Chapter 25
Combat Readiness
The simultaneous buzz of their phones cut through the gentle evening air like a warning bell.
Zach pulled his from his pocket in one smooth motion, scanning their surroundings before glancing down at the screen.
Kate Danvers
DANGER!
Now—get Emma safe!
Every muscle in his body locked into combat readiness. His heart rate didn’t spike—years of training prevented that—but adrenaline flooded his system in a controlled surge, sharpening his senses.
Kate’s empathic abilities had been growing stronger. She sensed things before they happened, saw threats forming in the emotional landscape around her. She didn’t send messages like this unless something was imminent.
Something was in motion. Someone.
The beach was too quiet.
Zach stopped walking, his hand falling to the survival knife at his hip. His vision sharpened, cataloging everything in a three hundred sixty-degree sweep.
Sight lines—clear for fifty yards north and south along the beach, tree line ten yards to the east, ocean on the west.
Cover points—three palm clusters, two coral rock formations.
Escape routes—toward the cottage, toward the resort, into the trees (unfavorable), into the surf (last choice).
Threat assessment: exposed position, minimal cover, Emma unprotected.
“What?” Emma’s voice carried confusion, not fear. She didn't sense it.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t afford the distraction. His entire being focused outward, expanding his awareness the way his sensei taught him.
Listen to what isn’t there, Steele. The silence will tell you everything.
The wind shifted. Palm fronds rustled behind them in the tree line—wrong direction for the prevailing breeze, wrong rhythm for natural movement.
Someone was there. He angled his head… and heard it.
The faint, distinctive snap of a crossbow trigger releasing. A sound he’d learned in six different countries, in a dozen different contexts. Always the same. Always deadly.
Time didn’t slow—that was a myth. But Zach’s perception expanded, his mind processing information at the accelerated rate combat demanded. Threat analysis occurred in layers, each one complete before the next began. All completed in a fraction of a second.
He spun, leading with his eyes. Tracked the movement through the air by instinct and training. Saw the bolt in flight, fifteen feet out, angled downward from an elevated position in the trees. Trajectory calculated: chest-height impact point.
On Emma.
His body moved before conscious thought formed. Weight shifted left in front of her, right hand snapping up with fingers spread, left hand reaching to push her clear.
The bolt slammed into his palm, blazing a trail across his skin.
The impact drove his arm back, a shock wave he felt in his shoulder.
The shaft vibrated violently in his grip, the metal tip an inch from his chest, the fletching still quivering from the sudden stop.
The force reverberated through muscle and bone—not superhuman, just faster than anyone should be. Faster than most people tracked.
His hand burned from the shaft. He’d feel that tomorrow.
If they lived that long.
“Behind me. Now.” He shoved Emma back with his left hand, already moving forward, the bolt still clutched in his right. His mind cataloged the weapon—sixteen-inch bolt, broadhead tip, professional-grade. Not a hunting accident. Not a warning shot.
A kill shot. Aimed at Emma.
“Zach, what—”
“Run!” He dropped the bolt, his hand landing on the knife at his hip.
No time. The attacker emerged from the tree line ten yards away, racing down from an elevated position in a coral rock outcrop he had noted earlier as a potential threat point. He should have checked it. Should have swept it before they passed.
The figure wore black tactical gear—professional quality, not costume store garbage. Face masked with a balaclava. Reloading the crossbow, hands operating with trained efficiency.
Amateur tactical move, though. You didn’t reload in the open. You displaced and reloaded from cover.
Either the shooter was overconfident, or he had backup Zach hadn’t spotted yet.
He closed the distance in four strides, eating up the ground between them. His survival knife cleared its sheath with a familiar whisper of steel on leather. Eight-inch blade, full tang, perfectly balanced. An extension of his hand.
The assassin saw him coming and made the right choice—abandoned the crossbow, letting it fall as he reached for something at his belt. A knife. Seven-inch blade, tactical grip, serrated edge near the hilt.
Good. Zach preferred knives. They were honest weapons. No distance, no hiding. Just skill and will.
