Chapter 20 Chase
TWENTY
CHASE
We roll out like a storm.
Three SUVs. Lights off. Radios low. Snow-dusted pine and black sky swallowing us as we cut down the mountain road toward Timber Creek.
Silas drives point with two sheriff’s units tucked in behind us—deputies he trusts. Not the ones who ask too many questions. Not the ones who’d sell a badge for cash.
The rest of us fill the convoy like we were built for this.
Rafe in the passenger seat of Gavin’s SUV, calm and lethal.
Boyd in the back, silent, checking his weapon like it’s a prayer.
Thorne riding shotgun with Harlan, eyes on the tree line like it’s talking.
Wyatt on comms, laptop balanced on his knees, tracking coordinates with a glow on his face that makes him look like a damn ghost. Rhett cracking his knuckles like he’s warming up for a brawl.
Eli double-checking his med bag for the third time because he’s the only one in this convoy whose job is to put people back together after we tear a place apart.
Harlan quietly looking out the window. He’s lethal and ready.
And me?
I’m thinking about Fiona. About her hair in my fingers this morning. About the way she looked at me when I told her I’d go anywhere she wanted. About the fact that if Marcus lays a hand on her again, I’m going to end him.
Wyatt’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “We’ve got movement. One heat signature on the upper level, three on the lower. Most likely guards. The women are in the back—north side—based on the thermal cluster.”
“Copy,” Gavin murmurs. His voice is iron. Commander voice. “Silas, you got eyes?”
Silas responds, “Visual in thirty. Deputies stack on my mark. We do this clean.”
Clean.
I’ve learned that word doesn’t mean quiet. It means controlled. No mistakes.
We turn off the main road onto a dirt track that cuts behind an old, half-collapsed storage yard—rusted fencing, shipping containers, abandoned equipment. A place no one would question at night because no one comes out here unless they have a reason.
We stop just shy of the final bend and kill engines. Silence slams down. The cold air bites my lungs as I step out. I pull my beanie lower, adjust my vest, check my weapon.
Gavin moves down the line, giving quick hand signals.
We all fall into position. Silas and his deputies take the left flank.
Thorne and Boyd take the high ground—two dark shadows melting into trees.
Harlan and Rhett go right with Rafe. Eli stays a step back, ready to move the second we pull anyone out.
Wyatt’s voice is calm in my ear. “Two cameras. One at the front corner, one above the side door. I can loop for ninety seconds. After that, it’s a guess.”
“Do it,” Gavin says.
A soft click in my earpiece.
“Looping… now.”
We move.
Boots crunch soft gravel. Breath fogs. The warehouse rises ahead, a squat, ugly building with one dim security light and boarded windows. The kind of place that screams don’t come in here.
We come anyway.
Gavin and Rafe take point. Silas nods once, his hand lifting. Stack. We line up at the side door under the eaves. Rhett’s shoulder braces. Boyd’s at the edge like a boulder with a gun.
Silas murmurs, “On three.”
One.
Two.
Three.
Rhett hits the door like he was born to break things. The frame splinters. The door swings inward with a groan. We flood in. The air inside is stale—oil, metal, something sour underneath. My eyes adjust fast. Dim light. Concrete floor. Shadows in corners.
A guard steps out of the dark with a gun half raised.
Boyd takes him down in one brutal move. Another man yells from above—catwalk—raising his weapon.
Thorne fires once. He drops without a sound.
We move deeper, fast and surgical. No wasted steps.
No panic. Just the steady rhythm of a team that’s done this too many times.
Wyatt’s voice tightens. “Rear room. North side. That’s your cluster.”
Gavin gestures, and we push toward the back hallway. The first door we hit is locked. Rafe kicks it in. Inside it’s empty. Just a desk, a chair, paperwork scattered like someone fled in a hurry.
“Next,” Gavin snaps.
We move. Second door. Locked again. Rhett breaks it.
This one smells like fear. The room is lined with old mattresses and stained blankets.
Three women huddle together in the corner—eyes wide, faces streaked with tears.
One has bruises on her wrists. Another is shaking so hard her teeth chatter.
They see us and flinch like they expect more pain.
Silas lowers his weapon immediately. “Sheriff’s office. You’re safe.”
The women don’t move.
Eli steps in slowly, hands open, voice soft. “Hey. I’m Eli. Medic. You’re okay. We’re here to get you out.”
One of them whispers, “He said no one would come.”
My jaw tightens.
Eli nods. “He lied.”
Gavin turns to Silas. “Get them out.”
Silas signals his deputies, who move in gently, offering coats. Eli checks pulses, pupils, injuries.
I stand at the doorway, scanning the hall. Because this isn’t over.
Marcus. He’s supposed to be here.
Wyatt’s voice comes sharp. “Heat signature moving—upper level—fast. He’s running.”
Gavin’s head snaps up. “Stairs. Now.”
I’m already moving. Rafe and Boyd with me. Thorne drops from the catwalk like a shadow. Harlan follows, weapon raised, breathing steady. We take the stairs two at a time. The upper level is a maze of storage rooms and narrow hallways. We clear fast—door, corner, sweep, move.
