25. Sloane
SLOANE
P ain rips through my thigh like lightning, hot and sharp. Blood seeps between my fingers as I press down, refusing to make a sound.
Don't show weakness. Never show weakness.
Logan drops beside me, his presence solid and immediate. I grab his hand before I can stop myself, needing something— anything —to ground me against the waves of agony.
His fingers curl around mine, steady and strong.
No hesitation. No pulled punches. Just anchor points of pressure that help me focus on something besides the burning in my leg.
Elias appears on my other side, his movements precise and purposeful. The gentle medic facade drops away, revealing the combat specialist underneath. His hands move with practiced efficiency as he cuts away the fabric around my wound.
"Breathe," Logan orders, his voice low and firm against my ear.
I want to snap back that I am breathing, but my lungs feel like they're lined with frost. Each inhale burns. Each exhale shakes.
My fingers dig deeper into Logan's palm as Elias works. I catch the flash of concern in Logan's eyes—quickly masked, but there.
It should make me feel weak. Instead, it makes me grip harder. Like maybe, just for these few seconds of white-hot pain, I can allow myself to need someone.
"You're lucky," Elias says, voice calm despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. "A few centimeters to the left and we'd be having a very different conversation."
I stare at the white bandage, already spotted with a bloom of crimson. Lucky. Right.
The bullet barely grazed me—a clean slice through flesh that'll heal in a week, maybe two. But the real damage is already done.
Not to me.
To them .
Because Granger didn't need a kill shot. He just needed eyewitnesses. People to see blood on the pavement, to hear that crack split the quiet mountain air, to watch a woman fall while The Forge men scrambled with weapons drawn.
That image will spread faster than any bullet.
"How's the pain?" Elias asks, securing the final piece of medical tape to my thigh.
"Manageable."
He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me, but doesn't push. Instead, he passes me two small white pills. "Take these. They'll help with the edge."
I dry-swallow them without asking what they are. Pain meds, anti-inflammatories—it doesn't matter. What matters is getting back on my feet. I can't afford weakness. Not now.
"How bad is it going to get?" I ask, breaking the silence.
Elias's mouth tightens into a thin line.
"The town?" Knox says without turning. "Depends how deep Granger wants to cut."
People have started gathering. Small clusters dotting the square, faces tight with worry, voices hushed but carrying on the cold morning air. Some hold phones, recording, documenting. Others clutch each other, seeking comfort in proximity.
The Forge perimeter wasn't fast enough.
Whispers are already spreading.
When Logan reaches down to help me stand, those whispers turn into stares.
I feel them like physical touches—wary, suspicious, afraid. They don't know who I am, just that I was there when the bullet hit. That I bled on their clean, quiet streets.
That maybe I'm the reason their town isn't safe anymore.
Dana stands outside her bookshop, speaking in calm tones to concerned locals. Her silver-streaked hair catches the morning light, lending her an air of authority that seems to soothe the people around her.
But even Dana can't stop the rumor mill once it starts turning.
"Was it a gang hit?" a man in a flannel jacket asks, voice carrying across the square.
"Is The Forge under attack?" A woman clutching a coffee cup, knuckles white around the cardboard.
"Who was the woman?" This from an older man with weathered skin and narrowed eyes.
"Did she bring this here?" The accusation hangs in the air, sharp and pointed.
I feel them all—the stares, the suspicion, the fear curdling into something darker. My heartbeat quickens. This is how it starts. How communities turn on outsiders. How innocent people become targets.
Logan steps forward, mouth opening to address the crowd, but before he can speak, Leo Tran jogs up with a toolkit slung over his shoulder. His dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, his expression tense but focused.
"Saw the tape. Heard the shot," he says, voice low, eyes darting between us. "You want me to jam local radio lines?"
"We're not at blackout yet," Asa replies, equally quiet. "But keep the civvie channels warm."
Leo nods, understanding the unspoken message. Be ready.
Across the street, I spot a woman—polished, perfect, poised in crisp jeans and a cream sweater that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She stands with arms crossed, phone pressed to her ear, lips moving in urgent whispers.
I don't need to hear her to know what she's saying. I can read it in the narrow set of her eyes, the curl of her lip as she glances our way.
"Told you they were dangerous."
The crowd swells, voices rising in a discordant chorus of fear and questions.
