33. Logan
LOGAN
T he trees blur past as we speed down the empty road toward The Forge, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.
Behind us, Knox cradles Lucia in the backseat, her small frame curled against his tactical vest.
She hasn't spoken since we found her. Hasn't cried. Just stares ahead with eyes that have seen too much.
Too fucking young for this.
Rage burns low and steady in my gut. Not the explosive kind that makes you reckless. The kind that settles into your bones and waits. The kind that remembers.
Granger crossed a line. Using a child as bait? That's not military strategy. That's not even revenge.
That's just cruelty.
And for what? To prove a point? To show me what happens when civilians get caught in the crossfire?
Message received, you bastard.
But this time, there won't be any mercy. No spared shots. No second chances.
He touched one of ours.
The engine growls as I accelerate, taking the curves with practiced precision.
In the rearview mirror, I catch glimpses of the second vehicle—Caleb at the wheel.
They found nothing at the northern grid. No tracks. No shell casings. No breadcrumbs leading back to wherever Granger's actually hiding.
He's too good for that. Always was.
But everyone slips eventually.
My comm crackles. Caleb's voice cuts through: "I've informed Rosa. She's on her way."
"Copy."
Silence.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Caleb continues.
"About the warehouse layout?" I keep my voice low, conscious of Lucia dozing against Knox. "Three exit points. No cameras. Perfect dump site."
"Too perfect," Ryker adds. "Like he wanted us to find it fast."
"Of course he did," I mutter. "It was never about her. She was just..."
I don't finish. Don't need to.
We all know what she was.
Leverage.
The word tastes like ash in my mouth.
The Forge comes into view—steel and stone rising from the treeline like a sentinel. Like home. But even that feels different now. Tainted.
Granger's made sure nowhere feels safe anymore.
I pull into the main lot, tires crunching on gravel.
Before I can kill the engine, Knox is already moving, lifting Lucia with the kind of gentle strength you wouldn't expect from a man his size. She doesn't stir.
"Get her to medical," I say. "I'll brief Asa."
Knox nods once—sharp, efficient.
No wasted motion. No wasted words. That's why he's my overwatch. He sees everything, says nothing, and moves like shadow.
I watch them disappear through the side entrance, then turn to the others. "Anything worth reporting?"
Caleb runs a hand through his hair, somehow still managing that cocky grin despite everything. But it doesn't reach his eyes. "Found some interesting boot prints by the north ridge. Military grade. About a week old."
"He's been watching," Ryker adds. "Playing longer game than we thought."
Eli steps forward, med kit slung over his shoulder. "We should focus on Lucia first. She's physically unharmed, but the psychological impact..."
"I know." My jaw clenches. "Get her stable. Then we deal with the rest."
They move off toward medical, already discussing treatment protocols and trauma response.
I head for the control room instead. Need to see her. Need to know she's okay.
Sloane.
The door opens with a soft hiss of hydraulics. The bank of monitors casts a blue glow across the room, but my eyes find her immediately.
She's slumped in Asa's chair, shoulders curved inward like she's trying to make herself smaller.
I've never seen her like this.
Not broken. But... diminished somehow.
Before I can speak, she's on her feet. Crosses the room in three quick strides. Her arms go around my waist, face pressing into my chest. I don't hesitate. Just pull her closer, one hand tangling in her hair.
"How's Lucia?" Her voice is muffled against my shirt.
"She's safe." I keep my tone steady. Grounding. "No physical injuries. Eli's with her now."
She nods but doesn't let go. I can feel her trembling—just slightly. Like aftershocks from an earthquake that hasn't quite finished.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are too bright. Too sharp. "We should check on her."
"We will." I catch her hand. Squeeze once. "You okay?"
"I'm not the one who was kidnapped by a psychopath." She tries for a smile, but it wavers. "Come on. I need to see her."
We walk to medical together, her fingers still locked with mine. The hallway feels longer than usual. Every step echoes against metal and concrete.
The infirmary doors slide open to reveal Lucia on the bed, small and pale against white sheets. Eli hovers nearby, checking vitals with practiced efficiency. He barely glances up when we enter.
"How is she?"
"Stable," he says quietly. "But we need to watch for shock."
I nod. "Rosa?"
"On her way."
Sloane moves to the bedside, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress. Her hand finds Lucia's, thumb brushing across small knuckles. The girl doesn't respond, but her breathing evens out slightly.