Then I hear it. A door slam. Footsteps pounding. I round the corner and see him.
Marcus.
My stomach drops like I’ve stepped off a cliff. He’s wearing a dark jacket, gloves, a beanie. His eyes go wide when he sees me.
Fear.
Then anger.
“Fuck you,” he snarls, backing up.
I bring my weapon up, steady. “Don’t move.”
He laughs—sharp and ugly. “You people think you’re heroes?”
“I don’t think,” I say. “I do.”
He glances past me, looking for an exit. There isn’t one. Boyd appears behind him like a nightmare. Marcus freezes.
Rafe steps in from the left, calm as death. “Hands where we can see them.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
“Oh, we know,” I say. “And you’re done.”
He spits, “She told you? That little liar—”
My vision goes red. I’m across the space in a blink, slamming him back into the wall hard enough to rattle the shelving. My weapon stays controlled, but my hand grips his collar like I’m holding him over an edge.
“You don’t say her name,” I growl, voice low and feral. “You don’t get to speak about her like you own her.”
His breath comes fast. “She’s nothing—”
Boyd’s fist slams into his stomach like a wrecking ball. Marcus folds with a choking sound.
Rafe’s voice is cool. “You’ll talk. Or you’ll bleed. Your choice.”
Marcus wheezes, trying to recover. “You can’t—”
Silas appears at the end of the hall, deputies with him. His badge glints in the low light like a warning. “I can,” Silas says. “I’m the sheriff. And you’re under arrest for kidnapping, trafficking, conspiracy, and whatever else I feel like stacking once I’m done reading your file.”
Marcus’s eyes flick to the badge. Then to us. Then to the floor. His bravado crumples. He mutters, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t… I didn’t touch them.”
Thorne steps closer, voice flat. “You moved them.”
Marcus swallows. “I just… handled logistics. That’s all.”
My jaw tightens. “Who’s above you?”
He shakes his head fast. “I don’t know—”
Silas crouches in front of him, gaze like ice. “Mark Renshaw.”
Marcus flinches.
Silas’s mouth tightens. “Say it.”
Marcus’s voice breaks. “Renshaw.”
There it is. The name that makes my blood run cold.
Silas stands. “Cuff him.”
Deputies move in. Metal snaps around Marcus’s wrists. He starts protesting, panicking, trying to wriggle free.
“You don’t understand,” he says, voice rising. “He’ll kill me!”
Rafe’s smile is humorless. “Good. Then talk fast.”
I stare at Marcus as they drag him away.
All I can see is Fiona’s face when she tried to pretend she wasn’t scared.
Fiona’s laugh. Fiona’s flour-dusted smile this morning.
This man made her run. Made her lose sleep.
Made her feel unsafe in her own skin. He’s done.
But it doesn’t feel like enough. Not yet.
Because Renshaw is once again still out there.
Silas steps up beside me. “We got him. And we got the women.”
My chest loosens just a fraction. “They okay?”
“Shaken,” he says. “Alive. Eli’s got them.”
Good.
Alive is everything.
Gavin’s voice comes through the radio. “All units, status.”
Silas answers, “Suspect in custody. Three victims recovered. No casualties.”
A beat of silence. Then Gavin exhales. “Copy. Bring them home.”
Home. The word hits different now. Because home isn’t just the compound. Home is Fiona waiting on that mountain.
An hour later, the convoy rolls back into Haven 7 with the women secured and warm, wrapped in blankets, Eli checking them one more time. Deputies take Marcus away in the sheriff’s unit, Silas already on the phone with the DA and the feds.
The compound gates open like a mouth swallowing us back into safety. I barely remember taking off my vest. Barely remember stepping into my cabin. All I know is the second I see Fiona, standing by the porch with Kayley, Emma, and Harper and the babies… my chest goes tight.
She runs to me. Not slow. Not careful. Full speed. I catch her, lift her off the ground, and hold her like I’m proving to both of us that I’m real, I’m here, I’m not gone.
“You’re okay,” she breathes into my neck, shaking.
“I’m okay,” I say. “We’re okay.”
Her hands grip my shoulders. “Did you—did you get him?”
I look at her and let myself be honest. “We got Marcus.”
Her eyes fill instantly. Relief. Rage. Gratitude. Everything. “And the women?” she whispers.
“Safe,” I tell her. “They’re safe.”
Fiona’s breath breaks. She presses her forehead to mine, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I hate this,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say, voice rough. “But it’s over. For him.”
Her gaze searches mine. “And Renshaw?”
I don’t lie. “Still out there,” I admit. “But we’re closing in. Silas and Gavin won’t stop until he’s done.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “Okay.” Then she whispers, “You came back.”
I hold her tighter. “I’ll always come back.”
And as her arms wrap around me like she’s anchoring herself to my ribs, I know something with absolute clarity. This isn’t temporary. This isn’t a fling. It’s my life.
Her. This mountain. The fight. The found family. And when the night finally comes and the compound settles, I take her inside, shut the door, and let the world stay on the other side of the locks. Because the only thing that matters right now is that she’s here.
And I’m home.