Chapter 7 FROST
SEVEN
FROST
Three vehicles. Moving through the darkness, headlights cut low to avoid silhouetting against the dunes, but I've already clocked them from the ridge's edge, scopes pulling their dust trails into sharp focus.
Depending on how they're manned, we're looking at a minimum of three, max of twelve men—reinforcements for the eight idiots we dropped earlier, the cartel's way of saying they don't take failure lightly.
I knew they'd come; hell, I was counting on it. It's why what just happened on that couch was a bad idea from the start—protocol screaming in my skull, every tactical bone in me yelling to keep sharp, keep distant, keep her safe by not getting sloppy with distractions.
But I don't regret it.
Not a goddamn second. Magnolia curled against me, all fire and need and that fierce surrender in her eyes? That was the first real thing I've let myself grab hold of since Sofia, since I locked down and let the world turn gray.
Fucking Magnolia was reckless, yeah, buried deep in her heat, chasing that edge together, then going back for more with my mouth on her until she was trembling again.
Worth every risked minute, every beat of vulnerability, because in that stolen haze we weren't targets or ghosts—we were alive, connected, and it burned away five years of ice in my veins.
Let them come. I'll fight for this now, too.
Even if the odds suck.
I'm at the window with night vision down, counting weapons, assessing formation, cataloging threats with the cold efficiency that comes from a decade of doing this. But my hands are still warm from touching Maggie, and I can still taste her on my lips, and that's a problem.
Can't be thinking about how she felt under my hands when killers are closing in.
Can't be distracted by the way she said my name—Colt, not Frost—when I need to be tactical and sharp and focused on keeping her alive.
But I am distracted. For the first time in five years, since Sofia died and I started wearing her dog tags like penance, I'm distracted by something other than ghosts.
By someone who's still breathing.
"They're spreading out," I say, forcing my voice steady and professional. "Three-man teams. I count nine." But I know there’s more. I feel it in my gut.
Maggie moves to her window position, weapon up, and I catch her profile in the dim light—hair still messed from my hands, shirt inside out, lips swollen from my mouth. But her hands are rock-steady on the AR-15, her breathing controlled, her focus absolute.
Combat mode. Just like me.
Except I'm having a hell of a time staying in combat mode when five minutes ago I was memorizing the taste of her skin.
"Rules of engagement?" She's asking it like we're on patrol, like this is just another op, but I can hear the slight breathlessness underlying the words.
She's feeling it too. The shift. The way everything just changed between us.
"Same as before." I sight down my rifle, tracking the first team's movement. "Kill. No hostages. We don't let them take you."
"Copy that."
The simplicity of it grounds me. I know how to do this. I'm trained for it. Keep the asset safe. Eliminate threats. Complete the mission.
Except Maggie stopped being an asset somewhere between the warehouse and right now, and that's the problem.
The first team reaches the barn. They're using it for cover, preparing to advance on the ranch house from the north. Smart. It gives them concealment and a shorter approach to our position.
The second team is circling wide to the south, staying low, using the natural terrain—rocks and scrub brush—for cover. Also smart. They're going to try to pin us in a crossfire.
"They're boxing us in," Maggie observes, her tone clinical. "North and south approach. Force us to split our attention."
"Yeah." I'm already calculating angles, fields of fire, and probable assault vectors. "They want to overwhelm us. Make us choose which threat to engage while the other team breaches."
"So what's our play?"
Our. Not my.
Our play.
Like we're a team.
Like she's not a civilian I pulled out of a warehouse three hours ago, but an operator I've served with for years.
And the hell of it is, she moves like one. Thinks like one. The Army trained her well.
"We make them commit," I tell her. "Let them get close enough to think they have an advantage. Then we hit them hard before they can coordinate."
"That's a narrow window."
"Yeah. But it's what we've got." I shift position, check the south approach. "You take north. I've got south. Fire on my mark."
"Understood."
The teams advance. Fifty meters. Forty. Using cover effectively, moving in bounds—one man covering while the others advance. Professional.
These aren't street-level cartel soldiers.
These are trained operators. Military background, probably. Mexican Special Forces gone private, or ex-military hired for specialized work.
Which means they're dangerous.
Thirty meters.
