Chapter 51 Silas
SILAS
The forest doesn’t make a sound as I move through it.
That’s because I don’t let it. Every footfall placed with precision, every breath controlled, every movement calculated to leave no trace. This is what I’m good at. What I was made for.
Hunting.
My rifle is an extension of my body. Finger resting on the trigger guard, not the trigger. Not yet. But soon. Very fucking soon.
Behind me, Jace and Charles move in tactical formation, covering angles, scanning for threats. Cal brings up the rear, his tablet in one hand, weapon in the other, tracking electronic signals that might fuck up our approach.
We’re all wearing molar mics. Military-grade bone conduction comms that Cal got us last year. They sit against your back molars, transmit through your jawbone, pick up subvocal speech. Can’t be jammed like traditional comms. Can’t be detected unless someone’s running a dental x-ray.
Perfect for killing people who don’t know you’re coming.
Marcus and four of our best enforcers are positioned on the perimeter. Rodriguez. Chen. Williams. Petrov. All of them capable, all of them loyal, all of them ready to paint these mountains red if that’s what it takes.
Marcus, the stubborn bastard, practically hijacked a medevac helicopter. Broke out of his restraints with broken ribs, grabbed a pair of trauma shears off an EMT, and held them to the poor bastard’s throat until the pilot diverted to New Bedford Regional.
And instead of staying for treatment—like a normal, living person—Marcus limped off the helipad, bleeding all over the goddamn tarmac, and borrowed a two-seater corporate jet from one of his cousin’s shell companies.”
No flight plan, no clearance, probably half-conscious, yet he still got that tin can in the air and beat half our intercept time.
I swear to God, if that man dies, I’m killing him.
“Thermal’s showing five, maybe six bodies inside,” Cal’s voice comes through, transmitted directly through bone. Clean. Clear. “Building materials are interfering. Can’t get exact count.”
“Confirmed,” I subvocalize back, barely moving my lips.
The rental property comes into view. Two-story, modern construction, big windows that are going to make this either very easy or very complicated. Two vehicles outside. The grey Suburban from the airport. Black BMW we didn’t account for.
More people than intel suggested.
Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead anyway.
I raise my fist. Everyone stops.
Through my scope, I scan the windows. First floor. Second floor. Looking for threats.
Looking for her.
Ground floor. Side window.
There.
Parker.
My heart does something I didn’t know it could still do. Stops, then restarts with enough force I feel it in my throat.
She’s tied to a chair. Wrists bound behind her. Head tilted. Hair partially covering her face but I can see enough.
Conscious. Alert. Alive.
The relief should make me weak. Instead it makes me lethal.
“Visual on Parker,” I subvocalize. “Ground floor, east window. Restrained but conscious.”
“Hostiles?” Jace asks.
I keep scanning. “Not yet.”
“Someone inside just tried to activate a radio transmitter,” Cal reports. “Didn’t connect. They know we’re jamming.”
Fuck.
“Element of surprise is gone,” Charles says, his voice tight with the kind of controlled fury that means someone’s about to die badly.
I adjust position, scanning for a shot. If I can get Ryan Matthews in my crosshairs, this ends. One bullet. Clean kill. Extract Parker before anyone realizes what happened.
But I need to see the target first.
Movement.
A figure steps into view behind Parker.
Ryan Matthews. Tall. Over six feet. Tactical gear that won’t save him from what I’m about to do.
He’s holding a gun.
He presses it to Parker’s temple.
Everything in me goes cold and white-hot at the same time. The kind of rage that doesn’t make you stupid. Makes you surgical.
“Contact,” I breathe. “Ryan Matthews. Weapon drawn. Gun to Parker’s head.”
I’m already doing the math. Distance: 150 meters, give or take. Wind: minimal, maybe two miles per hour from the west. Angle: elevated, I’m higher than target by approximately fifteen degrees. Window glass: standard residential, not ballistic. Won’t slow the bullet enough to matter.
The problem is positioning.
Ryan’s standing directly behind Parker. Using her as a human shield. His head is visible above hers but the angle’s wrong. Too close. If I take the shot and he moves, if the bullet fragments on glass, if anything goes wrong by even a centimeter, I hit her instead of him.
Can’t risk her.
Won’t risk her.
“No clear shot,” I report, and the words taste like failure. “Target’s using Parker as cover.”
“Hold position,” Jace says.
I keep scanning, looking for other hostiles. Looking for Aria, who should be here if intel is right.
But I don’t see her. Just Ryan and Parker.
Maybe she’s hiding. Smart enough to let Ryan be visible while she pulls strings from somewhere safer.
