Chapter 48 Jace
JACE
The textile mill in Hickory smells like rust and rot.
Decades of abandonment leaving their mark in peeling paint and broken windows that let in more pigeons than light.
We’ve been staking it out for three hours, watching for movement, waiting for confirmation that this is where Ryan’s remaining network has been regrouping.
Diego gave us this location before Silas finished with him. Said it was a staging point, a place where recruited assets could pick up supplies, get new assignments, coordinate. If we’re lucky, we’ll find more of Ryan’s people here. If we’re really lucky, we’ll find Ryan himself.
“Movement, second floor, east corner,” Silas murmurs from his position near the loading dock. He’s got binoculars trained on the building, his body perfectly still in that way that makes him look like part of the shadows.
Cal’s at his laptop balanced on an overturned crate, monitoring security feeds he hacked from the surrounding buildings. “Confirmed. Two, no, three individuals. Armed.”
“Expected or more than expected?” Charles asks from where he’s reviewing building schematics on his tablet. He’s been hands-on with this entire operation since the park. His children were in that attack. His sister. His nephews. This is personal in a way that means Charles Carter isn’t delegating.
“More,” Cal says, frowning at his screen. “Intel suggested two, maybe three total for the whole building. I’m seeing three just on the second floor.”
“Could be our intel was wrong,” I suggest. “Or they called in reinforcements after Diego disappeared.”
“Or it’s a trap,” Silas adds, not lowering the binoculars.
Charles looks at each of us in turn. “Opinions?”
“We need to know what they know,” Cal says. “If Ryan’s network is bigger than we thought, if there are more recruits we haven’t identified yet, we can’t just walk away.”
“Agreed,” I say. “But we go in careful. Assume hostile intent. Assume they’re expecting us.”
Silas finally lowers the binoculars, turning to face Charles. “Your call.”
Charles nods slowly, decision made. “We go in. Four-man entry, standard tactical formation. Silas on point, Jace and Cal flanking, I’ll take rear security. Marcus and the others hold the perimeter in case anyone runs.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the notification.
New Email Forwarded: DNA Results - Confidential
My heart stops.
The email is from Parker’s account. Cal set up forwarding on all her communications after the attack, standard security protocol to monitor for threats. But this isn’t a threat.
This is the answer we’ve been waiting for.
I stare at the subject line. The email is marked unread. Parker hasn’t opened it yet.
She’s waiting for us. Like she promised.
“Jace?” Charles’s voice pulls me back. “Problem?”
“No.” I pocket my phone quickly. “Just... security update. Nothing urgent.”
Charles accepts this, going back to his schematics. But Cal’s amber eyes are on me, sharp and knowing. He saw something in my expression. Silas is watching me too, his grey eyes calculating.
I make a small gesture. Later. Not here. Not with Charles.
Both of them nod fractionally. They understand. Whatever I just saw on my phone, it’s something we discuss privately.
“Alright,” Charles says, standing and checking his weapon. “Let’s move. I want this clean and quiet if possible. Information first, bodies second.”
We gear up. Comms check. Weapons check. Entry positions.
The textile mill looms ahead, windows like dead eyes watching our approach.
Something feels wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, instinct screaming that this is off, that we’re walking into something worse than we planned for.
But we need information. We need to know if Ryan’s network is contained or if there are more threats we haven’t identified yet.
We need to protect Parker and the boys.
So we move forward.
The entry is smooth. Too smooth.
First floor is clear. No resistance. No sounds except our careful footsteps and the creak of old floorboards.
“Second floor,” Silas murmurs into his comm. “Three hostiles confirmed.”
We move up the stairs, weapons raised, every sense on high alert.
The second floor opens into what used to be the main production floor. Massive space, old textile equipment still scattered around like rusted skeletons. Support columns every twenty feet. Shadows everywhere.
And movement.
Not three hostiles.
Eight.
Maybe more.
“Fuck,” Cal breathes.
They open fire.
The world explodes into chaos and noise and violence.
I dive behind a support column as bullets tear through the space I just occupied. Return fire, quick controlled bursts, forcing the shooters to take cover. Beside me, Silas is already moving, flanking left with the kind of fluid grace that makes him terrifying in combat.
Cal’s on the right, his movements sharp and efficient. Charles has our six, his weapon tracking threats with the precision of someone who’s been doing this for thirty years.
“How many?” Charles barks into the comm.
“At least eight,” I respond, counting muzzle flashes. “Could be more in the back rooms.”
A bullet hits the column six inches from my head, spraying concrete dust. I return fire, catch one of the shooters in the shoulder. He goes down but someone else immediately takes his position.
These aren’t amateurs. These are trained operatives with good positioning and better tactics.
“They were expecting us,” Silas growls over the comm. “This is a fucking ambush.”
He’s right. The positioning is too good, the response too coordinated. Someone told them we were coming.
Or they set this up knowing we’d follow Diego’s intel.
“Fall back!” Charles orders. “Regroup at the stairwell!”
We move as a unit, covering each other, returning fire to keep the hostiles pinned. Make it to the stairwell just as something explodes behind us. Not a grenade, thank fuck, but close. Flash-bang maybe, or a breaching charge.
