Chapter 15
RACHEL
The operations center feels too bright, too sterile, too controlled for the violence happening somewhere in the darkness beyond these mountain walls.
I sit at the edge of the tactical table with Lucas pressed against my side, his small hand gripping mine hard enough to cut off circulation.
Khalid occupies the chair to my left, and Odin lies at his feet with his massive head resting on his paws.
The dog's ears swivel constantly, tracking every sound, every shift in the room's atmosphere.
Tommy hunches over his array of monitors at the main console, his work creating a steady rhythm of keystrokes.
Sarah stands behind him, one hand braced on the back of his chair, knuckles white against the black leather.
Her eyes stay locked on the central display showing blue markers for our team and red markers for hostile contacts.
Reagan and Delaney are on perimeter watch, covering the approaches while the strike team is out.
Willa moves between the operations center and her medical bay, checking supplies once more with methodical precision.
Every few minutes she returns to stand near the doorway, medical kit at her side, ready.
The strike team deployed what seems like hours ago. Somewhere out there, the man I love is hunting the people who want my son dead.
When we were running from Tucson to the safe house, at least I was doing something.
Not much, but something. Action, any kind of action, meant some kind of control, even if that control was an illusion.
Now I can only sit here and follow colored dots across a screen while my imagination fills in all the terrible details the tactical display doesn't show.
"Target team is regrouping at Rally Point Bravo," Tommy announces. Despite the professional neutrality in his tone, tension radiates from his shoulders. "Our team has visual confirmation on multiple hostiles. Kessler's signature is confirmed at the center of their formation."
Sarah moves closer to study the thermal imaging, leaning in until her face is inches from the screen. "Defensive perimeter. They know for sure something's wrong with the decoy signatures."
"Time to contact?" I ask. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Soon," Tommy replies without looking away from his screens. "Kane's holding position until Mercer confirms overwatch is established."
Minutes feel like hours. Lucas's hand stays locked in mine, his pulse jumping rabbit-fast against my palm.
"Mom," Lucas whispers, his voice small in the quiet of the operations center. "Is Mr. Stryker going to be okay?"
The question catches in my chest. Lucas already cares about him. Already worries about him like family. And I have no way to protect either of them from what's happening out there in the dark.
"He's very good at what he does," I tell him, which is truth without being a promise. "And he's not alone. Kane and Dylan are with him."
Lucas nods slowly, processing this non-answer with the same gravity he's worn since the night at Martinez Grocery. "Khalid says soldiers are brave because they're scared but they go anyway."
I glance at Khalid, who keeps his eyes on the tactical display but offers a slight nod of acknowledgment.
"That's exactly right," I say, pulling Lucas closer. "Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you keep going even when you are."
Kane's voice comes through, low and controlled. "Overwatch established. Mercer confirms clean sight lines on all targets. Moving to intercept."
The final moments before violence. I force myself to breathe. Four counts in through my nose, hold, four counts out through my mouth. The breathing exercise my therapist taught me for managing panic feels inadequate for the terror clawing at my throat, but it's all I have.
Willa stands near the doorway with her emergency kit at her side, ready. I know she's already prepped the medical bay for whatever's coming. The trauma station is set up, supplies organized, instruments laid out. She's just waiting now, same as the rest of us.
My stomach lurches. I focus on breathing.
"Contact imminent," Tommy announces.
The operations center goes silent except for the soft hum of electronics and the occasional click of Tommy's keyboards. Even Odin seems to sense the tension, his ears flattening against his skull as he presses closer to Khalid's leg.
The blue markers converge on the red ones. Colton is one of those blue dots, moving through darkness with a weapon in his hands.
"Contact," Tommy says sharply.
The radio crackles to life with sounds that make me flinch. Gunfire tears through the speakers, sharp and staccato, violent even through the transmission. Commands shout over the chaos, voices tight with adrenaline.
Willa moves to where Lucas sits pressed against my side. "Hey Lucas, I could really use some help in the medical bay. Think you could come show me which instruments go where?"
Lucas looks up at me, uncertain. I meet Willa's eyes and see the understanding there. She's getting him out of here before it gets worse.
"Go ahead, baby," I say, smoothing his hair. "I'll come get you as soon as they're back."
