Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Jonus
Kelt’s voice comes through my headset, calm and steady, reviewing the tactical briefing one more time. I should be entirely focused on the action plan, but part of my mind is already on the ground, inside that compound, searching for Sloane Adams.
I check my rifle for the third time. I’m not the Irontree who does this—the weapons, the tactical insertions, the violence.
That’s Kelt and Keric, both of whom are former military.
I’m the one who represents our species to the human media.
I smooth things over and make the humans comfortable with orcs.
But talking isn’t going to save Sloane.
The helicopter pilot cuts through the Colombian night, running dark, no external lights.
Through the cabin, I can see the rest of the team gearing up.
Kelt at the front, tablet glowing as he reviews the compound layout.
Cole and Martinez checking their weapons with the easy efficiency of men who’ve done this a thousand times.
Aldar on his own tablet, monitoring drone feeds and communications.
And me, sitting with a rifle across my lap, thinking about a female I’ve never met in real life and the phone call six days ago that changed everything.
“She’s being held in some kind of underground structure,” Kelt continues through the headset. “Pit or cellar, northwest corner of the compound. We breach, extract and get out.”
“What’s the timeline on the kill order?” Cole asks, his voice crackling through comms.
“Intercepted communication says tomorrow.” Kelt’s jaw tightens. “We go tonight or she doesn’t see morning.”
My hands grip the rifle harder. Twelve days she’s been down there, in a hole in the ground while I made calls, assembled a team, planned every detail of this extraction. Twelve days while the man who was supposed to love her declined involvement.
I force my hands to relax. Focus.
“Insertion point is two clicks from the compound,” Kelt says. “We move through the jungle using standard formation. Orcs take point—night vision and hearing give us the advantage. Cole, Martinez, you’re on flanks.”
“Copy that,” Martinez says.
“Jonus.” Kelt’s voice cuts through. “You sure about going in? You could run comms from the bird.”
“I’m going in.”
Brief pause on the comms. Kelt doesn’t push it. The others know better than to comment.
I’m the coordinator, the media handler, the Irontree who stays back and manages the fallout.
When Garlen went feral over Ellie, I handled the press.
When Keric brought Anna to the commune with mercenaries on her tail, I coordinated the evidence release.
I solve problems with words and strategy, not weapons.
But six days ago, a woman from the State Department called to tell me that Sloane Adams was missing in Colombia, presumed taken by cartel operatives.
And she’d listed me as her emergency contact.
Not her fiancé, her editor, mother or best friend.
Me.
An orc she’d never met in person.
I still remember exactly where I was when the phone rang.
My room in the Truckee house, going over media requests for Garlen and Ellie’s upcoming interview.
Unknown number, DC area code. “Mr. Irontree? This is the State Department. We understand you’ve been in contact with Sloane Adams, an investigative journalist with the New York Times. ”
“Yes.” My voice was steady even though something cold had settled in my chest. “What’s happened?”
“Ms. Adams traveled to Colombia twelve days ago. Six days ago, she missed a scheduled check-in. We believe she was taken by individuals connected to the Reyes cartel.”
Taken.
“You’re listed as her emergency contact,” the woman continued.
She listed me. Not her fiancé of however many months. Not anyone from her work. Me. A green orc she’d only ever seen through a screen. “What about her fiancé?” I asked. “Ryan Krychek?”
“Mr. Krychek has declined involvement. He indicated the relationship was over.”
A growl rumbles in my chest. Declined involvement? The woman he was supposed to marry was missing in cartel territory, and he declined involvement.
“Thank you for the information,” I’d said.
Then I started making calls and ended up in contact with Sloane’s best friend, a librarian named Lucy Rodriguez.
This small female has been invaluable in keeping information flowing between the Times and Sloane’s family, so I can concentrate on this extraction.
“Five minutes to insertion,” Martinez’s voice cuts through my headset, pulling me back to the present.
I check my rifle again. Sidearm. Knife. Everything in place.
Aldar’s voice comes through. “Drone’s in position. Thermal shows six signatures in the compound. Two on patrol, four stationary.”
“Any movement near the pit?” Kelt asks.
“Negative. Looks quiet.”
Quiet. She’s been down there for twelve days in a hole in the ground. What have they done to her?
I clench my jaw. I’ve always been the steady one.
The Irontree who keeps his composure and handles things with charm and a well-placed smile.
Garlen loses his mind over his Bride, Keric broods like a storm cloud, and I’m the one who smooths everything over.
That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been.
I used to joke that I was immune to the mating pull. I’d met plenty of human women over the years and felt nothing beyond friendship. The freight train that Garlen described when he first saw Ellie? I figured it was something that happened to other orcs. Not me.
Then I met Sloane Adams through a laptop screen, and there was that immediate pull.
That first video call was supposed to be fifteen minutes. She needed a quote for her follow-up coverage on the Anna Kim story—the whistleblower who exposed the university fraud scheme. I was coordinating media for the family. Simple. Professional.