Four fucking years. That’s how long Aria and I fucked around after Parker left. Started maybe a year after California swallowed the only woman I’ve ever loved. After Dominic ordered us to cut all surveillance, all contact, all connection to Parker Carter.
After I was grieving someone who was still alive but completely unreachable.
Aria was there. Available. Willing to keep her mouth shut and swallow, a warm body.
It was physical. Nothing more. I didn’t take her on dates.
Didn’t bring her flowers. Didn’t pretend it was something it wasn’t.
She came over, we fucked, she left. Simple.
Transactional. Empty. Of course out of me, Cal, and Jace I’d end up with the messsy situationship shit.
Cal’s had women walk in on him fucking their best friends only to join in after the initial shock.
Dominic knew. Told me I was doing him a favor, keeping his young wife occupied so she didn’t get bored and cause problems. Some fucking favor. Woman’s clingier than saran wrap and apparently capable of orchestrating kidnappings when benefits get cancelled.
If she’s in there, she’s mine. I’ll put her down clean and quick. Not because I hate her. Because she’s a threat to Parker.
And threats to Parker don’t get to breathe.
“Where’s Aria?” Cal asks. “Thermal showed multiple bodies but I only see Ryan.”
“Probably hiding,” Jace says. “Letting Ryan take the visible risk while she stays out of the line of fire.”
“Keep scanning,” Charles orders.
Through the scope, I watch Ryan lean down, say something in Parker’s ear. Her expression shifts from defiant to furious.
Whatever he said, she hated it.
My finger moves from trigger guard to trigger.
“Whatever Ryan just said made Parker angry,” I report.
“Movement, second floor,” I add, catching shadows in upper windows. “At least three, maybe four hostiles. Armed. Positioned defensively.”
“Rodriguez, Chen,” Charles says into the comm, “you’re seeing this?”
“Confirmed,” Rodriguez responds. “We count four hostiles, second floor. Two more just entered from a vehicle we didn’t spot. Dark van, parked on the north side.”
“More hostiles arriving,” Marcus reports. “This isn’t just Ryan’s crew. This is organized.”
“Ryan built himself an army,” Jace says. “Fuck.”
“Doesn’t change anything,” I say. “They’re still between us and Parker. They’re still dead.”
“Cal,” Charles says, “can you trigger something? Alarms, lights, anything that divides their attention?”
“Already on it,” Cal responds. “Accessing their security system now. Give me thirty seconds.”
Through the scope, more movement. Second floor window. Someone’s setting up position with what looks like a rifle.
“Sniper position, second floor east,” I report. “Taking aim at the perimeter.”
“Williams, Petrov, you see him?” Charles asks.
“Got him,” Williams confirms.
A single shot cracks through the air. The figure in the second floor window drops.
“Target down,” Williams reports.
“Return fire incoming,” Rodriguez warns.
Gunfire erupts from multiple windows. Second floor hostiles engaging our perimeter team.
“So much for stealth,” Jace mutters.
“Cal, we need that distraction now,” Charles says.
“Triggering alarms in three, two, one, mark.”
Through the scope, red lights start flashing inside. The alarm must be deafening because several hostiles turn toward the back of the house, weapons raised, thinking we’re breaching from the rear.
But Ryan doesn’t move. Gun stays pressed to Parker’s head.
“Alarms triggered but Ryan’s holding position,” I report.
“We breach anyway,” Charles decides. “Jace, Silas, front entry. Cal and I take rear. Marcus, Rodriguez, Chen, provide suppressing fire on the second floor. Williams, Petrov, watch for runners.”
“Copy,” everyone responds.
I lower the rifle, securing it across my back. For close quarters, I need something faster.
I pull my .45 from its holster. Check the magazine. Twelve rounds, one in the chamber. Knife on my belt. Backup Glock on my ankle.
Ready to kill everyone between me and Parker.
“On my mark,” Charles says. “Three.”
Jace and I move toward the front of the building, staying low, using trees for cover. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
“Two.”
We’re at the door. I can see two hostiles through the front windows. Both armed, both scanning the wrong direction.
“One.”
My hand’s on the door handle. Jace beside me, weapon raised.
“Mark.”
I kick the door in.
The wood splinters, the frame giving way under the force. I’m through the threshold before the door hits the wall, my .45 up and tracking.
First hostile is turning, weapon coming up. I put two rounds center mass, one in the head. He drops before his finger finds the trigger.
Second hostile is faster, gets a shot off. The round tears past my shoulder, close enough I feel the heat. I put three in his chest, tight grouping, professional. He goes down hard.
“Front entry secure,” Jace reports, moving past me to clear the next room. “Two hostiles down.”
Gunfire from the back of the house. Cal and Charles breaching simultaneously.