Five tangos down. Clean. Silent. Efficient.
I clear the rest of the warehouse methodically—storage areas filled with plastic-wrapped pallets, empty offices with broken chairs and old calendars on the walls. Nothing.
Back corner of the building. Closed door with light showing underneath.
I stack on the door, control my breathing, let my heart rate settle. Then I breach.
The woman is zip-tied to a metal chair in the center of the small room.
First thing I notice: blood dried on her temple from a head wound, dark and crusted. Bruises on her wrists where the zip ties cut in. But her eyes—that's what stops me. Sharp and alert, tracking my movement the instant I come through the door. Tactical assessment, not panic. Not relief. Cold calculation.
Not the eyes of a victim.
The eyes of someone who's been in combat.
Papers are spread on a metal table beside her. Legal documents. Printed forms. Numbers. Signature lines.
She doesn't scream. Doesn't beg. Just watches me for three full seconds, then speaks.
"Not that I mind the rescue, but who the hell are you? You bring any back up or just that scowl?" Southern accent, clear and controlled. Arresting.
I blink. Not the response I expected from someone who's been held captive for three days.
I move to her, pulling my knife from the thigh sheath. She holds completely still as I cut the zip ties, doesn't flinch when the blade comes within inches of her skin. The plastic falls away, and sheimmediately brings her hands up, flexing her fingers, checking circulation.
I sheath the knife, reach for her face to check her pupils. She lets me, but I can feel the tension in her, the coiled readiness to fight if I cross a line.
"How many fingers?" I hold up three.
"Three. I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It's dried. I'm a medic. I know triage." She stands without my help, tests her weight on both legs. Steady. No tremor. "You military? Delta?"
No Delta operator advertises it—ever. The word's a ghost, unspoken even in whispers. "Guardian," I say instead, letting her puzzle it out. I look at her. "Can you walk?"
She meets my eyes, and there's steel there. "I can walk. But I'm not leaving."
Of course not. Nothing about this woman is easy.
"You are leaving. Now."
"Not without my brother."
I keep my voice level and controlled. "Intel said one hostage."
"Your intel was wrong." Her jaw sets, stubborn. "They took us from my apartment in Tucson three days ago. They've been keeping us separated. They're holding him somewhere until I sign." She gestures to the papers on the table.
I swept this entire building. Every room. Every closet. "Your brother's not here."
First crack in her composure—a flicker of fear in her eyes before she shoves it down. "Then they moved him. But he's alive. They said if I signed, they'd bring him back. They said they need information about what our mother left us. Some kind of—I don't know, hidden accounts or property or something. They've been interrogating him."
I look at the papers for the first time, really look. Trust fund documents. Four hundred thousand dollars. Established by Margaret Brooks. Two signature lines at the bottom:Magnolia Brooks and Tyler Brooks. Both blank. Both required to access the funds.
Something's wrong here. The pieces don't fit.
"What's your name?"
