to some wall monitors that suddenly sprang to life.
Three photos with their names beneath them.
Brady Halden. Rhett Danner. Dr. Corrine Astor.
The first two didn’t ring any bells. Halden had that cold, corporate look, maybe a financier. Danner’s face screamed mercenary. But the third, yeah, he knew that one.
Dr. Corrine Astor.
Gage’s stomach tightened, the sandwich forgotten in his hand.
Around Crossfire Ops, her name was damn near a curse word.
Former military psychologist, assigned to treat operatives from both Maverick Ops and Strike Force who were coming off high-risk missions.
Smart, persuasive, too polished for her own good.
And dangerous in a way that didn’t show until it was too late.
She’d leaked details of a covert op, one involving multiple teams, and the fallout had been catastrophic. An operative had been killed because of her, and others were wounded. Corrine had been publicly discredited, stripped of her license, her contracts, everything that had made her somebody.
He glanced at Noah, who was stone-faced, unreadable as he studied the monitor. But there was a flicker there, just for an instant. A tightening around the eyes, a shadow of something personal.
Shit. This had just gotten a whole lot messier.
Gage watched Noah closely, and it didn’t take a genius to see what was going on behind the man’s eyes. Noah was already taking the blame for last night. The guilt was written in the taut line of his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the back of his chair before he finally sat down.
Everyone took their seats around the long table, the murmur in the room fading as Noah stood again and faced the wall of screens. The three photos glowed even in the harsh overhead light. Brady Halden, Rhett Danner, Dr. Corrine Astor.
“After going through thousands of files, cross-checks, and data pulls,” Noah said, voice gravel-rough from fatigue, “these are the three most likely suspects. And before anyone says it, yes, Dr. Corrine Astor and I have a history.”
The air tightened.
“It ended badly,” he went on, his tone flat but hard. “After I found out she used me. Used Strike Force and Maverick Ops. She wanted details on an operation we were running, intel she could sell. She fed that information to a silent business partner.”
He paused, and the silence in the room was absolute.
“That intel got her partner killed,” Noah said, the words edged with something that might have been old grief. Or fury held in check. “And it got one of our operatives killed, too.”
Gage’s hand curled into fists under the table. He knew better than to speak when Noah was holding himself together by sheer will, but every instinct in him burned for payback. If Corrine Astor was behind last night’s attack, then she wasn’t just a disgraced shrink.
She was a traitor who’d just declared war on Crossfire Ops.
Noah picked up the remote and tapped a button. The photo of Corrine expanded across the center monitor, her file opening beside it. Her face was sharp and polished, with a confident smile, the kind of woman who’d been used to commanding attention on camera.
“Corrine Astor,” Noah said, his tone clipped and professional now.
“Age forty-two. Doctorate in Clinical Psychology from Stanford. Undergraduate at Georgetown. Former Air Force consultant, rank of major before she went civilian. After that, she built a reputation in trauma and performance psychology. Media appearances, speaking tours, multiple government contracts.”
He paused, his gaze fixed on her picture. “She comes from old money. The Astors have been East Coast elite for generations, but Corrine wanted her own empire. She nearly had it—book deals, think-tank consulting, the works—until she leaked classified intel from a joint mission.”
Gage swore under his breath. He remembered the fallout. Operators pulled from the field, cover identities burned, one of Noah’s men dead. The whole thing had shaken Maverick Ops and Strike Force to its core.
Noah continued, voice low. “She lost everything. License revoked. Contracts terminated. Blacklisted from government work.” He tapped the remote again, bringing up a line of smaller photos, public appearances, gala shots, headlines.
Dr. Corrine Astor: The Mind Behind Elite Warriors.
Scandal and Betrayal: The Psychologist Who Crossed the Line.
Gage’s jaw tightened. “So she went from TV spots and TED Talks to nothing.”
“Nothing,” Noah agreed. “And people like her don’t live with nothing for long.”
Rena leaned forward, her voice steady but cold. “Then she had a score to settle.”
Gage nodded, eyes still on Corrine’s picture. Her confident smile seemed to mock them through the screen.
“Did she go to jail for it?” Rena asked. “Leaking intel that got people killed, seems like that should’ve earned her some time behind bars.”