"Equipment check," Zeke says. "We move out at twenty-one hundred hours. That gives us five hours to stage and get into position, and we hit them at oh-two-hundred when they're deepest in sleep cycle."
We spend the next hour going through gear. Tactical vests rated for rifle rounds. Night vision optics. Breaching tools. Medical supplies. Zip ties for securing prisoners. Everything laid out with military precision.
Harlow strips down her Glock, checks every component, reassembles it in under thirty seconds. Her movements are automatic. Trained. She does the same with the tactical rifle Zeke provides. Checks the optic. Tests the action. Loads magazines with practiced efficiency.
I watch her work, remembering what she told me at the cabin about her partner Baker. About the call that went wrong. But here, gearing up with the team, she's all business. No hesitation. No second-guessing. The woman who doubted her judgment inthe field has disappeared, replaced by the operator who knows exactly what she's doing.
The afternoon stretches into evening. We eat MREs heated over a camp stove. Beef stew that tastes like cardboard but fills the stomach. We review the tactical plan twice more. Check equipment again. Wait.
Waiting is the hardest part. Knowing what's coming. Knowing people might die tonight. Knowing Sergei Volkov, the man who murdered Emma, is out there in that camp right now with no idea what’s coming, no idea that justice is hours away.
Around nineteen hundred hours, Zeke calls a break. "Get some rest if you can. Clear your heads. We move in two hours."
The team disperses. Nate and Caleb outside for a perimeter check. Irving and Morris to the vehicles. Chris on the satellite phone coordinating with federal backup teams staging nearby. Zeke stays at the command center, reviewing intelligence reports.
Harlow catches my eye. Tilts her head toward the staircase leading to the second floor. A question.
I follow her up. The second floor is less damaged than I expected. Four small rooms that might have been offices or sleeping quarters decades ago. She chooses one with a door that still closes. A single window looking out over the forest. A sleeping bag someone laid out in the corner.
She shuts the door. Locks it. Turns to face me.
"I needed a minute," she says. "Away from the planning. Away from knowing what we're about to do."
"Same."
"I'm scared, Rhys."
The admission surprises me. Not that she's scared, that's natural. But that she's willing to say it out loud. To be vulnerable when everything about this operation requires her to be strong.
"Of the assault?" I ask.
"Of losing you." She moves closer. "This morning when those operators hit your cabin, all I could think was that I'd just found you. Found this. And someone was trying to take it away before we even had a chance to figure out what it is."
"We survived."
"This time. But tonight is no different. Tonight we're walking into a fight against people who've killed before. Who won't hesitate to kill again." Her hands find my vest, fingers curling into the tactical fabric. "And I can't lose you. Not now. Not when I'm just starting to feel alive again."
I cup her face in my hands. "You're not losing me. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"Then I'll fight like hell to make sure it's true." I lean down, rest my forehead against hers. "All this time I've been dead inside. Going through motions. Existing but not living. Then you showed up and suddenly I want things again. A future. A life beyond this investigation. You did that, Harlow."
"Rhys." My name is barely a whisper.
"I choose this," I say. Each word deliberate. "I choose you. No matter what tonight brings, I'm choosing you."
She kisses me. Hard and desperate and full of everything we can't say in the command center with the team watching. I kiss her back, pulling her closer, needing to feel her solid and real in my arms.
The kiss deepens. Becomes desperate. Her hands slide under my vest, yanking at the shirt beneath with urgency born from knowing we might not get another chance. Her nails scrape across my skin and I groan into her mouth. I back her toward the wall, pin her there with my body. She gasps when her back hits wood, arches into me, and the friction nearly undoes me.
"Rhys." My name breaks on her lips. Need and fear and determination all tangled together.
I kiss down her throat, tasting salt and adrenaline. Her pulse hammers under my tongue. "We might die tonight," I murmur against her skin.
"I know." Her hands find my belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. "That's why I need this. Need you. Need to feel alive before we walk into hell."
Her words shred the last of my control.
