Chapter 12
Twelve
Everything in Noah went cold the moment the light glinted off the gun pointed at Meg.
Not fear—not yet. That would come later.
Right now, there was only a crystalline clarity, sharp and absolute. The kind that came in moments when time slowed down and every decision mattered more than breathing.
“Put the gun down, Mr. Bradley.” His voice came out measured. The voice he used for terrified hikers standing too close to cliff edges.
The man’s eyes—familiar in a way that made Noah’s stomach twist—didn’t waver. The gun didn’t lower. Just stayed there, rock steady.
“Get out of the way. This is between me and her.”
“Not happening.”
Noah kept his hands visible with his palms out. The universal gesture of peace. Every instinct screamed at him to rush the man, to tackle him, to do something other than stand here talking while a loaded weapon was pointed at the woman he loved.
But a gun changed everything. Changed all the rules.
One wrong move and Meg—
He couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let his mind go to that dark place or he’d lose this careful control.
Noah shifted and positioned himself between Meg and the weapon. His injured leg screamed in protest—a white-hot lance of pain shooting from ankle to hip. The bandage she’d just applied pulled tight.
“She let my Lydia die.” The man’s voice cracked on the last word—raw and jagged. “She needs to answer for that.”
“The report says different.” Noah took another careful half step forward with his weight on his good leg. He tested the distance and calculated angles. “Lydia’s death wasn’t Meg’s fault.”
“I don’t care what some report says.” Ryan’s hand tightened on the gun.
The tendons stood out in stark relief. “I know what happened. Jeremy told me everything. She had a panic attack. She froze while my baby was dying, and when she finally tried to help, it was too late. She used the wrong technique, punctured Lydia’s lung—”
“That’s not what happened at all.” Noah cut in, his voice sharper now and authoritative. Behind him, he could feel Meg’s presence, could almost hear her breath catching, could sense the way she’d gone rigid.
“The trauma to Lydia’s chest was too severe. The bleeding around her heart—”
“She made it worse!” The words exploded out of Ryan, raw and jagged.
The gun wavered slightly with the force of his emotion.
“Lydia was still breathing. Still had a pulse. And then this—this doctor”—the word came out like a curse—“tried some procedure she had no business attempting in a cave and punctured her lung. My baby girl drowned in her own blood because of her.”
“Listen to me.” Noah’s mind raced and tried to find the right words. The ones that would defuse instead of escalate. The ones that would keep Meg alive. “The cardiac arrest was what killed Lydia. Dr. Lewis was trying to save her.”
“She failed.” Ryan’s voice flattened out into a dead, even tone. The kind of calm that came when someone had already made their decision. “And she needs to pay for that failure. You rangers—you protect each other. That report was whitewashed. But I know the truth. Jeremy told me everything.”
The gun steadied.
“Look, I understand you’re grieving—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m feeling!” Ryan’s voice echoed off the cave walls and bounced back multiplied. Alex stirred behind them and moaned softly. “You don’t know me.”
Noah’s chest tightened. His heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat. “The bleeding around her heart—”
“Was manageable if she’d gotten proper care in time!
” Ryan’s voice rose to a shout. “But instead, she got a doctor who panicked, who froze, who made everything worse. How she just stood there at first, shaking, useless. Jeremy described it all to me. Then when she did start to work, Jeremy told her that they needed to get Lydia out of the cave first. But she waited, insisted on treating her there, and then there was another cave-in.”
Behind Noah, Meg made a sound—small and broken.
He wanted to turn to her, to tell her Ryan was wrong, that Jeremy had twisted everything. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. Couldn’t give Ryan an opening.
Noah’s jaw clenched. He knew what the report had actually said—that Lydia’s injuries were ultimately fatal regardless. That pericardial tamponade didn’t care how fast you worked or how skilled you were. That sometimes people died and it wasn’t anyone’s fault.
But grief didn’t care about facts.
Grief needed someone to blame. Needed a target. Needed to make sense of senseless loss.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed and studied Noah for the first time. “Now move before I shoot you and let her watch you die.”
Noah was now within one step of the guy. Close enough to smell his sweat. Close enough to see the tears streaking through the cave dust on his face.
He didn’t think.
Just moved.
In one movement, he grabbed the hand with the gun and forced it upward toward the cave ceiling, then launched himself forward. They went down hard, with Noah’s bulk—six-four and two hundred pounds of muscle—driving the older man backward into the stone wall.
The gun went off.
