17. Sloane
SLOANE
T he silence after Logan storms out hits like physical weight, pressing against my chest until breathing feels like work.
Around me, the men exchange loaded glances—quick darting looks that carry whole conversations I'm not meant to catch.
Caleb rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tell that makes him look younger. More vulnerable. His shoulders are tight with something that might be hurt or might be anger.
"What just happened?" he finally asks, breaking the oppressive quiet. His eyes find Elias, who stands with arms crossed and gaze fixed on the door Logan just slammed.
The question hangs there, unanswered.
Because how do you explain what just shattered? The trust? The brotherhood? The careful balance they've built here?
"Did he really think he could handle this alone?" Ryker's voice drips with disbelief barely masked as skepticism. His massive frame leans against the far wall, but there's nothing casual in his posture. He's coiled tight, ready to move.
"Clearly." Asa pulls out a chair at the main table, wood creaking under his weight. The sound feels too loud in the charged silence. "But we need to regroup. This goes beyond just Sloane."
My chest tightens at that.
Because he's right—this isn't just about me anymore. It's about whatever darkness I've dragged into their sanctuary. Whatever threat made Logan choose silence over brotherhood.
"Yeah, but how do we confront him about this?" Knox's uncertainty bleeds through his usual stoic mask. His eyes keep darting to the door like he expects Logan to materialize there. "He thinks he's some kind of lone wolf, but he's not invincible."
No , he's not. And that's exactly what terrifies him.
"He needs to understand that we're in this together," Caleb says, voice sharpening with frustration. "I get he's trying to protect us, but not telling us the whole truth puts everyone at risk."
The words hit like arrows. Because isn't that exactly what I'm doing? Holding back pieces of the truth to keep people safe?
"What if he's hiding something?" Knox challenges, an edge creeping into his voice that makes my skin prickle. "We can't afford to ignore the signs. We need to know what's really going on with Sloane and if Logan's connected to it."
My heart stumbles.
Because there it is—the question I've been dreading. The one that ties Logan to whatever darkness is hunting me.
"But what if confronting him creates more problems?" Elias's brow furrows as he speaks, always the voice of reason. "He's still processing everything. Fracturing our team right now might only make it worse."
"Or it could force him to see that we can't keep skirting around issues like this," Ryker fires back, frustration rolling off him in waves.
His fist connects with the table, making mugs rattle.
"We can't let secrets fester. If Sloane is involved in something dangerous, we need to draw a line in the sand. "
The accusation in his voice—subtle but there—makes my throat tight. These men have built something here. Something sacred. And I'm the match that might burn it all down.
"I don't want to turn this into a fight," Asa cautions, his usual calm facade cracking slightly. "But we can't sit idly by, either. Sloane deserves to feel safe here, and if Logan is hiding something that jeopardizes that, we have to know."
The unexpected defense catches me off guard. Asa barely speaks to me, yet here he is, arguing for my safety. The weight of that trust settles heavy in my chest.
"Then we need an emergency meeting," Caleb decides, resolution flickering across his features. "We need to lay everything out on the table. We need to confront Logan about his actions and figure out a plan."
My heart races faster with each word. Guilt gnaws at the edges of my conscience, amplifying the shame burning in my chest. This isn't just my life at stake anymore—it's all of them. The thought hits with an intensity that steals my breath.
What would this mean for Logan?
The man who pulled me from death's grip twice now. The man whose kiss still burns on my lips. The man hiding something dark enough to fracture his family.
"I—" The word sticks in my throat as their attention shifts to me. The weight of their scrutiny settles like fog, thick and suffocating. "Excuse me, I need a moment."
I don't wait for a response. Can't bear to see judgment or sympathy in their eyes. I just slip away into the dim confines of The Forge, letting the distant murmur of their voices fade behind me.
The halls feel longer than usual. Darker. Every shadow holds potential threats, and my journalist's instincts scream that I'm missing something vital. Something that ties all of this together.
I find an empty room—some kind of storage space, dusty and unused. The air feels stale, undisturbed. Like secrets.
My hands shake slightly as I pull out my laptop. The urgency that's been building since Logan walked out finally has purpose. Direction.
Time to stop running and start digging.
The thumb drive feels heavier than it should as I plug it in. Files blink onto the screen—endless strings of data I've been too afraid to fully decrypt. Too many missions. Too many codenames.
But one header catches my eye, bold against the black background:
ECHO-13 — OPERATION BLACKOUT
My breath catches. Something about those words feels significant. Important.
I dive in, wading through military jargon and tactical reports. Most of it reads like any other classified operation—coordinates, objectives, asset lists.
Until I see it.
Three words that change everything:
PRIMARY OPERATOR: GHOST ONE
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Because I know that name.
I've heard Logan's team mention it in whispers when they thought I wasn't listening. A call sign. A legend.
Ghost One.
Logan Bishop.
Commander of Echo-13.
The realization crashes over me like a wave, drowning out rational thought. The protector I've come to trust—to care for—commanded the very operation that's haunted these files.
My hands hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. Do I really want to know more? Do I want to see what kind of man Logan was before The Forge?
The truth might kill.
My father's words echo, a warning I've never heeded.
But not knowing it, not telling it, is worse.
I click deeper.
Mission logs unfold like origami nightmares. Tactical decisions. Extraction plans. But something feels off about the language. Clinical. Cold. Like they're describing cargo instead of people.
Then I find it—an audio file buried in the archive.
My finger hovers over the play button as my heart pounds against my ribs. The file name is simple:
GHOST ONE - FINAL REPORT
I shouldn't.
I really shouldn't.
But I press play.
A voice cuts through the silence—flat, emotionless:
"Civilian classified as asset... then terminated."
Ice spreads through my veins.
The words echo in the empty room, their implications settling like lead in my stomach. Logan was at the helm of this. Connected to the death of an innocent.
The man who saved me from a sniper's scope... commanded an operation that executed civilians.
My mind fragments, trying to reconcile these two versions of him:
The protector who kissed me like I mattered.
The soldier who classified human beings as "assets."
The voice continues, detailing protocols and procedures with mechanical precision. But I barely hear it.
Because everything I thought I knew about Logan Bishop just shattered.
And I'm left with one burning question that threatens to consume everything:
What kind of man was I aligning myself with?