Was he alive to see it?
41
Raine
Red and blue lights strobed against the storm, painting the barn in flashes of color. Troopers poured past, shouting orders, their rifles trained on the tree line. For the first time since the bridge gave way, I felt the tide shift.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because Adam wasn’t here.
I shoved my rifle over my shoulder and pushed off the wall. My ribs screamed, my legs shook, but I kept moving. Boone reached for me, his grip weak but stubborn. “Carter—don’t. Let the law handle it.”
I shook him off. “You know damn well they won’t. Not fast enough.”
The mother’s voice broke behind me. “Thank you… thank you.” She clutched her boy like she’d never let go again.
I spared one glance—just one—then tore my eyes away. Because as much as they needed me,heneeded me more.
The troopers outside tried to push me back, their voices hard under the storm. “Ma’am, stay inside—”
I barreled past them, fury giving me strength. “Where’s Stoker?” I shouted, rain pelting my face, soaking me to the bone. “Adam Stoker! His team was holding the ridge!”
One of them hesitated, his jaw tightening, eyes flicking toward the distant tree line. “Ma’am—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me.” My voice cracked with anger and fear. “Tell me where he is.”
The man didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence in his eyes told me enough.
I ran.
Mud sucked at my boots as I staggered toward the ridge, lungs burning, vision blurred by rain and tears. My body begged me to stop, but I couldn’t. Not until I saw him. Not until I knew.
Because if Adam was gone—if I’d lost him again—then no amount of rescue lights or troopers or victory would matter.
“Hold on,” I whispered into the storm, forcing my legs faster. “Just hold on for me.”
42
Adam
The ridge was mud, blood, and silence.
I lay half-crouched against the shattered remains of the SUV, my chest heaving, my sidearm nothing more than dead weight in my hand. The last mag had been spent minutes ago—or maybe hours, it all blurred together.
Around me, my men looked just as wrecked. Hawk leaned against a tree, his sleeve tied around the gash in his arm, his eyes glassy but defiant. Russ knelt nearby, calm as ever, though the tremor in his hands told me he was close to collapse, I saw the blood dripping from his arm. Blade moved like a ghost, knife dripping, his eyes flat and unreadable. Blood on his shoulder, I hoped the bullet went through.
We hadn’t won.
But we hadn’t broken either.
The masked men had pulled back, vanishing into the storm the same way they’d come. Not because we’d beaten them. No—they’d had their fill. Measured us. Tested us. And decided to let us live.
For now.
I saw people trying to get out of the vans that were still there. Kidnapped for what?
Headlights crested the slope, cutting through the rain. Engines—louder, heavier. For one breath, my gut clenched, ready for another wave.
