Chapter 14 The Conflict
FOURTEEN
The Conflict
EVIE
The helicopter is loud.
Not the rhythmic thump of movie helicopters—this is a bone-rattling roar that makes conversation nearly impossible without the headsets Riot—Jon—handed me the moment we climbed in.
The pilot, a woman with steel-gray hair and the kind of calm that comes from decades of flying into bad situations, didn't ask questions.
Just nodded at Riot, lifted off, and pointed us toward Sacramento.
I watch the mountains fall away beneath us.
The cliff we climbed is invisible from this height—just another wrinkle in the vast expanse of granite and pine.
Somewhere down there is the crevice where I let a stranger become something more.
But I can't think about that now. Can't think about anything except Sera and Rosie.
Riot's voice crackles through the headset. "Mitzy, what's the update?"
"Still gathering intel on Sera's location." Mitzy's voice is tighter than before, focused. "The cartel chatter has gone quiet—either they found the address and they're moving, or they hit a wall. No way to know which."
"ETA on backup?"
"Echo team is wheels up, but they're coming from the coast. Three hours minimum, probably closer to three and a half."
Three hours. We'll be on the ground in Sacramento in forty minutes. Whatever happens, we're handling it alone.
"What about local law enforcement?" I ask. "Can't we call the police, get someone to Sera's house—"
"Local PD is unreliable." Jon’s voice is flat through the headset. "Cartel has hooks in half the departments in the area. We call the cops, we might be sending her location straight to the people hunting her."
The fear is a fist around my heart, squeezing tighter with every mile.
Sera doesn't know I'm coming. Doesn't know she's in danger.
She probably thinks I'm dead—five days of silence, no calls, no texts, nothing.
And Rosie—God, Rosie just turned six. She's supposed to be learning to ride a bike, fighting about bedtime, and being a kid, not a target.
"Twenty minutes out." The pilot's voice cuts through my spiral. "Where am I putting you down?"
"Private airfield on the east side." Mitzy again. "I've got a vehicle waiting."
The helicopter banks, and Sacramento sprawls beneath us. Somewhere in that maze of suburbs is Sera's house. Rosie's room with the butterfly decals. The backyard where everything went wrong.
We land hard and fast. A black SUV is waiting near the hangar, and we're inside and moving before the rotors stop spinning.
Jon drives. His hands are steady on the wheel, his eyes scanning constantly. The easy charm from earlier is gone—he's all operator now, focused and sharp.
"Thirty minutes to Sera's neighborhood." He glances at the nav screen. "Mitzy, anything new?"
"I've got eyes on the street via traffic cams. Nothing unusual yet—no suspicious vehicles, no movement. But there's a van parked two blocks north that I don't like. Could be nothing. Could be a staging point."
"Keep watching."
The city streams past. Strip malls, gas stations, ordinary life. People who don't know that killers are hunting a woman and her six-year-old daughter.
"We need to talk about the approach." Jon’s voice pulls me back.
"What about it?"
"I go in first. Clear the house, make sure there's no threat." He doesn't look at me. "You stay in the vehicle until I give the all-clear."
The words land like a slap.
"No."
"Evie—"
"I said no. You’re looking for hostiles, but you aren't looking for Mrs. Gable across the street. She’s a retired dispatcher who sits behind her lace curtains with a landline in her lap.
If she sees a stranger approaching that porch with a weapon, she won't hesitate.
You'll have sirens at your back within three minutes. And Sera has a silent alarm under the kitchen island—if she sees a man she doesn't recognize through the peephole, she’s going to trip it. You’ll be fighting the cartel and the Sacramento PD. "
"Better than you walking into a kill zone."
"I'm walking into my best friend's house.”
"You're walking into an unknown tactical situation with zero training and zero backup." His jaw is tight. "I'm not letting you—"
"Letting me?" The anger flares hot and sudden. "I'm sorry, did I miss the part where you get to make my decisions?"
"I'm the one with the gun. I'm the one who's done this before. I'm the one who—"
"You're the one who doesn't know Sera's face or Rosie's favorite hiding spot or which floorboard creaks in the hallway.” My voice cracks. "They're my family. Mine. And I'm not sitting in a car while you—"
"While I keep you alive?" He finally looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. Something that goes deeper than tactical disagreement. "That's the job, Evie. That's what I do."
"Your job is to get me to safety. I'm telling you that my safety doesn't matter if Sera and Rosie—"
"It matters to me."
The words hang in the air. Too heavy, too soon, too much for whatever this thing is between us.
I force myself to breathe. To think past the fear and the anger and the desperate need to do something.
"Jon." I use his name deliberately. "I hear you. I know you're trying to protect me. But I need you to listen."
He's quiet. Waiting.
"Sera is the only person who came to help me pack when I left Daniel.
She's the one who let me sleep on her couch for three months while I put myself back together.
When I got the job at the school, she threw me a party.
When I started climbing, she was the only one who didn't tell me I was crazy.
" My voice is steadier now. "And Rosie—I was in the delivery room when she was born.
I'm her godmother. I taught her to tie her shoes. "
"I understand they're important to you—"
"They're not just important. They're everything.
" I hold his gaze. "I watched a man die at Rosie's birthday party.
I've been in a cage for five days. I climbed a cliff and I—" I stop, regroup.
"I've done everything you've asked. I've trusted you with my life.
Now I need you to trust me with theirs."
Riot's hands tighten on the steering wheel. I can see him wrestling with it—every instinct screaming at him to lock me in the car and handle this himself.
"I didn't tell you how to climb that wall." His voice is quieter now. Almost gentle. "You don't tell me how to do my job."
"I'm not telling you how to do your job. I'm telling you that your job requires intelligence you don't have. You need a friendly face at that door to keep the neighbors quiet and a specific knock to keep Sera from hitting that alarm. We go in together, or we lose our window before it even opens."
The silence stretches. One block. Two.
Then he exhales.
"If anything looks wrong—anything—you get behind me and let me handle it." He holds up a hand before I can respond. "That's not negotiable. You see a threat, you call it out, but I engage. Understood?"
It's not everything I wanted. But it's more than I expected.
"Understood."
"And if I tell you to run, you run. You grab Sera and Rosie, and you get out. You don't look back. No matter what's happening behind you."
"Jon—"
"Promise me."
The intensity in his voice stops me cold. This isn't about tactics anymore. This is about something else—something older, something that hurts.
"I promise," I say quietly.
Mitzy's voice breaks through. "Five minutes out. Street's still clear. That van hasn't moved, but I'm not seeing anyone inside."
"We approach from the south," Jon says. "Keep eyes on the van. If it moves, I need to know."
"Copy."
He looks at me. "You ready?"
No. I'm terrified. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours, and every muscle in my body aches from the climb.
But Sera is in that house. Rosie is in that house. And I'm not going to let them die because I was too scared to move.
"Ready."