“Third floor or ground?” Cal asks, breathing hard.
“Ground,” Charles decides. “Get outside, reassess. This is too hot.”
We’re halfway down the stairs when the third floor lights up with gunfire. More hostiles above us, trying to box us in.
We’re trapped between two forces.
“Through the production floor,” Silas says, already moving. “East exit, we can breach the wall if we have to.”
We fight our way across. It’s brutal, close-quarters combat mixed with longer-range exchanges. I take a round to the vest, knocks the wind out of me but doesn’t penetrate. Keep moving, keep firing, keep covering my brothers.
Cal goes down.
Just for a second, a stumble over debris, but that’s all it takes. A hostile lines up a shot and I’m already moving, putting myself between Cal and the barrel, returning fire before the shooter can pull the trigger.
The hostile drops.
Cal’s back on his feet. “Thanks.”
“Move!”
We breach the east wall, literally. Silas kicks through old drywall that’s rotted enough to give way. We pour through into a side room, then a hallway, then finally, finally out into the daylight.
Marcus and the security team converge on our position, weapons raised, securing the perimeter.
“Status?” Marcus asks.
“Eight to ten hostiles inside,” Charles reports, breathing hard. “Coordinated ambush. They knew we were coming.”
“The rest of the building?”
“Unknown. Could be more.” Charles looks at me, then Cal, then Silas. “We need reinforcements before we go back in there.”
“Or we burn it,” Silas suggests coldly. “Flush them out or let them burn.”
“Information first,” Charles reminds him. “We need to know who else Ryan recruited. Can’t get that from corpses.”
We regroup at the vehicles, checking weapons, reloading, assessing injuries. Nothing serious, thank fuck, but we’re all running on adrenaline and the crash is going to be brutal.
Forty-five minutes. That’s how long the firefight lasted. Forty-five minutes of chaos where nothing existed except survival and tactical decisions and keeping each other alive.
My phone is still in my pocket, forgotten.
Cal’s pulling his laptop back out, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “Let me see if I can access the building’s electrical systems, cut their power, give us an advantage for round two.”
I lean against the SUV, letting my heart rate slow, checking my weapon. We’re regrouping. Planning the next move. Charles is on his phone coordinating with more security teams to surround the building.
Then Cal goes rigid.
“What?” Silas asks immediately, reading his body language.
Cal’s staring at his phone like it just bit him. His face has gone pale, his amber eyes wide with something that looks like horror.
“Cal?” I move closer. “What is it?”
“Someone made a video call from my phone.” His voice is flat, shocked. “An hour ago. To Parker.”
“What?” I reach for my own phone, pulling it out with hands that suddenly aren’t quite steady.
“I didn’t make this call.” Cal’s voice is rising now, panic bleeding through. “I was here. My phone was in my pocket. But there’s a call log. Video call. To Parker. Eight minutes long.”
I’m scrolling through my own notifications, looking for anything, any message from Parker, any indication of what’s happening.
Nothing.
I try calling her. Video call first.
It doesn’t connect. Just spinning, loading, then failure.
Voice call.
Straight to voicemail.
“Parker, it’s Jace. Call me back immediately. It’s urgent.”
I hang up, try texting.
Where are you? Call me NOW.
The message sends. Delivered. But no response.
Silas is trying his phone too, his expression going darker with each failed attempt. “Not connecting. Calls going to voicemail. Texts delivering but no response.”
“That’s wrong,” I say, my chest tightening. “Parker always responds. Always. Even if she’s with the boys, she’d at least send a quick text.”
Cal’s typing frantically on his laptop now. “I’m checking the call metadata. Looking for... fuck. FUCK.”
“What?” Charles is moving toward us now, sensing the shift in energy.
“The call was spoofed. It came from my IMEI but it wasn’t from my physical device. Someone cloned my number, my identity, and called Parker pretending to be me.”
The implications hit like a sledgehammer.
“Ryan,” Silas says, his voice deadly quiet. “Ryan spoofed Cal’s number. Called Parker. Told her... what? Told her something that made her trust him. Made her go somewhere.”
“Where?” I demand. “Where would she go?”
“I don’t know!” Cal’s hands are shaking on the keyboard. “I don’t know what he told her. I can’t access the call content, just the metadata.”
Charles is right beside us now, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm. “What’s going on? What do you mean someone called Parker pretending to be Cal?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Cal snaps. “Someone used sophisticated spoofing technology to clone my phone identity and made a video call to Parker an hour ago.”
“Video?” Charles’s face goes hard. “Deepfake?”
“Has to be. Single face replacement, probably with voice cloning for background audio.” Cal’s still typing. “This is professional-level tech. Not something you cobble together in a basement.”
I’m calling Parker again. Still nothing. Still straight to voicemail.
“Her phone is off,” I say. “Or destroyed. Parker never turns off her phone when the boys are with someone else. Never.”
“Call Sienna,” Silas says suddenly. “Call Sienna right fucking now and ask where Parker is.”
Charles doesn’t question it. Just pulls out his phone and dials.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey honey,” Sienna’s voice comes through, bright and cheerful. “What’s up?”
Charles puts it on speaker. “Where’s Parker?”