Chapter Sixteen #2
Brenna stood staring at the photo. Colt was beside her, silent but watchful. Harlan paced a slow line behind them, jaw tight. Noah manned the controls, his gaze fixed on the screen as if staring long enough might force it to give up its secrets.
Then all four of their phones buzzed again.
Another message. Another photo. No sender.
No text. She tapped the screen. And all the interior of the sealed wing at Timberline.
The room no one had entered since the investigation after the massacre.
No one was supposed to be able to get inside.
It had been part of the original crime scene, shut off.
But someone had clearly gone in.
The concrete floor still bore the stains. Deep, rust-colored marks soaked into the surface, untouched and permanent. Time hadn’t softened them. The blood had settled too far into the pores. The smell of it came back to her with a force so real she nearly gagged. Copper and sweat. Smoke and death.
She blinked, but the image didn’t go away. Neither did the memories.
Her hands were shaking now.
A quiet “Shit,” came from Harlan. He held up his phone, confirming what they all already knew. Colt was still staring at his screen, lips pressed tight. Even Noah had gone rigid, his thumb frozen above the phone like he didn’t want to scroll in.
But all Brenna could see was that room.
The dim lighting. The cracked tile near the drain in the corner.
The blood trail that had led to the body of a young man barely out of high school.
Her knees had hit that floor. Her palms had pressed down on his chest. She’d begged him to stay with her while the chaos raged outside, but his eyes had already gone glassy.
She couldn’t breathe.
The room around her receded. The hum of the screens, the faint whir of the air conditioning, the subtle shuffling of the others—it all fell away. In its place came screams she hadn’t heard in two years, the sound of gunfire, the slick warmth of blood on her hands.
A hand touched her arm.
Colt.
She hadn’t realized he’d moved closer. His voice was low, steady. “Brenna. Look at me.”
She couldn’t. Not yet.
This wasn’t just a message. It was a threat written in ghosts. The killer wasn’t playing games anymore. He was digging up her worst nightmare and throwing it in her face.
Not just to scare her.
To remind her of everyone she couldn’t save. And maybe to promise there would be more.
Noah didn’t speak as he added the second photo to the wall screen. The next image was of Timberline’s sealed-off interior joined the one of Wallace—still bound, still bruised, still silent. Together, the photos filled the screen like a punch to the chest.
Brenna stood frozen, her phone still clenched in her hand, her gaze locked on the image of that room. The one where she had lost control. Lost people. Lost something in herself that she hadn’t figured out how to get back.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Then another vibration buzzed against her palm.
She flinched.
All around her, the others checked their phones too. The tension in the room shifted instantly, sharp and coiled tight. A third photo, sent from the same unknown number. No words. Just more violence. More control.
Brenna opened it.
Her stomach turned.
Six people. Blindfolded. On their knees. Their hands were bound behind their backs, their heads bowed. The background was dark and nondescript, like the photo had been taken in a basement or storage room. No identifying details. No clues. Just human lives turned into a warning.
The blood drained from her face.
Memories slammed into her again, cruel and vivid.
A line of hostages. Screams. The metallic click of a gun being chambered. A hand yanking her backward while gunfire lit the air. She had fought to get to them. Crawled through smoke and chaos and blood. But she had been too late.
Too damn late.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard.
Harlan swore low beside her. “I’d bet money that’s the family members of the original Timberline hostages.”
No one disagreed.
Noah’s expression didn’t change, but his movements picked up speed. He transferred the third photo to the wall screen, and it filled the last open space beside the others. The image hung there like a sentence waiting to be carried out.
“They’re blindfolded,” Noah said, already pulling up the facial recognition software. “But there’s enough of their features showing to run a search. Maybe we get lucky.”
The system began scanning, mapping out bone structure, facial shapes, hairlines.
Brenna barely heard him.
All she could see were the bowed heads. The way their shoulders curled inward like they already knew what was coming. As if they had accepted it.
