36. Sloane
SLOANE
M y fingers trace the doorknob, cold metal biting into my skin. One turn and I'm out—free to face what's coming. Free to protect the people I've grown to love.
But my hand trembles.
Inside, Logan sleeps. I can still feel the warmth of his body against mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
For a moment, I let myself remember—his arms around me, his breath in my hair, the way he held me like I was something precious rather than dangerous.
I'm sorry.
The words catch in my throat, unspoken. He can't hear them anyway.
My messenger bag weighs heavy against my hip as I step into the pre-dawn darkness.
Inside: everything that matters. The thumb drive containing Echo-13's secrets. Logan's mission logs, worn leather covers soft from years of handling. Photographs that tell stories of brotherhood and betrayal. All the evidence Granger wants buried.
All my cards to play.
Snow drifts down in fat, lazy flakes, coating the ground in pristine white.
Good.
In thirty minutes, my tracks will vanish beneath fresh powder. They won't be able to follow—not even Logan with his tactical training and sharp instincts.
That thought makes each step heavier.
My boots sink into accumulating snow, leaving impressions that feel like wounds. Every footfall screams at me to turn back, to crawl into bed beside the man who showed me what safety feels like.
But I can't.
Because now I understand what my father felt, when he chose silence over truth.
When he walked away to keep me breathing. The weight of that choice used to anger me—how could he abandon everything he believed in? How could he let them win?
Now I know: You don't measure love in truth. You measure it in what you're willing to sacrifice.
If I stay, Granger will keep coming. He'll burn everything I touch until there's nothing left but ash and regret.
The Forge.
Iron Hollow.
Logan.
Logan.
His name aches in my chest like shrapnel I can't remove. The memory of his hands, gentle on my skin even when his words were steel.
The way he looked at me last night—like he saw past every wall I built, every lie I told myself about staying safe.
The forest swallows me step by step, branches heavy with snow creating tunnels of white and shadow.
I don't know exactly where Granger is, but I know he's watching. He always is. That's what men like him do—they wait for the perfect moment, the clean shot, the exposed throat.
Well, here I am. Alone in his killing ground. The perfect target.
My father's words echo as I walk deeper into the trees: Sometimes the truth doesn't set you free. Sometimes it puts a target on your back.
But he was wrong about one thing: Sometimes that target is exactly what you need.
The cold bites through my jacket, numbing my fingers and clouding my breath. I've lost track of how far I've walked.
Miles, probably.
The cabin is long gone, swallowed by distance and falling snow. Part of me hopes Logan sleeps through my absence—that he doesn't wake to empty sheets and silence until I'm too far gone to find.
But I know better.
He'll come for me. It's who he is. A protector. A guardian. A man who doesn't know how to let go of what matters.
That's why I have to end this before he can.
Movement catches my eye—a flash of red against white.
There.
The laser sight settles over my heart, steady as a promise.
I raise both hands, palms empty, showing surrender. My voice carries in the stillness: "I'm here to see you, Granger."
He emerges like a ghost—tactical gear blending with shadow and snow, rifle trained on my chest with casual precision.
His smile is worse than any threat.
"You should've come earlier," he says, voice smooth as mercury. "Otherwise, innocent children wouldn't get hurt."
Rage flares hot in my gut at the mention of Lucia. My hands want to curl into fists, but I keep them raised.
Steady, Sloane. Don't let him have the upper hand.
"I'm here to negotiate." The words come out calmer than I feel, even with death painted on my sternum.
Granger's head tilts, considering. "Do you think you're in any position to negotiate?"
"I do."
Slowly, telegraphing every movement, I reach into my coat pocket. The thumb drive feels small against my fingers—such a tiny thing to hold so much power.
"This drive is what you're after," I say. "Evidence of Echo-13 and its fallout."
His expression doesn't change, but something sharpens in his stance. "That's not enough. I know there's more."
I pull Logan's mission log from my bag next, photographs tucked between its pages like pressed flowers. Each one documents what Granger wants erased—faces, dates, coordinates. The truth he's killed to keep buried.
"Bishop's mission log," I say. "The last evidence."
That earns me a real smile—the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them colder. "You're a good girl, Carter. Now, what are your terms?"
"I'll give you the drive and mission log. And I won't have any evidence left to tell the truth."
"In return?"
"Leave and never come back."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft pattern of snow against leaves.
I watch him consider it, weighing options behind that calculated stare. He has no reason to refuse. His mission was always about keeping Echo-13 buried. If I can't expose it, he wins.
He steps closer, boots crunching in fresh powder. The laser sight shifts, settling directly over my heart.
"What makes you think that's my only mission?"