Chapter 12
HELENA
Cordite hangs in the air, sharp and metallic.
I move through the compound checking everyone over.
Eli's at the window running another perimeter scan even though the sensors show clear.
Zeke's reloading magazines with methodical precision, his hands steady despite the adrenaline still running through him.
Marc Wells, Rhys's deputy and our extra warrior, climbs down from the ridge position, his rifle slung across his back.
Everyone's moving. Everyone's intact.
The firefight ended less than an hour ago. Bodies lie outside in the snow where contractors fell. Two more sit zip-tied inside, bleeding but stable enough to answer questions. Rhys's people are processing the scene and taking custody of the prisoners.
Finn’s moving well though favoring his left shoulder—a wound from the assault. I had patched it then, and he's been careful with it since, but sustained firing from a defensive position puts stress on healing tissue.
"How's the shoulder holding up?" I ask.
"Sore but functional." He rotates it carefully, testing the range of motion. "I'll live."
I check it anyway. No fresh bleeding, no signs the old wound reopened. Just muscle fatigue from holding a firing position for an extended engagement. I hand him ibuprofen and water.
"Take these. Ice it tonight."
"Yes ma'am."
Zeke's got scrapes across his knuckles from when he had to pull a jammed magazine free during the firefight. Minor abrasions, nothing serious. I clean them with antiseptic while he gives me a rundown of the ammunition expenditure and the defensive position integrity.
"We burned through more rounds than I'd like," he says. "But the compound held. They didn't breach the perimeter."
"How many contractors?"
"Started with roughly a dozen. We dropped three permanently, wounded two more that their team dragged back during retreat. Captured two." His jaw tightens. "The rest withdrew, probably regrouping at whatever staging area Graves is using."
Eli's scanning the tree line with that cold, methodical focus that does things to my pulse I don't have time for. Blood spatter is still visible on his forearm where he dragged the wounded contractor. His hands are steady on the rifle like the weapon's an extension of his body.
This is what he looked like in the field. What David became and couldn't walk back from.
Except Eli's fighting it. He's containing the darkness instead of drowning in it.
I finish with Zeke and move to check the captured contractors.
Both are now in the communications room, zip-tied and under Cara's watch.
The first one's got a shoulder wound from where Eli shot him during the initial assault.
It's a clean through-and-through, missed the major vessels but tore muscle on exit.
I irrigate it, pack it with gauze, and immobilize the arm.
"You're not dying today," I tell him. "Whether that's good news depends on how cooperative you are."
The second contractor's got facial trauma from when Eli took him down with a rifle butt.
He has a broken nose and a definite orbital fracture, with one eye already swelling shut.
It's brutal efficiency that comes from knowing exactly where to hit to incapacitate without killing.
I check his pupils and verify no signs of brain bleed beyond the obvious damage.
I give him an ice pack, pain medication, and field stabilization.
They'll both live long enough to testify against the man who hired them.
Cara finishes her interrogation when I complete the medical assessment. She walks out with the grim expression of someone who's just confirmed their worst fears.
"Graves ordered this personally," she says without preamble. "Full tactical assault. Eliminate everyone in the compound, retrieve or eliminate Traci. He's not trying to cover his tracks anymore—he's trying to erase the evidence before it destroys him."
"How many more teams does he have?" Zeke asks.
"These two don't know for certain. But they were hired through the same broker, same staging area south of here. At least one more team on standby, possibly more." Cara's jaw tightens. "Graves is burning through his war chest, but he's got resources left."
Silence stretches. Everyone is processing what that means—more assaults coming, more contractors with federal-grade equipment, Graves getting more desperate as his empire crumbles.
"Where's Traci?" I ask.
"Infirmary," Eli says from the window. "Locked herself in when the shooting started. Hasn't come out."
I grab my medical bag and head down the hallway. The door's locked from inside like I showed her weeks ago. Complete control over her space, over who enters.
I knock softly. "Traci, it's Helena. The fighting's over. Everyone's okay."
Silence.
I try again. "I'm going to wait right here until you're ready. No rush. Just want you to know you're safe."
Several long minutes pass. Then the lock clicks.
