Chapter 22
GHOST
As the reinforced door slammed shut, I was filled with rage, narrowing the world until the door, shooters, and every route across the property arranged themselves into problems with solutions.
Charging the entrance would give the ambush exactly what it had been built to produce—a blind man running toward his woman through ground someone else had prepared to take him down.
“Stryker,” I growled into the comm, keeping my weapon trained on the main building as another round cracked from the roofline. “Len and the fake inspector took Tamsin through the front security door.”
I shifted behind the concrete and watched for the next muzzle flash.
“I saw,” he replied. “Hawkeye, lock the front. Nomad, shut the rear. Nobody gets off this fucking range.”
The Black Crowns answered as one body made of a lot of violent men.
Skyfall’s rifle cracked from the high ground, and the shooter on the roof disappeared behind the parapet.
Trigger and Breach drove two gunmen away from the company vehicles, while Smoke hauled another bastard out from behind stacked equipment and put him face-first in the dirt.
Hawkeye’s truck blocked the main road, Nomad closed the rear approach beyond the visible bend, and other brothers spread through the range without giving the outside crew room to regroup around the stolen cases.
“Front is locked,” Hawkeye reported, the roar of an engine and a burst of gunfire bleeding through his mic. “Two down by the utility trucks. Third one’s trying to crawl under a fucking trailer.”
“Let him,” Trigger cut in, breathing hard. “I’ll drag him back out.”
Stryker’s response shut down the bullshit. “Quit enjoying yourself and clear the lane. Heads on a swivel, brothers.”
An engine roared behind the prep building, confirming the route I already expected Len to use. He had pulled Tamsin inside to slow me down, and the rear maintenance trail looked open from the building even though Nomad had brothers waiting farther out where the first curve hid them.
I keyed my comm again as I moved along the concrete divider toward Stryker. “They’re gonna run the rear trail.”
“Teams are past the bend. They’ll let the fuckers commit before they close it.” Stryker looked at the sealed building, then met my eyes. “Get your woman.”
I was already moving. Wraith broke from cover and came with me toward the side maintenance entrance Tamsin had shown us on the range map, keeping his rifle angled toward the windows while I watched the ground and doorframe for anything set to punish the less obvious approach.
My injured side pulled beneath the bandage when I crouched, but the stitches held and the pain stayed small beside the image of Tamsin disappearing behind that door.
The side entrance had been forced open from inside and pulled nearly shut again.
I signaled Wraith to hold the doorway until I cleared the first turn.
The gunfire outside dulled behind the concrete walls, leaving the alarm, my breathing, and the low vibration of machinery somewhere deeper in the building.
Tamsin’s clipboard lay several feet inside the first junction, angled into the passage on the right.
A smear of blood marked one metal clip—hers or one of the bastards she had hit—and ice spread farther through my chest. She had stayed alert while armed men dragged her through unfamiliar danger and used the first object available to tell me which way they went.
“This way,” I reported quietly.
“On your six,” Wraith answered, entering behind me.
I followed the corridor until it split again. Dust coated the floor near the service wall, disturbed by several sets of boots, but one scrape cut through it in a deliberate line toward the left passage. Thank fuck.
My woman had known I would come and had spent the trip toward whatever waited ahead making sure I did not waste a second finding her.
The left passage ran past the small administrative office.
An orange range flag lay across the next threshold, dragged down from a bracket mounted several feet above it.
The bright fabric pointed toward the prep bay, where a digital tone sounded at measured intervals beneath the alarm.
My pulse stayed steady, but every instinct tightened.
Tamsin had reached the end of the trail, and Len had taken her into the center of whatever trap he had prepared.
“Gavin.” Her voice came from beyond the doorway, strained but clear.
I checked both corners before entering the prep bay.
Tamsin was restrained to an anchored workbench on the far side, her wrists pulled behind a steel support and already bruised dark beneath the plastic ties.
She sat upright, her blue eyes fixed on the digital display mounted to a black hard case secured beside a central column.
Stolen Bellamy cases had been stacked around the device close enough to turn one blast into a chain of fire and pressure.
