31. Logan
LOGAN
T he firewatch station looms ahead like a crooked headstone jutting from snow-dusted pines.
My breath crystallizes in front of me as I hold up a closed fist—the signal to halt. The team freezes instantly, years of training kicking in without conscious thought.
Through my scope, I study the condemned structure.
Two stories of weathered wood and rusted metal, windows mostly broken, paint peeling like dead skin. The observation tower lists slightly to one side, as if gravity's been slowly claiming it since the station was abandoned.
Perfect place for an ambush.
I signal with two fingers, and the team fans out with fluid precision.
Ryker sweeps wide left, using the treeline for cover.
Knox circles to secure the rear ridge, rifle balanced against his shoulder with the same steady hands that once saved all our lives in another lifetime.
Caleb advances in a practiced crouch, his usual jokes locked away behind mission focus. And Eli guards my six.
They move like we never left the field.
Like Echo-13 was yesterday instead of years ago.
But the air feels different now. Heavier. More personal.
The old ghosts are whispering.
I inhale slowly through my nose, cataloging scents.
Pine. Snow. And underneath—gasoline. Faint but distinct.
Granger's calling card.
He wants us to know he's been here.
My grip tightens on my sidearm as memories flood back: desert sand, radio static, the metallic tang of blood.
The last time I faced Granger, he had a sniper rifle trained on my chest. Now he has a twelve-year-old girl.
Focus. Clear mind. Steady pulse.
Because rage—real rage—doesn't scream. It whispers. And right now, my past is whispering all around me.
I check my watch. Four minutes until detonation.
"Sloane, we're in position," I say into my comm, keeping my voice low and controlled.
Static crackles, then Asa's voice cuts through: "Feed's gone static. Granger just killed the uplink."
My jaw clenches. Of course he did. "What about the backup trace?"
"Still hot. You've got one shot."
One shot is all I need. I've made harder calls with less intel and more at stake.
Haven't I?
I push the doubt away and signal the breach. Knox takes point, kicking the side door with controlled force. The lock splinters.
Ryker moves first, sweeping the hallway with practiced efficiency. Caleb slides in behind him, covering the left flank.
Eli and I take center, moving through shadows that feel alive with memory.
The interior is a graveyard of abandoned equipment—cracked floor tiles, rusted pipes snaking across the ceiling, insulation hanging in gray tatters like Spanish moss. But ahead, light spills from beneath a closed door.
Battery-powered. Recent.
We stack up. Three heartbeats pass.
I nod.
The door opens to a scene from my nightmares:
One chair. One girl. One timer counting down.
Lucia sits rigid, duct tape binding her wrists and ankles. Her dark eyes are wide with terror, but she's not screaming. Not crying.
Just watching us with a kind of desperate hope that twists something in my chest.
Then I see what she's sitting on.
Pressure plate.
The trigger connects to exposed wiring in an open junction box. Military grade. The kind designed to ensure there are no survivors to question later.
"Goddammit," I breathe. "Eli, the quiet kit."
Eli appears behind me, medical bag slung over his shoulder. He snaps on latex gloves as he assesses the setup, his usual gentle demeanor replaced by razor focus.
"We move her wrong, we bury her," he mutters. "Maybe ninety seconds left."
"Tell me what to do."
He doesn't answer. Just works. His hands move with surgical precision, identifying which wires mean life or death. I keep my eyes on Lucia, trying to project calm I don't feel.
She clutches something in her fist—a pink ribbon. Probably pulled from her own hair. The sight hits me like a physical blow because I know what this is. What it's always been.
Sloane was right. This was bait.
But not just to draw us out. This was Granger's test. His way of asking if I've changed. If I'd hesitate to save another civilian, knowing what it cost last time.
Thirty seconds.
Eli whispers something—a prayer maybe—and makes his move.
Snip. Switch. The timer freezes.
Lucia's sob breaks the silence.
Raw. Relieved. Human.
I exhale, but it's not relief I feel. Just confirmation that the game isn't over.
"Caleb, extract her. West trail. Quiet."
They disappear into the dark, leaving me alone with the ghosts. But there's something else here. A scent beneath the gasoline.
Ash.
I follow it to the next room. An open case sits on a metal desk, its contents partially burned but not destroyed.
Files. Photos. Dog tags.
Granger's trophies from Echo-13.
My hands don't shake as I move closer. Because of course he kept them. Of course he wants me to see what he saved. What he remembers.
Then I spot it. One more folder, untouched by flames.
LOGAN BISHOP
I don't need to open it. The weight of its contents presses against my mind like a bruise. Every order I questioned. Every call I made that led us here. Every life I thought I was saving.
I crouch down. Strike a match.
The flame catches easily, hungrily. I watch my past turn to ash, feeling nothing but the cold certainty that this won't be the last fire Granger starts.
Standing, I speak into my comm: "She's safe. Building is clear. But this was never about Lucia."
The pause that follows feels heavy with understanding.
Sloane's voice comes through, tight with concern: "Then what was it about?"
I look down at the smoldering remains of who I used to be. "Reminding me what I failed to protect."
I turn to leave, already planning our exit strategy, when my comm crackles again. But it's not Asa's frequency. Not Sloane's.
"Nice save, Ghost One."
Granger's voice slides through the static like oil on water. My blood runs cold, but my pulse remains steady.
"But tell me—how many more lives are you willing to risk for a truth that'll never save you?"