Chapter 9 Ronan
Ronan
The mountain air is thin enough to cut.
I crouch beside a jagged outcrop overlooking the Ascendancy’s hidden valley, breath steady, heartbeat controlled. The storm that rolled through at dawn still clings to the peaks—low clouds drifting like ghosts, thunder muttering in the distance. Perfect cover.
I adjust the magnification on my scope.
Below, the compound sits carved into the cliffside—half fortress, half mountain carcass. Trucks move in timed rotations. Guards patrol with the discipline of men who fear their commander more than an intruder. And on the landing pad, fresh scorch marks tell a story I didn’t want to believe.
A single aircraft lifted less than an hour ago.
My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.
Lena. I was close. Too damn close.
Cyclone’s voice crackles in my earpiece.
“Pierce, satellite confirms the bird lifted close to an hour ago. Unknown cargo. But whatever they moved… they rushed it.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice not to break.
I scan the pad again, memorizing every footprint, every tire track, every deviation in the pattern. Someone was dragged. Recently. The imprint is faint but unmistakable—a shuffle, weight uneven, one side weaker than the other.
My pulse spikes.
Lena, what did they do to you?
A shadow falls over the tracks. Faron crouches beside me, eyes narrowing.
“You think it was her?”
“I know it was.” My voice comes out low. Flat. Deadly. “They moved her before I got here.”
Faron exhales, not sympathy but understanding—the kind only a man who’s almost lost everything can offer.
“Then we take the rest,” he says. “We take this whole damn mountain apart until they regret ever touching her.”
I don’t nod. I barely breathe.
My gaze drifts to the highest ridge, where a sniper tower pierces the clouds. A man stands inside it—tall, lean, posture arrogant enough to make my blood chill. Even from a distance, I recognize those shoulders.
Roscov.
Tech mastermind behind Ascendancy’s drone network.
The man I once hunted and lost.
The man who took Lena.
Heat crawls up my spine. Not rage—something colder. Sharper.
Purpose.
Cyclone comes back on the line.
“Pierce, I pulled chatter from the compound’s comms. They were talking about the transfer. I caught only one clear sentence before they scrambled it.”
“Say it.”
A beat of static.
“‘Make sure Pierce never finds her.’”
Silence.
Wind sweeps over the ridge, lifting the edges of my hooded jacket. For a moment, I don’t move. I don’t feel the cold. I don’t feel anything except the brutal truth tightening around my ribs.
They know I’m coming.
They’re afraid.
And that means Lena is still alive.
I close my eyes for half a second—the first prayer I’ve offered in years.
Hold on, Hart. I’m coming.
When I open them, whatever man I used to be is gone, replaced by a blade honed to a single purpose.
“Cyclone,” I say, my voice like ice breaking, “tell River I’m going in.”
Faron’s brows lift. “Solo?”
“Not for long,” I reply, sliding down the ridge with fluid, lethal intent. “Just until I make them scream.”
Below, the guards shift, clueless.
Above, thunder rolls like an omen.
And I descend into the mountain facility—not as a soldier, not as a ghost, but as the one man Ascendancy should have killed when they had the chance.