Lucas nods and stands, taking Willa's offered hand. I watch them disappear down the corridor, then force myself to focus on the screens.
"Target left, moving to flank. Dylan, suppress that position. Stryker, you're clear for approach."
More gunfire. A different sound now, single sharp cracks instead of the rapid bursts. Maybe Mercer from his position on the ridge.
Then Stryker's voice makes something in my chest clench.
"Hostiles down. Advancing on primary target." His tone is flat, emotionless, completely different from the man who touched me with such reverence hours ago. "Kessler's moving east. I've got pursuit."
This is who he really is. Not the man who touched me like I was something precious, who made me feel safe for the first time in years. This is the operator, the weapon Kane deploys against threats. Cold, efficient, lethal.
Every muscle in my body locks, jaw clenched tight. I force myself to relax incrementally, to keep breathing, to stay focused on the screens.
"Stryker's closing on Kessler," Sarah says, tracking the movement on the thermal display. "Kane and Dylan are engaging the remaining hostiles to prevent interference."
More gunfire. The sound bleeds through the radio with visceral intensity. Someone screams, the sound cutting off abruptly in a way that makes my stomach turn.
"Targets down," Dylan's voice comes through between gasps for air. "Multiple hostiles neutralized. Stryker, watch your six. You've got one breaking toward your position from the northeast."
"Copy. Engaging."
A burst of gunfire. Then silence that stretches too long.
My fingernails dig into my palms hard enough to hurt.
The seconds tick by—five, ten, fifteen—each one worse than the last. Sarah leans closer to the thermal display.
Tommy's fingers hover over his keyboard, frozen mid-reach.
Even Khalid has gone still beside me, Odin's ears pricked forward.
Please. Please let him be okay. The silence stretches into something unbearable.
"Hostile down," Stryker's voice finally cuts through. "Moving on Kessler. He's alone now."
"Confirmed," Kane says. "We've got the perimeter secured. Finish it, Stryker."
The radio goes quiet except for the sound of heavy breathing and movement. Then Stryker's voice again, different this time. Closer to the microphone.
"You made a mistake coming after them."
A different voice responds, rough and wet with injury. "The kid saw too much. She should've kept better watch on him."
"You're done hunting them."
The sounds that follow come through the radio with terrible clarity.
A scuffle first, boots scraping against rock or dirt, the harsh rasp of labored breathing.
Then impact—the meaty, solid thud of fist against flesh, once, twice.
A choked gasp. The wet, rattling gurgle of someone drowning in their own blood.
The sound goes on too long, each horrible second stretching while bile rises in my throat and my hands shake where they grip the edge of the table. Then silence. Complete, final silence that somehow feels worse than the violence that preceded it.
"Kessler is down," Stryker reports, his voice steady again. "Confirm target eliminated. Site is secure."
Relief floods through me so intensely my knees go weak. Colton is alive. They did it.
Quiet words pass between Tommy and Sarah as they shift into post-operation mode.
The relief seeps in as I allow myself to relax incrementally. It's over. Kessler is dead. Lucas is safe.
Then Tommy's posture goes rigid. His work suddenly frantic as he pulls up a new feed. "Wait. I've got movement. One of the hostiles from the initial engagement—he's not down. He broke from the firefight and he's moving fast."
The relief evaporates.
Sarah steps forward sharply. "Which direction?"
Tommy tracks the thermal imaging signature. "West. He's heading west through the forest." His fingers freeze over the keyboard. "That's toward our general area."
My blood runs cold. "How close?"
"Too close for comfort. He's closing fast and moving with purpose." Tommy pulls up additional feeds. "He might have thermal equipment. Could be trying to locate heat signatures."
"Mercer," Kane's voice cuts through the radio, sharp with urgency. "You still on the north ridge?"
"Affirmative," Mercer responds. His voice is calm, professional. "I've got eyes on the runner. He's at distance, heading west."
"Can you intercept?" Kane asks.
"Working on it. Wind's picking up, but I've got the angle." A pause. "He's moving through heavy cover. Wait, he's slowing down. Checking something on his wrist. Probably a handheld thermal scanner."
Khalid stands slowly, Odin rising with him. The dog's hackles come up slightly, not full alert but aware. His nose works the air, testing for something I can't sense.