Noah leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "So, The Vanguard has a face now."
"A voice, at least," I said.
"And leverage," Atlas added, his gaze flicking to Byron. "They threatened everyone. All of us. All the women."
Dad nodded slowly. "That's their play. They don't just want compliance. They want control."
"Which means they're not going away," Ryker said. His voice was low, gravelly. "Not unless we make them."
Elias tapped something on his laptop. "I can start running searches. Older woman. Raspy voice. High level connections. Long shot, but … See what surfaces."
"Do it," Byron said.
I watched the Charleston Danes work, the way they moved through the problem with the same kind of operational rhythm my Montana brothers had. Different training, maybe. Different branches. But the same fundamental wiring.
We were all soldiers. And now we were all targets.
The weight of it pressed down on me—not just my own life on the line, but Amelia's. My brothers'. Women who were family now by virtue of loving the men in this room.
The Vanguard had drawn a circle around all of us and dared us to step outside it.
I wasn't going to let that stand.
The door opened. Amelia walked in. All eyes turned to her.
But the looks weren't angry. Weren't the sharp, guarded expressions of men whose briefing had just been interrupted by a stranger.
They were curious. Assessing, yes. But not hostile.
I filed that away. A mark of family. Or at least, a mark of men who trusted my judgment enough to let her walk into their war room without a challenge.
"I'm here to help," Amelia said.
I looked at her, torn between relief that she was here and frustration that she'd walked into this. "I don't know how you can help," I said. "Unless you know the identity of the mystery woman from The Vanguard."
"I don't," she admitted. "But I'm willing to give up my sources. If you think it'll help."
I looked at Dad.
He nodded. "It definitely couldn't hurt."
But there was something in his eyes. Something he was holding back.
A flicker of something I couldn't name. Dread, maybe. Or recognition waiting to happen.
"How do you think we should start?" I asked Amelia.
She stepped closer to the table, and I saw the shift in her—the way she moved into the room like she belonged there. Like she'd made a decision and wasn't second-guessing it.
"How about I tell you more about my sources," she said, "and we see what the group thinks we should do next. Pay them personal visits. Call them on the phone. Threaten them?"
A few eyebrows raised around the room.
Gideon smirked. Lucas let out a low whistle.
Amelia had changed. There was an edge to her now, a willingness to step into the dark.
It stirred something in me. Something dangerous and inviting.
