Chapter 11 #3
"Multiple teams. Enough for simultaneous assault on different vectors."
"Where are they staging?"
The contractor hesitates. The silence stretches. He understands that cooperation is his only option.
"An abandoned hunting lodge," he says finally. "Several klicks south of here. Old structure, off the main roads. The client's got his own security detail there. That's where we got our briefing and equipment."
"The client was there personally?"
"Yeah. Think so. Older guy, federal bearing. Didn't give a name, but the way everyone deferred to him—he was running the show."
Not confirmation of Graves, but consistent with what we already know. Someone with federal authority coordinating this operation. Someone important enough that trained contractors recognize power when they see it.
"He say anything else? About why this matters?"
"Just that the witness has information that'll destroy everything. That eliminating her is the only option left." The contractor's breathing harder now. Shock setting in despite Helena's stabilization. "Said he'd already made moves he couldn't walk back. That failure wasn't acceptable."
I stand. Head to the communications room. The younger contractor's sitting against the wall, watching Finn with wary eyes.
I don't sit this time. Just loom over him. The operational headspace showing through. He can see exactly what kind of violence I'm capable of if he doesn't cooperate.
"Your partner's talking. Told us about the broker, the staging area, the multiple teams. Now you're going to confirm it. And you're going to tell me something he doesn't know. Something that makes you useful instead of redundant."
"What do you want to know?"
"The client at the staging area. What did he look like? How did people react to him?"
The contractor swallows hard. "Tall, over six feet. Gray hair, military posture. Older. Spoke like someone used to being obeyed. The security detail treated him like he was untouchable."
"They use any names? Titles?"
"No names. But one of the security guys called him 'sir' like he meant it. Federal deference, you know? Like addressing a superior officer."
I key my radio. "Cara, you recording this?"
"Every word. Already uploading to the secure servers."
I look at the contractor. "You just confirmed that someone with federal authority personally authorized an armed assault on this compound to eliminate a witness. That's enough to start building connections."
The contractor's face goes pale. "He's going to kill me. When he finds out we failed, when he knows people got captured—he's going to kill all of us."
"Not if we get to him first."
I straighten, wipe the blood from my hands onto my pants.
I head back to the main room. Zeke's standing guard over the first contractor.
Helena's washing blood off her hands at the sink.
She looks up when I enter, and her eyes track across my body—cataloging damage, checking for wounds.
The clinical assessment becomes something else when her gaze meets mine.
Heat flares between us. Immediate. Visceral.
Not now. I force my attention to Zeke.
"Both contractors confirm it," I tell him. "Federal-level authority running the operation. Personally present at the staging area. Multiple teams, several klicks south in an abandoned hunting lodge."
Zeke's expression hardens. "Combined with Traci's testimony identifying Graves, Cara's evidence of his federal access, the financial connections—this builds a prosecutable case. Federal prosecutors can't ignore this."
"Yeah." I look toward the infirmary where Traci's safe. "We've got him."
Helena crosses to me. Studies my face. Her hand lifts like she's going to touch me, then drops. Professional distance maintained even though I can see the want in her eyes.
"You're bleeding again."
I'd forgotten about the graze along my temple from the first assault. The blood's dried but the wound's still open.
"It's nothing."
"Let me clean it anyway."
She guides me to a chair. Works with efficient precision, cleaning the wound, applying a bandage. Her hands are steady now. Clinical. But they tremble when her fingers brush my skin. Her breathing changes when she's this close.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Awareness of exactly how she felt wrapped around me. How she sounds when I take her apart.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"I should be asking you that. You just fought off two coordinated assaults by trained contractors."
"Part of the job."
"Was. Past tense." She finishes with the bandage. Steps back but her eyes stay on mine. "You've been living isolated for years. And in the space of hours you dropped right back into being an operative like you never left."
"Muscle memory. Training doesn't go away just because you're not using it."
"That's not what I mean." She holds my gaze. "I watched you out there. The way you moved. The way you assessed threats and responded. You weren't scared. You weren't hesitating. You were in your element."
"So?"
"So I'm wondering if isolation was what you needed or if it was just what you thought you deserved."
The observation cuts deeper than she probably intended. Because she's right. I told myself I went off-grid to manage what the field made me. To build control. To keep the operational mindset from bleeding into civilian life.
But maybe I was just punishing myself for Syria. For the incident that sent me running. For the civilians caught in crossfire because I made a call that seemed right in the moment but cost lives anyway.
"I don't know," I tell her honestly. "Maybe both."
She nods slowly. Her hand lifts again, her fingers brushing along my jaw. Light touch but it sends heat straight through me. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you were here. Whatever else you think about yourself, you kept Traci alive. You kept all of us alive."
Before I can respond—before I can do something stupid like pull her into my lap—the radio crackles. Cara's voice. "Vehicles approaching. Multiple units. Looks like the backup from Whitewater Junction finally arrived."
I stand. Move to the window, putting distance between me and Helena before I lose what's left of my control. Sure enough, sheriff's department vehicles are pulling into the clearing. Doors open. Deputies emerge wearing tactical gear, Rhys Blackwater among them.
They're here to secure the scene and take custody of the contractors. To hold them until federal prosecutors can move on the warrants.
But Graves is still out there. Still at the staging area several klicks south. Still coordinating whatever's left of his network.
We held the line. Captured two contractors. Got tactical intelligence about his operation.
But this isn't over.
I key the radio one more time. "All positions, stand down. Backup from Whitewater is here. We're clear for now."
Finn emerges from his position. Zeke comes out from the eastern window. Cara steps out of the communications room. We stand in the clearing as Rhys's deputies start their work.
Zeke claps me on the shoulder. "We held."
"For now."
"What do you mean?"
I look south. Toward where Graves is holed up in that staging area. Cornered animal with nothing left to lose.
"He has to know we held the line. Knows his contractors failed. Knows we probably captured some of them alive." I meet Zeke's eyes. "He's going to run or he's going to make one final play. Either way, this isn't finished."
Zeke's expression hardens. "We find him. Before he can regroup or disappear."
"Yeah. We find him."
Helena appears in the doorway. Traci's beside her now, awake and watching. The girl's face is pale but determined. She survived. She testified. And now the man who terrorized her is cornered with nowhere left to hide.
I catch Helena's eye one more time. Heat flares between us despite everything—the bodies outside, the contractors bleeding in custody, the threat still hunting us. That want hasn't gone anywhere.
But Graves is still out there. Still dangerous.
He comes first.
After that, I'm coming back for the woman who sees exactly what I am and doesn't look away.