Chapter 37 ReadyNot
The room still smells like Tex. Leather. Smoke. Something warm I can’t name. He’s in the bathroom now, brushing his teeth with his hoodie half-zipped and humming like the world isn’t about to turn inside out.
I’m already dressed.
Black tactical pants. Ribbed base layer. My jacket is tailored to hide blades in four different compartments. My boots are heavy and worn in, comfort in the form of violence.
I don’t feel nervous. Not yet.
Just… steady.
Focused.
I braid my damp hair back and twist it into a knot, then swipe on a little liner in the mirror before stepping into the main room.
Jace is there.
Sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, a folder balanced across one thigh and a cup of coffee cradled in his hand.
He’s already in mission clothes, black and sharp and perfectly put together. His sleeves are rolled. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t look up right away when I walk in.
When he does, it’s for half a second.
“Hey,” I say.
“Morning,” he answers. His voice is neutral.
Something in my chest goes still. Before I can say anything else, he lifts the file and flicks through a page without looking at me.
“Lucian wants us at the command wing in twenty. Briefing room four.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”
I wait for something more, a flicker of sarcasm, a question, even just eye contact.
Nothing.
He doesn’t even look angry. Just… quiet. Guarded.
I feel Tex step into the room behind me, brushing close enough that his fingers graze my spine in passing. He grabs something from the counter and mumbles about coffee.
I glance back at Jace.
He’s already on his feet, file under one arm, finishing the last sip from his cup.
He doesn’t look at either of us as he heads for the door.
And something about that silence stays with me.
Even when the others arrive. Even when we fall into step, a unit again, all black boots and loaded gear and steel in our eyes.
Even when we reach the command wing and I see the others, Guild members from across the world, gathered in suits and weapons, voices low, tension high.
I feel it.
The way Jace walks beside me without saying a word. The way his shoulder never touches mine. The way his eyes flick toward me… and away.
Something’s shifted. I don’t know what.
But I feel it like a bruise I didn’t know I had. And I don’t have time to ask.
Because Lucian is at the front of the room. Savvy, Max, Derek, and Preston, standing in silent support.
Just his presence, commanding, composed, and cold enough to cut steel.
“Daniel Mercer has crossed a line,” he begins. “He’s violated the Guild’s code and weaponized black-market alliances to build something far more dangerous than we anticipated.”
Behind him, a projected satellite image flares to life, a remote mountain facility surrounded by forest. Multiple buildings. Guard towers. Defensive turrets. Motion sensors.
“This compound was once a military research site. Decommissioned. Forgotten. Daniel’s repurposed it. Our intel confirms he’s been using it to develop and house next-gen weapons designed for mass-scale targeting.”
The room shifts. Tension builds.
He continues, voice steady. “Multiple Guild teams will be deployed to infiltrate the facility tonight. Each team will enter through different access points and complete specific objectives: disable security, retrieve data, clear hostile presence. But only one team is tasked with securing the prototype.”
He looks directly at us. “Team Three — led by Jace Ravencourt — will infiltrate through the north tunnel. You’ll navigate underground service corridors to reach the central lab. That’s where we believe the prototype is stored. This tech cannot fall into the wrong hands.”
A schematic appears behind him, detailing multiple floors of the facility, server rooms, surveillance nodes, and sealed labs with unknown contents.
“Expect armed resistance. Expect mercenaries. And expect traps. You will have no comms once inside. Teams are on isolated blackout protocols to reduce trace exposure.”
His tone sharpens. “This is not a test. And it’s not a rescue mission. It’s a strike. Suit up. Full briefing in thirty. We move at 0200.”
The hall slowly empties, voices dropping to whispers, boots echoing across marble as teams peel off toward their respective prep rooms.
I feel the others pause behind me — Jace, Luca, Tex, Noah — but I don’t move.
Neither does Lucian. His eyes meet mine across the space, and for a moment, there’s no commander. No mission. Just my dad.
The boys drift away, giving us the illusion of privacy. It’s only then that Lucian walks toward me, the lights from the map still glowing behind him. He stops a few feet away.
