29. Logan
LOGAN
T he red fabric hits the snow like blood.
My hands go numb as I stare at the embroidered name tag, each carefully stitched letter carving fresh wounds in my gut:
PROPERTY OF: LUCIA CALDERóN
The world narrows to those two words, burning against white snow. My breath comes sharp and fast, crystallizing in the frigid air. The jacket is still warm—body heat clinging to the fabric like an accusation.
Lucia.
Rosa's daughter.
Only twelve years old.
The kid who runs drills with her mom on Saturdays, face fierce and determined as she throws punches with that high-pitched battle cry. Who connects dots faster than half my team, who found Sloane hiding in The Forge before anyone else thought to look.
Who trusts us to keep her safe.
And now she's gone.
My fingers trace the embroidery, feeling each letter like a brand against my skin.
This isn't just a message. This isn't just a threat.
This is Granger showing his hand.
Not a casualty.
A consequence.
The realization hits me like shrapnel—sharp, biting, drawing blood.
Women or children, they're the same to him.
A leverage.
The rage that surges through me is cold. The kind that doesn't cloud judgment—it sharpens it.
I rise slowly, every muscle coiled tight. The team watches, waiting.
They know this silence. This stillness.
It's not shock.
It's the breath before the storm.
When I speak, my voice carries across the snow like steel on stone:
"Find her."
A beat.
"Now."
They move like lightning—no hesitation, no questions. Just synchronized violence waiting to be unleashed. Each man knows his role without being told.
Caleb breaks east, already unslinging his rifle.
Knox ghosts west, melting into shadow.
Ryker cuts south, boots silent on snow.
Eli sweeps north, med kit already in hand.
And me?
I turn toward Crosspoint Ridge—where I last saw Granger's eyes. Where he promised this wouldn't end clean.
You're playing a dangerous game, he'd said.
The one in danger is you, Granger.
I swear you'll regret this.
My comm unit crackles as I move. "Asa."
"Here." His voice is tight, focused.
"I need everything. Every signal, every shadow, every goddamn leaf that moves wrong. Expand the scope. Maximum range."
"Already on it. Kaleidoscope protocols engaged. If someone breathes wrong out there, we'll know."
"Good. Keep the channel hot."
Sloane falls in behind me as I cut through the trees.
She doesn't speak—just matches my pace, breath steady despite the brutal climb. Her tactical awareness surprises me. The way she reads terrain, picks clean lines through the snow, maintains noise discipline.
Like she's done this before.
Like she knows exactly what kind of hell we're walking into.
The ridge rises ahead—stark against gray sky. I take point, leading us up the gentle slope that turns treacherous near the top. The incline would kill most people's stamina.
But Sloane?
She doesn't even breathe hard.
Just follows my boot prints like she was born for this.
When we reach the summit, I drop into a crouch behind a fallen pine. My eyes scan the valley below—checking angles, running sight lines, looking for anything that doesn't belong.
There.
Southeast quadrant.
Maybe two clicks out.
A structure.
Not natural. Not Park Service. Some kind of shelter, half-hidden in the tree line.
Perfect place to cache gear.
Perfect place to hold someone.
I tap my comm twice. "Possible contact. Southeast of the ridge. Structure, looks abandoned. Moving to investigate."
"Copy that," Knox replies. "We'll converge on your position."
"Negative. Hold the perimeter. If this is wrong, we need eyes everywhere."
A pause.
"Understood. Watch your six."
I glance at Sloane. She's already moving—reading my intent before I voice it.
We descend the far side of the ridge in controlled slides, using the terrain for cover. The shelter grows clearer with each step.
It's old. Pre-war maybe. The kind of place hunters used to use before the land went Federal. Weathered wood, tin roof, single door with a rusted handle.
Perfect box canyon setup.
Perfect kill zone.
I motion Sloane to hold position while I clear the angles. No fresh tracks. No trip lines. No obvious surveillance gear.
Too clean.
We close the final distance in absolute silence. I press against the wall beside the door, straining to hear any movement inside.
Nothing.
Just dead air and settling wood.
I meet Sloane's eyes. She nods once—tight, controlled.
Ready.
My boot hits the door just beside the handle—wood splintering inward as I breach with my rifle up.
The interior rushes at me in snapshots:
Single room. Low ceiling. Dirt floor.
Table against the far wall.
Empty shelves. Broken chair.
No windows. No back door.
No Lucia.
But on the table?—
A single sheet of paper.
I edge closer, my eyes sweeping the room in quick arcs—checking corners, shadows, ceiling beams.
The paper beckons from the table.
Something about its scent hits wrong. I unfold the sheet to find three red words.
You're too late.
-G
The paper crumples in my fist before I realize I've moved.
Sloane takes it from me gently, reading the words with a sharp intake of breath. Her fingers trace the ink like she's gathering evidence. She lifts it to her nose, testing.
"It's blood."
The word ignites something primal in my skull. I spin through the space, my mind clicking snapshots like evidence markers, each detail screaming louder than the last.
Rope fibers on the chair legs. Fresh cuts.
Empty cans in the corner. Recently opened.
Boot prints in the dust—heavy, deliberate.
Military issue. Size twelve.
This was his hideout.
His staging ground.
And we missed it.
The realization burns like acid in my throat. I should have known. Should have checked here first. Should have?—
My fist connects with the wall before I can finish the thought. Pain shoots up my arm, but I barely feel it.
All I see is Lucia's face.
All I hear is Rosa's voice when she trusted us to keep her safe.
Sloane moves through the space like a crime scene photographer—documenting details, analyzing patterns, building a profile in real time. Her eyes miss nothing.
But Granger's too good.
Too clean.
Too meticulous.
He's been planning this longer than we realized.
My comm crackles. "Logan."
Asa's voice is strange. Tight.
"Report."
"We just got a flagged packet. Echo-13 frequency."
My blood runs cold.
Only one man will use that frequency now.
"What kind of packet?"
"Heavy encryption. Multiple layers. Buried in a dummy file masquerading as boot firmware."
My jaw clenches. "Can you crack it?"
"Not me."
"Then who?"
A pause.
"Sloane." Asa's voice drops lower. "It's tagged with her name."