The monitors blinked. Motion sensors.
We all froze.
Dutch moved to the window, one hand reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall. Trent was already at the monitors, his whole body coiled tight.
“Multiple vehicles,” he said quietly. “Coming up the access road.”
My heart kicked into my throat. I grabbed Sophia and pulled her close.
“How many?” Dutch asked.
Trent studied the screens. “Three SUVs. One truck. Moving fast but not aggressive.” His shoulders relaxed. “That’s them. That’s my team.”
Relief and terror hit me in equal measure.
The storm had arrived.
And we were standing directly in its path.
I’d barely gotten Sophia into clean clothes when the vehicles pulled up outside. Through the window, I watched as doors opened in synchrony, disgorging what looked like a small army.
These were Trent’s people. His family.
I settled Sophia at the table with a bowl of her favorite cereal—another thing Dutch had grabbed from our house—then headed outside with Trent to meet them.
His hand settled against the small of my back as we descended the porch steps. The touch was protective and reassuring, but it did little to calm my flutter of nerves.
The man who reached us first had blue eyes that took in everything and gave away nothing. He extended his hand with a grip that was firm without being aggressive. Up close, I could see the network of fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from squinting against desert sun or making hard decisions or both.
“Evelyn,” Trent said, his voice taking on a formal quality I hadn’t heard before. “This is Ethan Voss. He leads Edge Ops.”
“Call me Grim,” the man said, his voice deeper than I’d expected. “Everyone does.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring,” I replied before I could stop myself.
A flicker of something crossed his face. Maybe amusement. “It’s better than the full version.” He turned to Trent. “Sit-rep?”
“Inside,” Trent replied with a slight nod toward the cabin. “Dutch has maps of all the key locations.”
“So you’re the one who got our brooding brick wall to actually use his phone,” came a cheerful Irish accent. The man grinned at me as he strode toward us. He had windswept dark brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. He extended his hand with a flourish. “Nolan Riley. Team pilot. The handsome one.”
“Ignore him,” Trent said dryly. “Everyone else does.”
Nolan clutched his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Bricks. And after I flew all night to save your sorry arse.” His eyes found mine again, his smile softening. “But seriously, it’s good to meet you, Evelyn. We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you because this one communicates primarily in grunts and tactical hand signals.”
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. There was something infectious about Nolan’s irreverence, a deliberate lightness that felt like a counterbalance to the danger surrounding us.
“Don’t let his charm fool you,” came another voice as a tall, broad-shouldered man approached. “Nolan crashes more helicopters than anyone in the business.” His amber-brown eyes assessed me with open curiosity. “Flynn Shepherd. Extraction specialist.”
“He means professional kidnapper,” Nolan stage-whispered.
Flynn rolled his eyes. “I prefer ‘strategic removal expert.’”
Trent grumbled something under his breath as they started to bicker and guided me away from them, toward a womanunloading gear from one of the SUVs. Her platinum blonde hair caught the morning light, cut in a sharp bob that framed striking features. She moved like a dancer, all flowing grace. When she looked up, her green eyes assessed me with a cool intelligence that felt almost like a physical scan.
“Lyric Renard,” Trent said. “Undercover operative. Best I’ve ever worked with.”
She extended her hand, her grip firm and confident. “Evelyn. Good to finally put a face to the intel.” She scanned my clothes, and one manicured eyebrow lifted into a perfect arch. I hadn’t had a chance to change into my own clothes yet and still wore Trent’s. “Nice shirt.”