She appeared on my screen at two in the morning because I was working late and was nothing like I expected. Curly dark hair, messy like she’d been running her hands through it. Glasses. Tired hazel eyes that still managed to be sharp as knives.
An hour later, I’d completely forgotten to take notes. And so had she.
“Two minutes,” the pilot’s voice comes through. “Prepare for insertion.”
The team moves, doing final checks. The helicopter begins its descent.
My mind again drifts back to Sloane. After that first call, we kept talking.
I learned she drinks too much coffee, works too late and has a laugh that’s husky and warm—the kind of laugh I found myself trying to earn.
She’s brilliant at her job but gets passed over for on-camera work because she doesn’t “look the part.” That made me angry on behalf of a woman I’d never met in person.
Sloane is fantastically beautiful. Her auburn hair is long and thick and her blue eyes and freckles are mesmerizing.
I could tell that her fiancé wasn’t right for her.
I didn’t say this out loud, but I’d learned they have a long-distance relationship and saw each other rarely.
And one of them would need to give up their job to move across the country to be together. He wanted Sloane to quit.
Ridiculous.
“Thirty seconds,” the pilot says.
I grip my rifle. Feel the helicopter touch down.
The last time I talked to her was three weeks ago.
She was hyped about the money trail she’d found—Aldridge’s connection to the Reyes cartel.
Shell companies in Panama, wire transfers through Cayman banks.
The piece of the puzzle that Anna’s evidence hadn’t touched.
Finding all this out and passing it over to human law enforcement should finally trigger an indictment for the formerly untouchable Aldridge.
“Sloane, this is dangerous,” I told her. “Of course I want Aldridge to go down, but you need to remain safe. Cartels don’t negotiate with journalists. They make them disappear.”
She waved it off. “I’ve got local contacts. A security protocol. I’ll be careful.”
I wanted to say more. Don’t go to Colombia without me. Come to California and let me…but what was I going to say? I was nobody to her. Just a voice on the other end of a video call. “Just be careful,” I said instead.
“I’m always careful.” She smiled at me through the screen.
It was the last time I saw her face.
Two days ago, I was at Keric and Anna’s wedding celebration in Maine.
I should have been happy for my cousin. I should have been charming the guests and making everyone laugh.
Instead, I stood at the edge of the party, unable to summon a single smooth word, my mind 2,500 miles south in a Colombian jungle.
Hold on, Sloane, I thought.
“Go, go, go,” Kelt orders through the headset.
My headphone is off. The helicopter door slides open and we pour out into the Colombian night. Hot, humid air hits my face. The rotors are deafening and then they’re fading as the bird lifts off to a safe distance.
Just jungle sounds now.
My orc senses expand outward, adjusting to the darkness. What would be nearly impossible for human eyes becomes gray twilight for me. I can see the shapes of trees, vines, undergrowth. I hear insects, night birds and small creatures moving through the brush.
And beyond that, maybe half a click out—the compound.
Kelt signals with hand signs now. No more voice comms unless necessary. Formation up. Move out.
We slip into the jungle. Kelt takes point and moves fast and silent despite his size. Cole and Martinez spread to the flanks. Aldar has his tablet strapped to his forearm, monitoring drone feeds. And I’m in formation, rifle up, not hanging back.
The weight of the weapon feels strange in my hands. I’m trained with it—all of us are—but it’s never been my tool of choice. I solve problems with words, strategy, charm. Tonight, I need to be something else.
The jungle is dense and dark. The two human team members we’ve hired, Cole and Martinez, are moving well because of their Navy SEAL training and their tech, but this is much easier for me.
For orcs, our senses cut through like blades.
I can hear the generator hum from the compound now, maybe half a click out.
Radio music and humans speaking Spanish.
Six, maybe seven distinct voice that are getting closer.
I extend my hearing further. Heartbeats. Breathing patterns. Two on patrol, footsteps moving in a lazy circuit. Four others stationary—sleeping or sitting idle.
And underneath all of it, somewhere in that compound, is Sloane.
If she’s still alive.
No. I can’t think like that. She’s alive. She has to be.
Kelt signals halt. We’re at the perimeter now. Through the trees, I can see the compound—rough structures, a generator shack, vehicles. And there, in the northwest corner, wooden slats covering a depression in the ground.
The pit.
That’s where she’s been for twelve days.
The wind shifts and there it is faint, so faint, buried under jungle rot and cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies and gun oil but unmistakable.
Her.
I don’t know how I know. I’ve never scented her in person. But something deep in my orc brain recognizes it, locks onto it like a beacon.
She’s alive.
Relief, rage and determination crash together in my chest. Every muscle in my body goes tight. She’s fifty meters away, underground, in the dark, and she’s been there for twelve days while her worthless fiancé declined involvement.
Kelt looks at me.
“Let’s go get her,” I breathe.
He signals the team forward.
We move.