Her knees felt unsteady.
Someone was dragging her back into the wreckage of Timberline, piece by piece. Forcing her to relive the worst moments of her life. Not just the blood and the screams, but the helplessness. The bitter knowledge that she had been one step behind the entire time.
She had spent three years trying to silence those memories. Trying to do good in their names. Trying to prove that she could still save people.
And now, six more lives were being dangled in front of her like bait.
Her vision blurred for a second, and she forced in a breath. Not again. She wouldn’t stand by and watch it happen again.
Noah’s voice broke through the heavy silence, calm and clipped as he pulled out his phone and dialed.
“This is Riggs. We need a tactical team prepped and ready to move on Timberline. Full recon. I want boots on the ground within 15 minutes.”
Brenna didn’t wait for the call to end.
“I’m going,” she said, her voice quiet but sure. The weight in her chest hadn’t lessened, but she could breathe through it now. Action gave her something to hold onto.
“So am I,” Colt added, already reaching for his jacket.
Harlan gave a single nod. “No way in hell I’m sitting this out.”
Noah didn’t argue. He just ended the call and gave them a look that said he’d expected no less.
They turned almost in sync, moving to gear up. Brenna’s steps felt steadier now, her focus sharpening, but her phone buzzed again. So did everyone else’s.
More photos.
She stopped cold.
There were three of them, each sent separately, and these were different from the others. A message sat above the images, the first time words had accompanied any of them.
They’re taking your place.
Brenna’s stomach turned to ice. She opened the first image. And she instantly recognized the woman. It was Naomi, and she wasn’t blindfolded. Her eyes stared straight into the camera. Wide. Red-rimmed. Brimming with fear she was trying not to show.
She looked like she’d been crying.
Brenna swallowed hard, trying to hold back the wave of emotion rising in her throat. This wasn’t just a threat anymore. It was a statement. A message carved into flesh and fear.
This was someone they knew. Now she was kneeling. Alone. Vulnerable. Taking Brenna’s place.
Brenna couldn’t look away.
The second photo loaded, and Brenna’s breath caught, sharp and painful in her chest.
Beck.
He was kneeling like Naomi, but everything about him looked different. His expression wasn’t fear. It was fury. His jaw was locked, eyes burning with defiance, even under the blood matting his dark blond hair. A gash split the side of his head, fresh and ugly, running down into his brow.
And on his chest, someone had taped a piece of paper.
Taking Harlan’s place.
Brenna looked up instinctively. Harlan was staring at the screen, fists clenched, face a mask of rage.
“No,” Harlan muttered. “No, no, no. They don’t get to touch him.”
Brenna felt it too, the helplessness twisting itself into something darker. Beck had fought beside them. He was the medic who had held lives together with nothing but grit and gauze. And now he was being used like bait. Like leverage.
Her hands shook.
Then, the third photo appeared.
Gary.
He looked worse than Beck. One eye swollen nearly shut. Blood on his shirt, his lip, the side of his face. His shoulders were slumped, but there was still a spark in his eyes, a silent refusal to break. Like if they were going to kill him, he’d make it plenty hard for them.
The paper taped to his chest said only two words.
For Colt.
Beside her, Colt stepped forward. His jaw clenched so tight Brenna thought it might snap. He stared at the screen, silent for a long moment, until his voice finally came—low, hard, controlled in the way that only meant danger. “Let’s go bring them home.”
Noah didn’t hesitate. He shut down the photo feed and turned for the door. “Gear up. Now.”
Brenna didn’t need telling twice.
They moved as one, hurrying to the armory across the hall. Harlan yanked open the weapons locker, Colt already loading rounds. Brenna’s body felt tight with adrenaline, her limbs shaky but moving fast. She clipped her vest into place, strapped on her sidearm, and forced herself to breathe.
They were going back to Timberline.
Back to the place that had nearly broken her. That had never really let her go.
Back to the living hell she wasn’t sure any of them would survive this time.
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