I stand behind Sloane, one hand resting on her shoulder. Not possessive. Just present. Connected.
The door bursts open.
Rosa Calderon flies in like a storm breaking, all contained fury and desperate love. "Mi hija! Lucia!"
Eli intercepts her before she can grab the girl. "Easy," he murmurs. "She's okay. She's safe. But we need to be calm."
Rosa's eyes are wild, but she nods. Takes a deep breath. Approaches the bed with careful steps.
"Mami?" Lucia's voice is small. Fragile.
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."
Sloane stands, making room. But I catch the way her shoulders hunch. The guilt radiating off her in waves.
I know that look. That stance.
She's blaming herself.
My hand finds the small of her back. Just a touch. Just enough to say I'm here too.
She leans into it slightly. A micromovement most people would miss.
But I'm not most people.
Not with her.
The room feels heavy with too many emotions—Rosa's relief mixing with Lucia's trauma, Eli's clinical concern, Sloane's guilt. I need to get her out of here before she drowns in it.
"Come on," I murmur against her ear. "You need rest."
She starts to protest, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of her body. The way she's swaying slightly, running on nothing but willpower and adrenaline.
"Lucia's safe," I add. "Let Eli and Rosa handle this part."
She hesitates, then nods. We slip out quietly, leaving mother and daughter to their reunion.
The drive back to my cabin is silent. Sloane stares out the window, lost in whatever darkness is eating at her. I don't push. Some battles need to be fought alone first.
But when we arrive, she doesn't wait for me to kill the engine. Just bolts inside like she's being chased.
Something happened while we were gone.
I follow more slowly, giving her space. But when I reach the bedroom door, what I see stops me cold.
She's curled in my leather armchair—the one I use when sleep won't come and the ghosts are too loud. Her knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around them like armor.
I move behind the chair, rest my hands on the worn leather. "The view helps sometimes," I say quietly. "When things get too loud in here." I tap my temple.
She doesn't look at me, but her shoulders relax slightly. "Is that why you picked this spot? The trees?"
"Partly. They don't change. Don't judge. Don't ask questions they don't want answers to."
A soft exhale that might be a laugh. "Must be nice."
I study her reflection in the window—the tight line of her jaw, the way she's holding herself like she might shatter if she moves wrong.
"What happened while we were gone?"
She's quiet so long I think she won't answer.
Then: "There was a second file."
My breath catches. "From Granger?"
She nods. "About my father."
Ah.
I circle the chair slowly, crouch in front of her so we're eye level. In the dim light, I can see the tear tracks on her cheeks. The redness around her eyes.
She's been crying.
A lot.
Even now, fresh tears gather at the corners of her eyes. I reach up, brush one away with my thumb.
"Tell me."
She does.
The words spill out like blood from a wound—everything about her father, the choice he made, the lie she built her life on. By the end, she's trembling again.
"I was wrong," she whispers. "About everything. The truth doesn't save people. It gets them killed. My father knew that. He died protecting me from it. And I've spent my whole life doing exactly what he tried to prevent."
I cup her face in my hands, make her look at me. "Listen to me. Your father made a choice. His choice. Not yours."
"But—"
"No. He chose to protect you because that's what fathers do. But that doesn't mean you have to live in his shadow. Or his fear."
A tear slips down her cheek. I catch it.
"You're not wrong for wanting the truth," I continue. "You're not wrong for fighting. You're just... human. With all the messy, complicated parts that comes with it."
She's silent for a long moment, just looking at me. Then her hand comes up, covers mine where it rests against her cheek.
"Thank you."
I don't ask what for. Just lean forward and press my lips to her forehead. A benediction. A promise.
She turns her face into my palm, breath warm against my skin. Then lifts her head and kisses me.
Not gentle. Not careful.
Desperate.
Needing.
I don't hesitate. Just pull her closer, letting her take what she needs. Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me up as she rises.
We stumble toward the bed, a tangle of limbs and breath and want. She pushes me down, climbs into my lap like she's claiming territory.
Her mouth finds mine again—harder this time. Demanding. I grip her hips, steadying her as she rocks against me.
"Please," she whispers against my lips. "I need..."
"What?" My voice is rough. "Tell me what you need."
Her hands frame my face, eyes boring into mine with fierce intensity.
"Distract me," she breathes. "Just for tonight."