45. Maverick
MAVERICK
READY FOR WAR
Helicopter blades cut through the night air, the thunder of the engine doing nothing to drown out the chaos in my mind. I stare out the window, lost in the city lights blurring past, my hands clenched so tight my knuckles have gone white.
This is my fucking fault.
I should’ve known better than to think distance would keep her safe from him. We were hunting a predator who’d been perfecting his craft for years—who’d been hunting Clara with obsessive focus for far too long.
I told Cruz I’d be her protective detail.
After Evans left a message for Clara at the FBI rental, I thought moving to my house in Minneapolis would keep her safe.
But I should have fucking known. He found her at her apartment.
At the rental. He sent her that fucking letter.
I should have moved her after that. I should have fucking had agents protecting her around the clock.
Goddamn it. Why did I think I could keep her safe ?
I thought I could outsmart him, thought I could play his game. But he’s played me this whole time.
He knew where Clara was when he met with us this morning. He had already planned on taking her from me while he was pretending to be the concerned mayor.
God, I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong.
“ETA three minutes,” the pilot’s voice crackles through my headset.
Cruz leans forward from the seat behind me. “Mav, you can’t blame yourself for this. You know this isn’t your fault.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. Because it is my fault. If anything happens to Clara—if that sick bastard hurts her because I failed to keep her safe—I’m done. There’s no coming back from that. The job, the team, none of it will matter.
“He would’ve found her at some point. You know that, right? He wasn’t going to stop. This isn’t on you,” Cruz continues, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder before sitting back.
“Rhodes.” Spencer’s voice cuts through my spiral, forcing me to turn my head and meet his eyes. “We’re going to get her back. You hear me?”
I nod, but his words feel hollow. Evans has had her for hours. Hours . And I know what he’s capable of. I’ve seen the crime scenes, witnessed his growing obsession, had nightmares about Clara’s time in his captivity. There’s no telling what he could be doing to Clara—what he could’ve already done .
The helicopter begins its descent toward the staging area, a park roughly one mile from the house.
Through the window, I can see the controlled chaos below—Minneapolis PD patrol cars with their lights dark, SWAT vehicles positioned strategically, black federal SUVs gleaming under the street lamps, and the FBI command unit prepared to monitor it all.
There’s even an ambulance parked behind the police vehicles, ready to follow behind.
As soon as we touch down, I’m ripping the headset off and jumping down. Agent Mark Morrison, Minneapolis’ tactical unit leader, jogs over, his expression grim.
“What’s the situation?” I bark, not bothering with pleasantries.
“House has been under surveillance for forty minutes,” Morrison reports, falling into step beside me as we move toward mobile command. “No movement visible from the exterior. Thermal imaging shows two moving heat signatures in the basement level.”
Two signatures. That means Clara’s alive.
For now.
“Local SWAT is deferring command to our tactical unit. Everyone’s ready to roll on your signal,” Morrison continues.
“Good. We’ll need a silent entry,” I say roughly, stopping in front of the command center.
The massive mobile unit is essentially a fortress on wheels, its exterior bristling with communication arrays, emergency lights, and storage areas.
Just as I open one of the large exterior compartments, Spencer and Cruz approach.
The compartment door swings open with a heavy thunk, revealing rows of tactical gear and three drawers with firearm lockers.
I grab two tactical Kevlar vests and hand them to Spencer and Cruz before taking a third and strapping it on.
Opening one of the lockers, I bypass the array of handguns and snag two magazine pouches, securing them to the front plate carrier of the vest. The weight of it is familiar and reassuring.
“Let’s move,” I order, slamming the storage compartment shut.
“The plan is for the motorcade to roll dark,” Morrison says as we walk to one of the black SUVs, Spencer and Cruz following closely behind. “We’ll stop three blocks away and walk the rest. My team’s already got the house surrounded.”
“Neighbors?” Spencer asks, concerned about the families and collateral.
I should be concerned. I should’ve asked that question myself, especially as the Supervisory Special Agent. I know there’s a part of me that is concerned, but it’s being overridden by the need to get to Clara.
She’s all that matters to me. What does it say about me that I’d sacrifice everyone else for her?
“Aren’t many. The neighborhood is fairly spread out—no less than half an acre between properties, some even more than that. And the Evans house has been unoccupied for decades.”
The four of us take the lead vehicle with Morrison at the wheel. He keeps the headlights off but flashes them twice to signal the others.
As one, we drive down Prescott Road. Within minutes, the motorcade comes to a stop on a corner street.
The walk to the house feels like it takes hours, though it’s less than five minutes.
The neighborhood is spread out, just like Morrison said.
It would be picture-perfect with large colonial- and Victorian-style homes surrounded by equally large, well-maintained lawns if it weren't for the dilapidated colonial with its dark windows staring back at us like dead eyes.
The white paint has long since started to peel, the wood siding more rotted than not.
It looks completely abandoned and out of place.
No indication of the horrors inside—past or present.
The tactical teams move like shadows between houses, approaching in formation. The night works in our favor, plenty of darkness to match our movements.
“Remember, silent entry,” I whisper to Morrison, who has taken point in the stack. “Can’t risk alarming the suspect and setting him off. Hostage is our priority.”
Something dark and primal recoils inside me at calling Clara a hostage. It makes me want to breach this door and explode inside, setting fire to any and everything until she’s in my arms.
But I can’t.
Morrison nods and signals the team with his hands.
He holds up three fingers, then two, then one.
When he holds up his fist, a tactical agent moves to the front door, setting up a door blaster.
He clamps it to the door frame, steps to the side, and activates the remote.
Within seconds, the door is forced open, and we flow through the house like water.
Local SWAT moves to clear the upper level while Spencer, Cruz, and I join Morrison’s tactical unit through the main floor, clearing the dark, dust-covered rooms with silent precision. Living room—clear. Dining room—clear.
We’re moving through the kitchen when a scream cuts through the silence—raw, terrified, unmistakably Clara’s.
It sounds as though the scream came from the kitchen, but that’s impossible because we’re in the kitchen. I glance around, my heart racing a hundred miles per minute. I don’t see a door. I don’t see a fucking entrance to the basement.
It takes me a moment to notice an old, circular latch on the floor. I don’t remember moving. One second I’m standing in the kitchen, the next I’m throwing open the hatch and storming down the stairs, taking them three at a time.
The cellar feels like a tomb. Stone walls, low ceiling, the smell of damp earth and something fouler underneath. A single bare bulb casts harsh shadows across the space.
And there, in the center of the room…
I see them.