Logan stands frozen in the center of the street, eyes scanning rooftops, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
Knox and Ryker hover near the edge of the gathering, weapons down but visible—a silent warning.
People are scared.
And scared people need a villain.
I feel the shift like static electricity in my chest—a charge building, seeking the path of least resistance. If I don't say something now, the town will choose the wrong villain.
Me.
The outsider. The journalist. The woman with too many secrets and blood on her jeans.
So I push away from the truck, gripping the door for support as I put weight on my injured leg. Fire shoots up my thigh, but I grit my teeth and step forward. One foot. Then another. Every movement screaming in protest.
Logan sees me, eyes narrowing in warning, but I don't stop.
I raise my voice, projecting it the way I learned during years of hostile interviews and press conferences where no one wanted to hear me.
"Everyone needs to calm down."
The crowd stills, heads turning, conversations halting mid-sentence.
Among the crowd, I spot Rosa, her arm protectively wrapped around her twelve-year-old daughter's shoulders.
Unlike the others whose faces twist with suspicion, Rosa's expression is different.
She's seen danger before, lived with it.
She doesn't look afraid of me. She looks afraid for me.
Her daughter Lucia presses closer to her mother's side, dark eyes wide and watchful. The girl whispers something, and Rosa shakes her head firmly in response.
"What happened this morning—" I continue, steadying myself, "wasn't meant for you."
Silence falls, heavy and expectant. I feel their eyes—dozens of them—boring into me. Judging. Evaluating. Deciding.
"You've got questions," I acknowledge, scanning their faces, briefly meeting Rosa's steady gaze. "I don't blame you. But throwing blame without answers won't make you safer."
"Then give us answers," someone shouts from the back of the crowd.
"I will," I promise. "When I have them."
"Who are you?" the woman in crisp jeans calls out, her voice cutting through the murmurs, sharp as the edge of broken glass.
I meet her gaze, unflinching.
"I'm the reason you're still alive," I answer, voice flat, words landing like stones.
Gasps. Murmurs. The crowd ripples with reaction.
Logan's eyes narrow further, but he doesn't stop me.
Because he sees it too.
This is my domain.
Not bullets. Not tactical positions. Words. Truth. The power they hold when wielded properly.
"What does that mean?" someone else calls.
"It means," I say, choosing each word carefully, "that what happened today wasn't random. It wasn't meant for Dana. Or her bookstore. Or any of you."
"Then who was it meant for?" Sheriff Lane Hale asks, stepping forward, hand resting casually near his holster.
"Me." I don't flinch from the admission. "And The Forge. We've been targeted by someone with a grudge. Someone who thinks hurting this town will hurt us."
"So you admit you brought danger here," a woman says, not a question but an accusation.
"No," I counter. "I'm telling you the danger was already here. You just didn't see it."
That silences her—momentarily, at least.
"What Sheriff Hale and The Forge are doing right now is containing the situation," I continue, addressing the crowd at large. "The best thing all of you can do is go about your day. Be alert, but don't panic. That's exactly what he wants."
"He who?" Dana asks, giving me an opening.
"The sniper," I say simply. "The one who thinks fear is a weapon."
The crowd begins to thin after that, breaking apart into smaller groups, dispersing slowly back to shops and homes. Not everyone is convinced—I can see it in their sidelong glances, their hushed conversations—but the immediate tension has defused.
For now.
Logan waits until most of the crowd has dispersed before pulling me aside, behind the bookstore where stone walls shield us from curious eyes.
"That was risky," he says, voice low, controlled.
"So was lying to this town," I shoot back. "But you didn't flinch."
"Because I had to."
"So do I."
His jaw is tight, the muscle still jumping beneath stubbled skin. Not because I spoke.
But because he knows I had to.
We stand in the alley behind the bookstore—just out of sight, just close enough to feel the heat of adrenaline still radiating between us. The air smells like wet stone and paper dust from the bookshop's ventilation system.
"We can't afford fractures," Logan says.
"We already have them," I fire back, shifting my weight to ease the throbbing in my thigh. "People are scared. They're going to fill in the blanks if we don't."
"What do you want me to do? Tell them Iron Hollow's under threat from a sniper ghost tied to an erased military black site?"
"I want you to stop protecting them with silence."
He turns to face me fully, eyes storm-dark, unreadable.
"And I want you to stop using the truth like a scalpel."