Chapter 15
Skye
Croft House looked almost peaceful in the late afternoon, which somehow made it worse.
The pale stone caught what little light managed to break through the clouds, and the grounds had been arranged with the same careful restraint I remembered from my first visit: clipped hedges, gravel paths, soft landscaping, discreet signage, and windows that suggested privacy rather than confinement.
Anyone driving past would have seen an expensive private recovery center tucked into the countryside.
They would not have seen the hidden corridor behind the west wing, the reinforced doors, the restricted windows, or the women being kept inside rooms designed to look therapeutic while functioning like cells.
That contrast had bothered me the first time.
Now that I knew Isla was somewhere behind those walls, it made every beautiful detail feel deliberate.
Irish stood beside me near the rear of the temporary staging property Maverick had arranged a short distance from Croft House.
He had barely spoken during the last ten minutes, but I had learned enough about him to recognize the difference between silence and focus.
His attention moved constantly, checking the road, the tree line, the vehicles, and the men preparing equipment behind us.
Trigger was going through the entry sequence with Hawkeye for what had to be the fourth time, while Raze and Storm loaded medical kits and blankets into the extraction vehicles.
Maverick had already left to position himself near the western perimeter, and Cipher's voice occasionally came through Irish's earpiece as he confirmed camera patterns and staff movements.
I should have been focused entirely on the plan, yet I remained acutely aware of Irish standing close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushed mine whenever either of us shifted.
The awareness had become a problem, not because I wanted distance from him, but because I could no longer pretend his closeness meant nothing.
"You remember the route?" he asked.
I looked at him.
"Third corridor, second turn, first door."
"And if the greenhouse entrance is blocked?"
"Basement service route."
"If that fails?"
"Main west corridor, but only if absolutely necessary."
He nodded.
"And your role?"
I gave him a look. "You really want me to say it again?"
"Aye."
"Navigation, identify Isla, read structural changes, help with residents, and avoid attempting to become tactical support simply because I'm annoyed."
His mouth moved faintly.
"That last part wasn't in the briefing."
"It was heavily implied."
"Good."
I folded my arms. "And your role?"
His brows lifted.
"Go on."
"Get us in, keep the route clear, stop anyone trying to hurt us, and resist the urge to order me around merely because you're worried."
"That last part definitely wasn't in the briefing."
"It should have been."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then his expression softened slightly.
"I am worried."
The honesty caught me off guard.
I lowered my arms.
"I know."
"I don't like taking you into that building."
"I know that too."
"But I trust why you're going."
That mattered more than reassurance would have.
I nodded.
"And I trust you to get me back out."
Something heavier than surprise moved through his eyes when I told him I trusted him to bring me back out, and he took one slow step closer as though the words carried more weight than I had realized.
"Stay within reach."
"I said I would."
"I'm saying it again."
"Then I'm agreeing again."
The corner of his mouth lifted.
For a second, everything around us seemed quieter.
Trigger's voice interrupted from behind us. "Time." The moment broke, and Irish turned toward the vehicles, his hand brushing the small of my back as he guided me forward. The touch lasted only a second longer than necessary, but I noticed the hesitation before he finally let me go.
The operation began twenty minutes later.
We entered from the western garden route just before dusk, when staff shifts overlapped and the changing light created the worst possible conditions for external cameras.
Hawkeye had already confirmed the twenty-two-second blind section near the cedar line, and Cipher had managed to loop one exterior feed without interrupting the others.
Trigger moved first through the trees, Irish directly behind him, then me, with Storm and Raze farther back preparing to receive anyone we brought out.
Hawkeye remained outside on overwatch, his voice quiet in the earpiece whenever movement changed around the grounds.
The greenhouse came into view exactly where the old plans placed it.
Up close, it looked less like a working structure than it had through binoculars.
The glass was too clean for something supposedly used for plants, while the interior benches held only a handful of decorative pots positioned where someone outside could see them.