The deafening sound seemed to pulse through his body and vibrate his skull as limestone dust rained down from above, where the bullet had struck. Noah grappled for the weapon, his fingers closing around Ryan’s wrist and squeezing.
Meg was moving behind him, her voice calling his name—sharp and panicked.
She needed to get farther away in case there was another stray bullet.
Ryan was stronger than he looked—wiry and desperate, fueled by grief and rage. They struggled for the gun, their bodies pressed together and their breath coming in gasps. Noah’s leg gave out—the injured joint folding like paper—and he stumbled. Ryan took advantage and drove an elbow into his ribs.
Pain exploded through Noah’s chest, stealing his breath.
He gasped, his grip loosening for just a second, but he was able to grab Ryan’s hand that held the gun.
He couldn’t shake it loose—the man’s fingers were locked tight—but he could keep it pointed away from him and Meg.
Could control the direction even if he couldn’t control the weapon.
That’s when he saw the knife.
Ryan pulled it from somewhere—a sheath at his belt—and the blade caught the light from their headlamps as it swung toward Noah’s throat. Fixed blade. Six inches of steel that looked impossibly sharp.
“Noah!” Meg’s scream cut through everything—high and terrified.
Noah jerked back, the knife missing his neck by millimeters. Close enough that he felt the whisper of air as it passed.
Barely.
And the movement set him off balance enough that he couldn’t counter when Ryan thrust toward his side. Couldn’t twist away. Couldn’t do anything but take it.
He felt the blade cut into his side below his ribs and bite deep.
The pain was so intense that his hand on Ryan’s wrist lessened just enough for Ryan to break free. They both grappled for the gun again, their hands slipping on each other’s sweat and blood. Noah’s blood—hot and slick.
They were too close. Noah couldn’t get leverage, couldn’t break free. His side burned. His leg was useless and threatened to buckle with every shift of weight. And Ryan was fighting like a man with nothing left to lose.
Because that’s exactly what he was.
“She took everything from us.” Ryan’s eyes were wild now, with tears streaming down his face and mixing with snot and spit. The ugly face of grief stripped of all dignity.
Noah’s hand closed over Ryan’s on the gun. He tried to twist it away, to point it anywhere but at Meg, at himself. Tried to use his weight advantage, his training.
The gun went off again.
For a moment, Noah didn’t understand what had happened. The sound was muffled this time. A wet thump instead of a sharp crack.
Ryan’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent gasp. Shock. Confusion. Then he stumbled backward, his hands loosening on the gun. Finally letting go.
Noah caught it as Ryan fell, his back hitting the cave wall before sliding down. He left a red smear on the limestone.
Blood spread across Ryan’s shirt, dark and fast.
Noah dropped to his knees beside the man, his hands already pressing against the wound. Medical training overrode everything else. Pressure. Elevation. Stop the bleeding.
But he could feel it—the pulse of arterial blood, the way it just kept coming. Hot and thick. Too much. Too fast.
Ryan’s hand came up, weak, and pushed Noah’s hands away. The touch was gentle and almost tender. “Doesn’t matter.” His voice was faint and wheezing. “We’re all dead anyway.”
Noah leaned closer and tried to hear. His own blood was soaking through his shirt and running hot down his side. He could feel it pooling at his hip. “What did you do?”
“Rigged it.” Ryan’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile—triumphant and satisfied. “Whole place. Explosives. Goes in—” He coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Less than an hour.”
Noah’s stomach dropped, cold spreading through his chest. “Where? Where did you put them?”
“Everywhere.” Ryan’s eyes were starting to glaze. “Entrance. Main chamber. Here. You’ll never—” Another cough, weaker this time. His chest barely rose. “Never find them all. Lydia deserves justice. Lydia deserves—”
Noah grabbed the man’s shirt and shook him gently. “How do we stop it? There has to be a way to stop it.”
But Ryan’s eyes were already going distant and unfocused. His chest rose once, twice—shallow, rattling breaths—then stilled.
Noah’s hands fell away, his mind racing.
Explosives.
The whole cave system rigged to blow.
Less than an hour. How long had they been talking? Fighting?
And Ryan—the only person who knew where the explosives were, how to disarm them—was dead.
Noah tried to stand, to turn to Meg, to tell her they had to move now. Had to find those explosives or get out or something. But his leg wouldn’t hold him and buckled like wet cardboard again. His side was screaming, blood running hot down his hip. The cave tilted sideways, its walls spinning.
Or maybe he was falling.