The countdown showed one minute and forty-three seconds, each number burning red through the dusty room.
Tamsin looked at me, and the fierce relief that crossed her face nearly broke the discipline holding me in place.
“I’m here, pretty girl,” I rasped, crossing to her quickly.
“You took your sweet time,” she breathed, but the small tremor in her mouth ruined the complaint.
“Traffic.” I dropped behind the workbench, cut the first restraint, and caught her wrist when it came free. “Is there a remote?”
“He took it with him.” She twisted so I could reach the second tie, her breath hitching when the plastic released. “Len started the timer, closed the case, and left through the rear door with the others.”
Her gaze moved over the fresh scrape on my cheek and the dust ground into my cut.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, reaching toward my side the instant her second hand came free.
“I’m good, pretty girl,” I caught her hand and pressed it against my chest while I checked the bruising around her other wrist. “You?”
“Ask me when the numbers stop moving,” she replied, flicking an angry look toward the timer.
I hauled her up and pulled her hard against my chest. I wanted to strip every layer off her, inspect each bruise with my hands and mouth, then pin her to our bed until the only marks left on her came from me. The need was brutal, but now wasn’t the time.
Wraith appeared at the doorway with his weapon up and his gaze sweeping the room. I released Tamsin only far enough to turn her toward him, then put one hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her into his reach. The timer dropped past one minute and twenty seconds.
“Take her out,” I ordered.
Tamsin caught the front of my cut before Wraith could move her.
“You’re coming too.” She searched my face while her fingers tightened in the leather. The fear in her eyes was controlled, but it was there.
“As soon as that thing’s dead.” I tipped her chin up and held her gaze until she heard the command beneath the words. “Go with Wraith.”
For one beat, every argument she wanted crossed her expressive face. Then she remembered the promise she had made in my office, released my leather, and nodded.
“You’d better be right behind me,” she snapped, backing toward Wraith without taking her eyes off mine.
“Always am.”
Wraith caught her firmly by the upper arm and moved her into the corridor. She looked back once before the wall took her from view, and I waited until his voice confirmed they had cleared the side entrance. Only then did I turn toward the black case.
Stryker came over the comm before I reached it. “Rear team has Len, the crew leader, and three more assholes. Remote’s secure.”
Metal slammed somewhere beyond his voice as the brothers finished taking the vehicle apart.
“Timer’s still live,” I told him, crouching beside the case as the display passed fifty-six seconds.
“All yours. Everybody else is pulling back.”
The case had been bolted to the support, its external display and receiver protected behind a clear cover.
I opened the lid and found a simple firing mechanism made dangerous by the stolen material packed around it.
The first power source was obvious, which meant I distrusted it immediately, and the small indicator that should have died when I isolated it stayed lit.
“Backup,” I muttered, following the second feed with my eyes instead of wasting time swearing at the man who built it.
Thirty-eight seconds remained. I shifted my hand beneath the mounting plate, found the concealed power block, and separated it from the trigger without disturbing the initiator.
The display flickered but kept counting, proving the timer carried enough independent charge to finish what it had started.
Outside, engines cut off, and gunfire collapsed into scattered impacts as my brothers finished taking the range. None of it mattered inside the tight circle of light around my hands.
Twenty-four seconds.
I traced the final firing path, steadied the case with one hand, and worked the initiator free with the other. The wound along my side burned when I leaned deeper, but my fingers never shook.
Fifteen seconds.
The display reflected across the metal support and painted my hands red while the alarm continued screaming through the room. I isolated the trigger, killed the initiator, and held still long enough to make sure no backup signal had been waiting behind the first.
The countdown froze at eight, the red digits locked in place while I kept both hands exactly where they were. For one measured breath, I watched the display for any sign that the circuit had found another path. Then the screen went dark, and the steady tone vanished from the prep bay.
I checked the receiver, firing mechanism, and immediate material around the column before trusting the result. The device was dead, the stolen pyrotechnics remained stable, and nobody was going to turn this building into Tamsin’s grave.