Frost (ALPHA TEAM: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists)

Chapter 1 Frost

ONE

FROST

I'm listening to two cartel members talk about a woman's abduction, and my hand is wrapped so tight around the glass I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.

The whiskey burns, but not nearly enough.

I should leave. Should finish this drink, pay my tab, drive back to the safe house, and sleep off three days of mandatory leave. CJ's orders were clear: Stand down. Decompress. Get your head straight before you get yourself killed.

"?Cuándo hacemos la recogida?" When do we do the pickup?

The dive bar in Nogales is dark, loud, and exactly the kind of place where men say things they shouldn't.

Jukebox drowning out thinking. Cigarette smoke thick enough to hide in.

The locals at the pool table don't care about the two men who walked in fifteen minutes ago with expensive watches and concealed Glocks.

But I care.

Because I've been listening to these assholes describe this woman—American, mid-twenties—like she's inventory.

Merchandise.

And every word out of their mouths makes the dog tags under my shirt feel heavier.

"Cuando firme. Ramirez nos llamará." When she signs. Ramirez will call us.

I take another sip. Force my shoulders to stay relaxed. Keep my eyes on the amber liquid like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

This is not my problem.

This is not my mission.

I'm on leave, for fuck's sake. Mandatory psych eval pending. One more violation and CJ doesn't just suspend me—he terminates my contract and makes sure no other contractor will touch me.

"?Cuánto tiempo?" How long?

"Tres horas, máximo." Three hours, max.

My jaw clenches. I force it to relax.

Three hours. She has three hours before they move her to a secondary location, and I know what that means.

Once they transport, she's gone. Vanished into the cartel pipeline.

Mexico, then further south. Six months from now, she'll be in some compound in Colombia or Venezuela, and nobody will ever find her.

If she's even still alive in six months.

The first man laughs, low and cruel. "Entonces Ramirez la convencerá. De una forma u otra, ella firma esta noche." Then Ramirez will convince her. One way or another, she signs tonight.

Convince her.

My knuckles go white on the glass.

Don't think about it. Don't picture what "convince" means in cartel speak. Don't imagine some terrified woman tied to a chair while men like these—

Sofia was tied to a chair.

The thought cuts through everything else, sharp and vicious and wrong. I shove it down, bury it under five years of not thinking about Caracas. About following the orders that killed her.

"Ramirez ha estado esperando un buen pedazo de culo americano. Finalmente lo consigue." Ramirez has been waiting for a nice piece of American ass. He finally gets it.

"Sí. Tres horas, luego ella es suya." Yes. Three hours, then she's his.

They clink beer bottles like they're celebrating.

I stare at my whiskey.

Call it in. That's protocol. Guardian HRS has an emergency line, 24/7 response capability, and established protocols for situations exactly like this. I pull out my phone. CJ will mobilize assets, coordinate with local contractors, and run proper intel before going in.

That's the right thing to do.

The professional thing.

The thing I'm supposed to do.

My phone is in my pocket. Two taps away from CJ's direct line.

I don't reach for it.

Because I'm doing the math, and the math is brutal.

Call comes in at—I check my watch—21:47. CJ needs authorization before mobilizing Guardian HRS assets for a non-contracted rescue. That's thirty minutes minimum, probably longer. Then team spins up: operators recalled, gear loaded, tactical plan drafted.

Optimistic timeline? Six hours from my call to boots on the ground.

She has three hours before transport.

Maybe.

And that's assuming everything goes perfectly. Assuming CJ can get authorization immediately. Assuming the team mobilizes without delays. Assuming I even have cell service to make the call from wherever these assholes are headed. Because I’m definitely following them.

Too many assumptions.

Too many variables.

Too much like Caracas, where we waited for authorization that came too late.

The second man pulls out his phone and checks something. "Ramirez dice que está llorando. Preguntando por su hermano." Ramirez says she's crying. Asking for her brother.

Asking for her brother.

Fuck.

My hand moves before my brain catches up—pulling cash from my wallet, dropping it on the bar. Forty dollars for a twenty-dollar tab. I slide off the stool, moving casually and unhurried like a man who's just tired of drinking alone.

The two cartel members don't even glance my way.

Outside, the desert air hits warm and dry. Stars scatter across the sky, sharp and bright. The parking lot is gravel and dust, and three vehicles: my F-250, their white panel van, and a rusted sedan that probably belongs to the bartender.

I stand there for five full seconds.

This is the moment. This is where I make the call. Where I do the right thing, the smart thing, the thing that keeps me employed and alive and not violating every protocol Guardian HRS has.

This is where I learn from Caracas instead of repeating the same mistake.

My phone is in my hand. Screen lit. CJ's contact right there.

One tap. That's all it takes.

Sofia's dog tags are warm against my chest, metal heated by body temperature and guilt. I've worn them every day for five years. Every single day, a reminder of what happens when you follow orders instead of your gut.

She died because you didn't choose her.

Her brother's words. The last thing he said to me before walking away from Sofia's funeral.

Three hours.

I think about that woman—whoever she is—tied to a chair somewhere. Crying. Asking for her brother, who probably can't save her.

I think about Sofia, tied to a chair in Caracas, while I extracted with my team because orders are orders and assets are expendable.

I think about the psych eval I'm supposed to pass. About CJ's warning that one more violation means termination. About my career, my reputation, everything I've built since leaving Delta Force.

Then I think about living with myself if I walk away.

If I make the call, follow protocol, and she's dead before Guardian HRS can mobilize.

If I choose right over fast, and it costs another woman her life, I won’t be able to live with myself.

The math is brutal and simple: She has three hours. Guardian HRS needs more.

My thumb hovers over CJ's contact.

"Fuck," I breathe into the empty parking lot.

Then I pocket my phone and walk to my truck.

Not calling it in.

Not waiting for authorization.

Not following protocol.

Going rogue. Again. Except this time I'm breaking orders instead of following them.

This time, maybe someone lives.

The cartel members emerge from the bar, still laughing, climbing into their panel van.

I wait thirty seconds.

If this costs me my career, my reputation, everything—

At least I won't have to add another set of dog tags to the one I'm already wearing.

I slide into my F-250, but don't start the engine yet. Just watch as they pull out onto Highway 82, heading east into the desert.

Then I follow.

Headlights off for the first mile, navigating by moonlight, keeping them just visible ahead. Then I flip the lights on to avoid suspicion, drop back two hundred yards. Professional tail. Not my first time tracking someone who doesn't want to be followed.

The highway cuts through open desert, sagebrush, and sand that stretches endlessly on both sides. Minimal traffic this time of night—just me and them and the empty road.

My phone buzzes. CJ.

I glance at the screen, then back to the road. Ignore the call.

It buzzes again. Text: You good? Check in.

I don't respond. Can't tell him what I'm doing because then he'll order me to stand down, and I won't, and that'll make everything worse.

Fifteen minutes out of Nogales, the van's brake lights flare. They turn off the highway onto a dirt access road, dust billowing in their wake.

I kill my headlights, and follow by moonlight. The road is rough, with washboard ruts that rattle my suspension. Ahead, a warehouse complex emerges from the darkness—a single building, industrial and isolated, exactly the kind of place cartels use for business they don't want witnesses to.

The van pulls up next to a black SUV already parked outside. A third vehicle, an older sedan, sits off to the side.

I stop a quarter mile out. Kill the engine. Silence rushes in, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of men's voices carrying across the desert.

Time to gear up.