“No,” Noah agreed. “Not without a fight. But Olivia already ran. And we’re not leaving Ava behind.”
He shut off the screen and turned to them. His expression was unreadable, but there was something final in his voice.
“You leave in an hour. Gear up and meet Olivia at the safe house. She’ll tell you what she saw inside the institute. After that, you make the call on how to extract her sister.”
He walked to the door, his gait uneven, the faint mechanical rhythm of his prosthetic audible on the concrete. Then he was gone, leaving the room colder than it had been a moment before.
Delaney stood still, eyes fixed on the blank screen, her fingers flexing at her sides. A grandfather trying to erase a problem. A mother trying to undo the damage. A girl who ran. A sister who was left behind.
Delaney followed Eli out of the war room and down the hallway. The hum of servers and distant voices faded as they passed through a reinforced door into the equipment wing, a massive space lined with steel racks, glass-front lockers, and workbenches. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale sheen across the polished concrete floor.
It was impressive. Twice the size of any armory she’d worked in during her FBI years, and stocked with enough gear to outfit a small tactical unit. There were weapons of every caliber, breaching tools, encrypted comms, medical packs, drones, surveillance tech, and tactical uniforms folded with military precision.
“Damn,” Delaney said, taking it all in. “I heard all the talk about this room, about how well equipped it was. Thought it might be an exaggeration.”
Eli walked straight to a shelving unit and grabbed two black duffels. “If it’s not in here, we don’t need it.”
He handed one to her, then opened his and started loading it with mission essentials. She unzipped hers and scanned the contents. Thermals, wireless mics, night-vision gear, compact cameras, and a secure tablet loaded with surveillance software. Lightweight but versatile.
At the weapons wall, Eli selected a matte-black sidearm, checked the slide, then holstered it. He grabbed a compact rifle next, slinging itover his shoulder, and handed her a sidearm that matched.
She accepted it without a word, familiar weight grounding her.
Then Eli reached to an upper shelf, pulled down two smoke canisters, and dropped them into his bag.
Delaney raised an eyebrow. “Expecting a dramatic exit?”
“Smoke comes in handy,” he said. “Buys you time. Breaks line of sight. Covers a lot of questionable decisions.”
She gave him a look. “That’s comforting.”
He shrugged, then pulled off his canvas jacket and swapped it for a darker tactical one in digital camo. His Stetson came off too, replaced by a black cap pulled low over his brow. The change was subtle but complete. Less laid-back cowboy, more mission-ready operator.
The door behind them opened, followed by heavy boot steps across the floor. “Figured you two would already be gone,” a man said.
Delaney turned toward him as he walked in, tall and broad, with short dark hair and a fresh bruise forming along his jaw. A cut split his lower lip, and one of his hands was wrapped in gauze. His Crossfire Ops jacket hung open, a duffel slung over one shoulder.
“Colt Morgan,” Eli said, grinning. “You look like hell.”
Colt gave a crooked smile. “You should see theother guys.”
Eli stepped forward and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “What happened?”
“New Mexico op. Went fine until it didn’t. Took a fist to the face. Got a couple ribs that feel like gravel.”
Delaney watched the exchange with mild curiosity. Colt didn’t move like a man nursing injuries, though she caught the tightness in his posture.
Colt turned his attention to her. “You must be Hart.”
“Delaney,” she said, nodding.
He gave her a once-over, not judging, just sizing her up the way all operators did. “Heard you were coming in. FBI and some profiling skills, right?”
“When it’s not bullets and smoke grenades,” she said.
He gave a faint smirk. “You’ll fit in.”
Eli slung his bag over one shoulder. “You heading to medical?” he asked Colt.