The attacker struck first—aggressive, trying to use momentum and surprise. The blade came high, aiming for Zach’s throat in a classic slash designed to make him retreat.
Zach didn’t retreat.
He deflected the strike with his own blade, the ring of metal on metal sharp and clear in the salt air. The impact sent vibrations down both weapons. The assassin was strong, but strength wasn’t enough.
Zach rotated inside the man’s guard while the blades were still connected and drove his elbow into the attacker’s ribs with the full force of his rotating body weight behind it.
Something gave, and he heard the satisfying crack of at least one rib breaking.
The assassin stumbled back three steps, his breathing short and pained. He recovered fast, resetting his stance despite the injury, knife hand steady.
Trained. Military.
They circled each other, feet sliding across sand and sparse beach grass. Zach’s mind worked through the problem: how to handle this guy without showcasing too much of his own abilities. The attacker favored his right side—dominant hand. The rib hit hadn’t slowed his strikes.
Time was on Zach’s side, but Emma was still exposed behind him, her fear a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.
The attacker feinted left, a shoulder dip that telegraphed the move half a second too early. Then came right, blade down, aiming for Zach’s kidney.
Zach blocked with his forearm, his own blade opening a line across the man’s forearm above the glove. The tactical fabric split. White skin. Blood welled—bright red, arterial.
First visible blood, but it had almost been his own. He’d miscalculated, slowed his own reaction too much.
The assassin hissed behind his mask—pain or anger—but he didn’t retreat, didn’t disengage. He pressed forward, trading precision for speed. Desperate tactics.
Three strikes came in rapid succession. High, low, high again. Zach deflected the first with his blade, caught the second on the reinforced edge of his belt. The third sliced across his shoulder in a burning trail of pain. Damn it. He’d moved too slow again.
He pushed the pain away and struck back: his blade found the attacker’s thigh while the man was overextended from the third strike. Deep enough to hit muscle.
The man’s stance shifted, weight transferred off the injured leg. His breathing changed again—quicker, shallower. Pain and adrenaline competing.
The assassin’s body language altered: shoulders squaring, knife angle falling, eyes visibly narrowing through the mask holes. He was calculating. Looking for an exit.
The man feinted toward the beach—a convincing sell, body weight shifting south, knife hand dropping slightly. Then he pivoted hard, faster than his injuries should have allowed—straight toward Emma.
Emma twisted away, but the sand gave under her foot and she stumbled.
Zach’s heart stopped.
The assassin’s hand shot out, grabbed Emma’s arm, and spun her with brutal efficiency. Her gasp of surprise cut through Zach’s focus like a blade. The attacker shoved her into Zach’s path, using her body as a living obstacle.
He caught her on pure instinct, his knife hand moving away from her body in a wide arc, his other arm wrapping around her waist to keep her upright. She fell against him, off-balance. Her sandalwood-vanilla scent flooded his senses.
Half a second.
That’s all it took.
By the time he steadied Emma, the assassin was ten yards away, crashing into the tree line in a spray of broken branches and scattered leaves. The blood trail was obvious—dark drops on light sand, then smears on vegetation. Gone.
Zach’s entire body vibrated with the need to pursue. To finish it. Every instinct screamed at him to track the target, follow the trail, and neutralize the threat permanently. His Guardian ability surged in his chest, demanding he hunt, demanding he end this.
His muscles coiled. His grip tightened on the knife. The tree line was right there. The target was wounded. Without a witness, he could take down the attacker in seconds.
Emma was shaking in his arms. Her fingers clutched his shirt. Her breath came too fast, pulse hammering against his forearm where he held her.
The attacker might have backup waiting in those trees, leading him into an ambush. Could have a secondary weapon positioned. Could have explosives. Could have—
He cut the thought off and forced himself to breathe. To think instead of react. To be tactical instead of emotional.
The mission was to protect Emma, not leave her alone to chase threats, to satisfy his own burning need for completion.
Protect her. Get back to the cottage under cover.
This was why caring was dangerous.