“You stayed quiet,” he says softly.
“I was listening.”
Lucian nods, then exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, but something close. “You’ve always listened too well for your own good.”
We stand there in silence, the hum of electricity and fading footsteps the only sound.
Then, more quietly, “You look so much like her.”
He’s never said that to me before.
“Mama?”
Lucian nods once. “The way you set your jaw when you’re determined. The way you walk into a room like you belong in the center of it and dare anyone to say otherwise.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. I want to ask him more — about her, about us, about what he sees when he looks at me — but I can’t find the words fast enough.
So instead, I say, “You’re sending me into a place built like a fortress. Against mercenaries. You sure you’re not the reckless one?”
That earns the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.
“If I could keep you off this mission,” he says, “I would. But this team is the best we have. And you…” He trails off, eyes darkening. “You’re not one to hide away, Gracie.”
I nod.
But he doesn’t stop there. “I need you to come back,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “No heroics. No sacrifices. No last-minute changes to the plan. Do you understand me?”
I do. But I also know this world doesn’t offer guarantees — especially not to people like us.
So, I meet his eyes and say, “I’ll come back. You’ll just have to trust me.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
“You’re your mother’s fire,” he murmurs. “And my storm.”
He pulls me into a hug then nods toward the exit.
“Go,” he says. “Suit up. I’ll see you on the other side.”
The locker room is cold. Not the kind of cold that bites, but the kind that wraps around you slowly, sterile, industrial, humming faintly with fluorescent lights overhead.
The door clicks shut behind me. I’m alone.
The boys have gone to their own lockers or are already waiting in the mission wing. This room is mine—gray walls, black benches, rows of matte steel lockers. A digital display on one wall counts down from thirty minutes. Our launch window.
For the first time all day, there’s silence.
No briefing. No eyes on me. No decisions to make.
Just my heartbeat and the low buzz of fluorescent lights.
I peel off my jacket and drop it onto the bench. My shirt follows. One layer at a time, I shed everything soft, everything familiar. I’ve done this before — training drills, mock missions — but this is different.
Because this is real.
I open the locker Lucian assigned to me. Inside is the gear I’ve been fitted for: tactical bodysuit, armored vest, comms earpiece, utility belt, gloves, and a sheathed blade engraved with the Guild crest.
I dress in silence.
Gloves last.
I flex my fingers once, testing the fit. They feel tighter than they did in training. Or maybe that’s just me, the pressure, the adrenaline threading through every nerve.
What scares me is how much I want to be ready. How much I want to prove I’m not just the girl Daniel tried to break. That I’m not running anymore. That I’m not hiding.
I secure the last strap of my vest and reach for my knife. The handle is smooth, warm from the lights. It slides into place at my side like it belongs there.
The second locker is heavier.
When I open it, it hisses slightly, a secure weapons case built into the base. My ID tag flashes green as the biometric scanner accepts my clearance. The lid pops up with a soft click.
Inside: two handguns. One compact SMG. Two extra magazines. And a box of ammo stamped with a faint Guild seal.
I sit on the bench and take my time. There’s something steadying about the routine, something almost meditative.
Click. Magazine in.
Slide back. Chamber check. Safety on.
The first handgun is a Glock—light, efficient, modified with a grip that fits my hand perfectly. The second is heavier, closer range with more stopping power. I tuck them into their holsters: one under my arm, the other at the small of my back.
I’ve done this a hundred times in training.
But never like this.
Never with this kind of finality. Every click echoes louder than it should.
No fear. No hesitation. Just the knowledge that this gear, this loadout — it’s not for drills or simulations.
It’s for real targets. Real danger.
Real blood.
I stand and recheck the gear once more, fingers brushing over each knife sheath, mag pouch, and strap until I know it all by muscle memory. There’s a rhythm to it now. A sharpness in my movements I didn’t have even weeks ago.
You’re your mother’s fire, Lucian said. And my storm.
I’m starting to believe him.
I look at myself again in the mirror, guns strapped across my body, hair tied back, eyes steady.
I don’t look like a girl pretending anymore.
I look ready for war.