The door opens a crack. Traci's face appears, pale and drawn. Her eyes are wide with residual fear.
I keep my movements slow, deliberate. "Can I come in?"
She nods once, steps back.
The infirmary shows signs of her vigil during the firefight. Blanket pulled off the bed and wadded in the corner where she must have huddled. Her backpack clutched against her chest like armor. Notebook open on the floor with writing I can't quite make out from this angle.
"You did exactly right," I tell her, keeping my voice steady and calm. "Stayed where it was safe. Followed protocol. That's what we needed you to do."
She's breathing too fast. Shallow, rapid breaths that signal panic starting to claw its way up.
I crouch beside her, bringing myself to eye level. "Four counts. With me."
She knows this. We've done it before. Her eyes lock on mine and she tries to match my rhythm.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
Her chest stutters but she's trying, following the pattern we've established during the times she’s been with us. Time filled with panic attacks and nightmares.
We do this together. Over and over until the panic recedes enough for rational thought to surface through the terror. Until her breathing steadies and the wild look in her eyes starts to fade.
She reaches for her notebook with trembling hands.
They came back. Just like you said.
"They did. And we drove them off. Again."
I heard gunshots. So many gunshots.
"I know. It was loud and scary and you were alone in here while it happened." I don't minimize what she experienced. "But you stayed safe. That's what matters."
More writing, faster now.
What if they'd gotten through? What if they'd killed everyone and I was just hiding in here waiting?
"They didn't get through. Your uncle and the others held the line." I meet her eyes. "Traci, I need you to hear this. You're not going to be alone again. Not while people who care about you are still breathing."
She studies my face, searching for truth. Then reaches for the notebook again.
Uncle Eli looked different when he came to check on me after. Scary different.
That's the thing about operatives, the switch from civilian to combatant shows in their eyes, their movements, the controlled violence barely leashed. Eli came to verify she was safe while still running on combat adrenaline, and Traci saw exactly what he'd become during the firefight.
"He was protecting you," I say carefully. "Sometimes protection looks scary. But that doesn't change what it is."
I know. I'm not afraid of him. I just... She pauses, writes more slowly. I don't want to lose him. Or you. Or anyone else who's trying to help me.
The vulnerability in that admission costs her something. This girl who survived months of hell by trusting no one, admitting she's terrified of losing the few people she's started to trust.
"You're not going to lose us," I tell her. "We're seeing this through. All of us."
Footsteps in the hallway. Eli appears in the doorway, still carrying the tension of combat in how he holds himself. He looks at Traci, then at me, reading the situation.
He crosses the room and kneels, bringing himself to her level.
His presence fills the space with controlled intensity, but there's something in how he looks at her that acknowledges her fear without treating her as fragile.
Something that carries the violence he just unleashed but holds it back for her.
"They tried," he says, voice flat. "We stopped them." Pause. "If they come back, we’ll stop them again." His eyes don't leave hers. "You are not alone. Not while I'm breathing."
She studies his face, searching for truth in the darkness there. Then she nods once, sharp and decisive.
She pulls the blanket around her shoulders. Exhaustion settling in now that adrenaline has faded.
I stand. "Try to rest. We'll be right outside if you need anything."
She nods, already curling into the bed.
We step into the hallway. Traci locks the door behind us. I hear the click, then silence.
Eli's removed the tactical vest but still carries himself like someone ready to go back into combat at a moment's notice. Blood on his sleeve, dirt on his pants, expression carefully neutral.
"She okay?" he asks.
"As okay as anyone can be after what she just experienced." I study his face, see the tension in his jaw, the way he's holding himself too still. "What about you?"
"Managing."
"That's what David always said." I keep my voice level. "Right up until he wasn't."
Eli's expression shifts. Something darker surfaces before he locks it down. "I'm not David."
"No, you're not. You're trying to process this instead of pretending it doesn't affect you." I step closer. "But you're also running on combat adrenaline and eventually that's going to crash. When it does, you don't have to handle it alone."
He looks at me for a long moment. Calculating. Assessing whether accepting help is weakness or practical necessity.
"Why?" he asks finally.