Chapter 25
DAMON
We’re standing in the center of a dimly lit operations tent, the scent of coffee and gun oil thick in the air.
The place is exactly as I remember, with military precision in every corner.
Stacks of gear line the walls, comms equipment buzz low, a faint hum of conversation of soldiers and instructors pass through.
Outside, beyond the canvas walls, the training grounds sprawl wide.
There are acres of dense forest, open fields pockmarked with obstacles, the faint pop of distant live-fire drills cutting through the cool morning air.
This facility had been built for one thing—creating ghosts.
Men who could slip into enemy territory unnoticed, strike hard, and disappear faster.
I shake Frank Pyzck’s hand, his grip still iron-hard despite the years. He hasn’t changed much—still broad as a damn wall, his beard streaked with more gray but his eyes just as sharp.
“Still kicking, huh, old man?” I say.
Frank snorts. “Figured I’d let you young idiots have a turn at saving the world. But you keep dragging me back in.” He turns to Zane, giving him a long look. “You again? Yemen, right? What’s it been, two years?”
Zane nods. “Last time, you saved my ass. I still owe you a drink.”
“Damn right you do.” Frank turns to Asher, sizing him up like he’s assessing a new recruit. “You the brains, the bruiser, or the wildcard?”
Asher smirks. “Depends on the day.”
Frank chuckles. “Figures.”
He unrolls a detailed topographical map on the table, pinning it down with his combat knife.
“These are our active training zones,” he says, tapping three marked sections with his finger. “Got squads running endurance ops here, here, and here. But we’ve noticed unusual movement over in this sector.”
I lean in, following his finger as he circles a remote area near the lake.
Frank continues, “Supply runs at odd hours. Vehicles coming and going in tight patterns. Guard rotations that don’t match our training schedules. At first, we thought it was poachers or some off-grid nutjobs. But now?”
Asher and I exchange a glance.
“You think something is happening there?” Zane asks.
“Someone’s setting up shop. Real quiet-like.”
My gut tightens. Jason.
I catch the look on Zane and Asher. They’re thinking the same thing.
Zane scans the map. “Everything else around here is either active training ground or uninhabitable terrain. But this spot? This is strategic. Water access. Natural cover. Far enough from main roads to make searching a nightmare.”
“Exactly,” Frank says. “Whoever’s out there knows what they’re doing. No wasted movement, no loose ends. They’re dug in. That’s not a poacher. That’s a damn stronghold.”
Asher exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s our spot.”
My pulse pounds. We finally have a lead. My fingers curl into fists as I stare at the marked location. Mia and the girls are there.
“We move now,” I say. “What resources can you spare?”
Frank doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll get you bodies, firepower, air support if you need it. But if you’re going in, you better be sure.”
I meet his eyes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my damn life.”
The drive is long and quiet. Too much time to think. My rifle rests across my lap, familiar but useless until we reach them. Every mile, I tell myself the same thing: Mia and the girls are alive.
The convoy cuts through backroads and service trails, moving fast. Frank’s team holds formation, their rigs sending up trails of dust in the predawn dark.
Asher grips the wheel, eyes locked ahead.
Zane sits in the back, checking and rechecking his weapons—a habit that means he’s barely holding it together.
As we get closer, we kill the headlights and switch to night-vision. The lake glows silver in the distance, calm and undisturbed. The kind of stillness that doesn’t match what’s happening inside that cabin. We park under the trees and move out on foot, keeping low.
Frank’s team sets up surveillance quickly, the drone feed flickering onto the portable monitor. The cabin is set deep in the woods, too well-placed to be anything but planned.
“Eyes on,” Frank murmurs, adjusting the screen.
I crouch beside him. The layout is clear: a porch, two visible exits, an open second-floor window. Shadows shift behind drawn curtains.
Jason’s in there. And so are Mia and the girls.
“Going in blind could get them killed,” I say. “We need a way to draw him out.”
Zane exhales hard. “We find his weak spot and use it.”
He’s about to say more when a scream cuts through the trees.
What the hell was that?
Before I can react, Jason's voice cuts through the trees, laced with amusement and menace. “Mia, you can run, but I’ll get you!”
Three radios go silent, and three weapons leave holsters in a synchronized motion. No words needed—we’ve trained for this, lived for this.
Zane moves first, disappearing into the brush, flanking left. Asher takes the right, his steps eerily quiet for his size. I go straight through the middle, eyes locked on the direction of Jason’s voice.
The forest swallows us whole, turning us into shadows. This time, he’s the prey.
Branches snap ahead. Heavy footfalls. Jason isn’t alone. There’s another set of steps, smaller, faster.
Mia.
I grip my rifle tighter, forcing myself to breathe slow, measured. One shot, one chance. I won’t risk hitting her.
Then, through the trees, I see them.
Mia runs at full tilt, Emma in her arms, Ella gripping her hand, struggling to keep up. Jason’s just behind them, grinning, enjoying the chase. Like he thinks he’s already won.
I level my sights.
Not this time, you sick bastard.