My finger rests on the trigger, breathing controlled, heart rate steady despite the adrenaline. Despite the fact that twenty minutes ago I was kissing Maggie like I was drowning.
Twenty-five meters.
Focus. Threat assessment. Target priority.
The lead tango on the south team raises his hand. Signal to advance.
"Mark," I say quietly, and squeeze the trigger.
The suppressed round drops the lead tango. I shift, acquire the second target, and fire again. He goes down hard.
Maggie's rifle cracks twice from her window—louder, unsuppressed—and I hear the distinctive sound of bodies hitting dirt.
Four down.
But these men are good. They scatter immediately, taking hard cover, returning fire that forces us back from the windows. Rounds punch through the walls, kicking up concrete dust, too close.
"They know our positions," Maggie calls over the gunfire. "We need to move."
She's right. Staying static gets you killed.
"North window," I tell her. "Move on my cover fire."
I lay down suppressing fire on the remaining tangos, forcing them to keep their heads down. Maggie moves fast and low, in a combat crouch, weapon ready, reaching the north window and taking up position in three seconds flat.
The Army trained her very well.
She engages immediately. Her weapon fires twice. Once. Once more.
"Two more down," she reports, her voice controlled despite the adrenaline I know must be screaming through her system. "That's six total."
Six tangos down. No casualties on our side.
But it's not over.
"Too easy," I mutter, scanning the perimeter through night vision. "They sent six operators against two targets in a defended position. That's either arrogance or—"
The sound of another engine rumbling in the distance answers my question.
"Or a first wave," Maggie finishes. "Testing our defenses. Seeing what we're capable of."
"Yeah." I count headlights approaching. "And here comes the second wave."
But it's not multiple vehicles this time. Just one. Single sedan, expensive, moving slowly up the access road like whoever's driving isn't worried about an ambush.
Like they think they have leverage.
My gut clenches with recognition before my brain catches up. I know that vehicle. Saw it in the surveillance footage my contact sent.
Tyler Brooks's Tesla.
"Maggie." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "North window. Now."
She moves to my position, looks where I'm pointing, and her entire body goes rigid beside me.
"That's Tyler's car." Her voice is flat. Empty. The kind of empty that comes right before breaking. "That's his car."
"Yeah."
"He's here." She's gripping the rifle so hard her knuckles are white. "He actually came here. Helped them find me and then came to—what? Watch? Collect his payout?"
"I don't know." But I have a pretty good idea, and none of the options are good.
The Tesla stops a hundred yards out. The driver's door opens. Tyler Brooks steps out, hands raised, performing again. Even from this distance, I can see the expensive watch, the designer jacket, the confident posture of someone who thinks he's in control.
Who thinks he's safe.
"Maggie!" He calls out, voice carrying across the desert. "Maggie, I know you're in there! Just—let me explain, okay? This is all a huge misunderstanding!"
Beside me, Maggie is shaking. Not from fear. From rage.
"A misunderstanding." She breathes the words like poison. "He sold me to a cartel, and it's a misunderstanding?"
"Don't engage," I tell her. "Let him talk. See what he reveals."
But she's already moving, standing up in full view of the window, weapon pointed directly at her brother.
"Stop," I start, but she ignores me.
"A misunderstanding?" She shouts it, and her voice is razor-sharp. "Which part, Tyler? The part where you racked up one hundred and eighty thousand in gambling debt? Or the part where you offered me as collateral to a cartel?"
Tyler has the grace to look uncomfortable. "Mags, if you'd just let me explain—"
"Don't call me that." The rifle in her hands doesn't waver. "You don't get to use that name anymore."
"I'm your brother—"
"You were my brother." She takes a step closer to the window, and I can see her finger on the trigger, see the tension in her shoulders. "I spent ten years taking care of you. Making sure you had everything you needed. And you sold me? What kind of brother does that?"
"I was trying to protect you." Tyler's voice rises, defensive. "The cartel was going to kill me if I didn't pay. I had to give them something—"
"So you gave them me."
"I was going to get you out. Once I paid off the debt, once I had the money, I was going to—"
"Liar." The single word cuts through his explanation. "You were never going to get me out. The trust fund was just the bonus. I was always the primary payment."
Tyler's mask cracks. I see it from here—the moment he realizes she knows everything. That she's not the naive older sister he thought he could manipulate anymore.