Ivy covered the western side almost completely, spreading across a timber panel that should have been stone if the official renovation records were accurate.
I pointed toward the ivy-covered western section. "There." Trigger crossed immediately to inspect it while Irish remained beside me, close enough to intervene without getting in the way as I ran my fingers along the slight separation between the timber frame and the surrounding masonry.
"Reversible installation."
"What does that mean?" Trigger asked.
"It means whoever put this here wanted to be able to remove it without damaging the historic structure."
Raze's voice came softly through the radio. "So considerate."
Storm muttered something I couldn't make out.
Trigger found the concealed latch.
The panel moved inward with a faint scrape, releasing a breath of cold, damp air from the narrow service corridor disappearing into darkness behind it. My pulse quickened as the hidden route Isla had marked finally became something real in front of us.
Irish looked at me.
"This match?"
I studied the original stone walls, the newer electrical conduit, and the replacement flooring cutting through what should have been a much older passage. "Yes. This matches."
Trigger moved inside.
Irish followed, then stopped long enough to gesture me forward.
I stepped through.
The corridor smelled faintly of damp plaster and disinfectant.
That combination made my stomach twist.
We moved carefully, keeping lights low. The passage sloped slightly downward before leveling out beneath the western wing. My memory of the old plans aligned with what I saw: service recess, blocked storage alcove, narrow cross-corridor.
As the hidden passage aligned with the historic plan in my memory, Isla's directions finally made complete sense: the third corridor would take us to the second turn and then the first door. Every mark she had left had been correct.
I felt the fear inside me sharpen into something useful.
We turned once.
Then again.
The first door stood exactly where Isla's instructions had promised, reinforced and windowless with an electronic lock that looked substantially newer than the surrounding structure.Irish looked toward Trigger.
Trigger raised one hand as Cipher's voice came through the earpiece.
"Working it."
The seconds stretched while Cipher worked the lock, each one long enough for my heartbeat to climb higher.
Irish must have felt the tension beside him because he reached for my hand without looking away from the door, quietly closing his fingers around mine.
I held on without pretending the contact was only about the operation.
Cipher spoke again.
"Try now."
Trigger touched the handle and we watched the lock release and the door open.
The room beyond was empty, and for one terrible second I thought we had been wrong. Then the details along the floor came into focus: a blanket near the far wall, a cup of water, discarded medical packaging, and a strip of dark green wool tied around the leg of a chair.
I recognized Isla's scarf immediately, the dark green wool unmistakable even before I noticed the familiar frayed edge. She had bought it in Glasgow two winters earlier and refused to replace it because she insisted the damage gave it character.
I crossed the room before anyone could stop me.
"Skye."
Irish's voice was low, warning without command.
I picked up the scarf.
The cup beside the scarf had left a fresh ring of moisture on the floor, and one of the medication packets had been torn open but not yet discarded properly. Whatever room Isla occupied now, she had been moved recently.
"She was here."
Trigger checked the adjoining doorway while Irish moved closer. "How recently?"
I studied the condensation still clinging to the base of the cup. "Minutes, maybe."
The realization passed through all of us at once. Isla hadn't been moved hours earlier or before we arrived; someone had relocated her while we were already inside Croft House.
Hawkeye's voice came sharply through the earpiece.
"Movement north side. Two staff, one female resident. Heading interior."
Irish turned immediately.
"Direction?"
"West to central corridor."
Trigger was already moving.
"Go."
We followed.
The route opened into another concealed passage, narrower than the first and lined with doors on both sides. Some were closed. One stood open.
Inside, a woman sat on the edge of a bed with her hands folded tightly in her lap.
She looked up as we passed, fear appearing first before confusion replaced it when she realized none of us wore Croft House uniforms.
Storm's voice came through Irish's radio from the extraction side.
"Remember choices."
I stopped.
The woman stared at me.
"Are you staff?"
"No."