CJ himself steps out of the lead vehicle. Mid-forties, built like he still runs marathons, expression hard enough to cut glass. He's wearing full tactical gear despite the fact that it's oh-four-hundred, which means he dropped everything and mobilized the second he figured out where I was.
He does not look happy.
But before he can bark orders, the remaining six cartel goons—flankers who'd peeled off from the vehicles during the initial rush, trying to circle the ranch—reveal themselves in a desperate bid, bursting from cover behind the derelict barn and corrals, AKs chattering in sporadic bursts that light up the night.
Bullets ping off the SUVs' armored sides, shattering a rotted fence post nearby, but the Guardians are already moving, a symphony of lethal efficiency.
"Contact left. Six tangos."Max, lead Guardian of Alpha team, snaps over the comms, voice calm as he drops to a knee and pops two suppressed rounds—headshots, clean and instant, the men crumpling like ragdolls before they can fully acquire targets.
Alpha team flows like water. Two Guardians peel right—flanking the barn, their thermal up. Flashbang crack, followed by a burst of fire that silences the frantic shouts inside.
Bodies hit the dirt, no return fire, the acrid tang of cordite drifting on the wind.
Maggie tenses beside me, hand twitching toward the rifle, but I shake my head. "They're handling it."
The last pair of cartel fighters makes a break for the dunes, scrambling for their stalled truck, but the helicopter spotlights pin them like insects, and rappelling operators touch down twentyyards out, advancing in bounding overwatch. A quick exchange—three rounds total—and it's over, the men face-down in the sand, no drama, no mercy.
"Area clear,"a voice crackles over the open channel, the team sweeping the ranch in overlapping sectors: checking the outbuildings, the vehicles, even under the porch. Drones buzz overhead for aerial confirmation, and within ninety seconds, another call:"All clear. Perimeter secure. No additional hostiles."
After the firefight ends, silence falls. Not the waiting-for-violence silence. The after-violence void. The kind that means it’s over.
The tension bleeds out of the air, replaced by the low murmur of post-op check-ins.
"Frost!" CJ's voice carries across the distance, sharp as a blade. "Step outside."
I look at Maggie. She's pale, shocky, but her eyes are clear. "Go. I'm fine."
"Stay inside," I tell her. "Cover the window. Just in case."
"In case of what? Your own team?"
"In case Tyler's friends are still out there." I move toward the door. "Stay sharp."
I step outside, hands visible, weapon slung. CJ approaches with two operators flanking him, and his face is a mask of controlled fury.
"You want to tell me what the hell you've been doing?" He's not shouting, which is worse. CJ only gets quiet when he's genuinely pissed. "Unauthorized op. No communication. Six dead cartel enforcers and one wounded civilian. You've been dark for six hours, Frost. Six hours."
"I can explain?—"
"You better have one hell of an explanation." He looks past me to the ranch house. "Is the package secure?"
"Magnolia Brooks. Yeah. She's secure."
"Injuries?"
"Head wound from initial capture. Minor. She's ambulatory and combat-effective."
CJ's eyebrow rises. "Combat-effective?"
"Former Army combat medic. She engaged and dropped multiple tangos during the assault. Took out two trucks on the road."
"A civilian engaged?" His voice gets quieter. Colder. "You armed a civilian and put her in a firefight?"
"I armed a trained soldier who was the primary target. She’s qualified to defend herself."
"That's not your call to make."
"It was when I was the only one here." I meet his eyes. "I considered calling it in, but Guardian HRS couldn't mobilize fast enough. She had three hours before the cartel moved her. I did what had to be done."
