Chapter Ten #2
Inside, the hangar was empty. Too empty. No crates, no tools, no signs of anyone around. Just a cavernous stretch of concrete that gleamed faintly under the slanting light from a row of grimy windows.
And the smell—strong enough to sting.
“Bleach,” Rena said, wrinkling her nose.
“Yeah,” Gage answered grimly, scanning the corners. “Someone power-washed this place clean. Down to the bones.”
Cal crouched, touching a faint puddle near the drain in the floor. “Still wet. They just finished.”
Gage’s jaw clenched. “Means they knew we’d come looking.”
He raised his weapon again, every sense on high alert. Whatever had gone down here, they’d buried it. Literally washed it away.
The low rumble of an engine cut through the silence.
Gage froze, head tilting toward the sound. It was somewhere beyond the hangar, too deliberate to be wind. Garrett signaled the others—hands up, guns ready—and they slipped back toward the open doorway.
A black pickup appeared at the end of the trail, dust pluming behind it. It slowed, then stopped a few yards from the hangar. The driver’s door opened, and a tall man stepped out. Broad shoulders, dark hair gone silver at the temples, tanned skin that spoke of too many years under a hard sun.
Brady Halden.
Hell. One of their suspects, standing right in front of them.
He looked better put-together than Gage expected. Clean jeans, tactical boots, a weathered field jacket. A man used to action, not hiding. His eyes, though, those were sharp and assessing, the eyes of someone who never stopped calculating.
Gage kept his weapon low but ready. “You want to tell me why you’re here, Halden?”
Brady raised his hands slightly, palms out.
“Relax, soldier. I’m not here to start a fight.
I’m here because I heard what happened at the Crossfire compound.
” He nodded toward the hangar. “This place belongs to Rhett Danner. Not in name, of course. The deed’s buried under about six shell companies. But trust me, it’s his.”
“And how do you know that?” Rena asked as she stepped closer.
“Because I checked with people who know that sort of thing,” Brady snapped. “I know Noah suspects me. I figured I’d get ahead of it before Rhett Danner decided to make me his fall guy.”
Gage didn’t lower his gun. “So you just happened to show up at the exact same facility tied to the attack?”
A muscle ticked in Brady’s jaw. “I’m not stupid enough to think coincidence buys me much. But I want to make sure Rhett hasn’t done anything that puts me deeper in the fire.”
Gage studied him a long moment. The guy’s story could be true. Or it could be a neat little cover in case his DNA or prints turned up once Isla’s team swept the place. Come back later, pretend to be innocent, claim he was investigating.
Rena moved beside Gage, and like the rest of them, she kept her attention pinned to Brady. “Aren’t you supposed to be in an interview with Sheriff Chase right now?”
Brady glanced at his watch and gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “In about an hour,” he said easily. “Plenty of time for a scenic detour.” His gaze flicked between them. “So tell me, who’s the sheriff leaning on? Rhett? Corrine? Or am I the lucky frontrunner?”
Neither Gage nor Rena answered. Gage just stared him down, silent, letting the tension do the talking.
Brady exhaled, shrugged. “Yeah, thought so. Tight lips.” He took a step closer, unbothered by the guns still in play.
“Look, I know every detail of my life’s being combed through right now.
My accounts, my travel, my comms, hell, probably the brand of toothpaste I use.
But I didn’t have anything to do with that attack.
You can believe me or not, but I’m not your guy. ”
Gage studied him, his stance, his tone, his eyes. The words sounded good. Too good. Smooth, practiced.
The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the stillness.
With instinct kicking in, Gage dove for cover. Dirt sprayed across his face as rounds chewed into the ground beside him.
“Contact, north tree line!” Cal shouted.
Gage caught sight of the shooter. A man in full camo, face streaked with paint, an AK-47 braced tight against his shoulder. He moved fast, firing in controlled bursts as he advanced from the trees.
“Son of a bitch,” Gage hissed. “He must’ve been out of range when Cal scanned.”
They scrambled behind a low pile of limestone boulders, Rena sliding in beside him, Brady a step behind. Cal and Garrett ducked behind another formation, already returning fire. The shooter went prone, muzzle flashes strobing through the haze of dust and heat.
Brady swore under his breath and yanked a handgun from his waistband. Gage’s pulse spiked. He didn’t have to tell Rena, she was already watching him with her eyes narrowed, reading the same possibility he was.
Without hesitation, Rena lunged sideways, grabbing Brady’s wrist and twisting. The gun came free before he even knew what was happening.
“Hey!” Brady snapped, fury flashing across his face. “What the hell? Give that back.”
“Not a chance,” Rena shot back, voice cold and steady. “Later, I might owe you an apology. But right now, I’m not risking a bullet in the back.”
Brady glared, chest heaving. “I’m not your damn enemy.”
“Prove it,” Gage said, peering over the rock just long enough to send a burst of suppressing fire toward the shooter. “Stay alive and stay put.”
The next volley hit close enough to rattle the stones above their heads, showering them in grit. The air cracked with another burst. Closer this time. Shards of limestone splintered off the boulder and stung Gage’s cheek. He ducked lower, teeth clenched.
“Damn it,” he muttered, sliding his gun up just enough to glance over the edge. The shooter was dug in behind a fallen tree about forty yards out, methodical, controlled. Every few seconds another burst hit the rocks like a jackhammer.
Pinned. Hard.
He tried to lean out, sight down the barrel, but another line of fire forced him back. The rounds chewed through the dirt where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
“Guy’s keeping us caged,” he growled.
Rena stayed crouched beside him, eyes flicking between the tree line and Brady. The man was practically vibrating with anger, fists flexing like he might try to take his gun back.
“Don’t even think about it,” Rena warned, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
Brady glared but stayed still, jaw tight, nostrils flaring.
Across the way, Cal leaned out from behind his own cover and fired three controlled shots. The retort echoed through the clearing, then a fresh volley of bullets ripped back, forcing him to duck again.
“Can’t get a clean line,” Cal shouted.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Gage called back, sweat dripping down his temple.
The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the hot air. Chips of stone peppered his arm, the sting barely registering through the adrenaline.
Cal shifted, signaling he was about to lean out again. Gage caught the movement and knew what it meant. It was time to draw the bastard’s attention.
“On your go,” Gage murmured.
Cal gave a sharp nod, swung out from behind his cover, and opened fire. The shooter immediately pivoted, answering with a blistering volley. The sound rattled through the clearing, deafening.
Gage seized the moment. He rose halfway from behind the boulder, sighted down his weapon, and squeezed off two rounds.
Both hit. The shooter jerked back, the AK slipping from his grip as he stumbled. For a split second, Gage thought it was over. Until he saw the man’s hand move. Not toward his gun.
Toward his vest.
“Grenade!” Gage shouted.
The metallic clink of the pin echoed, followed by a low, hollow thunk as it hit the dirt.
Then the world went white.
The blast tore through the air, a concussive wave that lifted dust, fire, and shards of debris. Gage hit the ground hard, the roar swallowing everything else—sound, thought, breath.