I hesitate. Noah’s still pressed against my side, his hot chocolate half-finished, his breathing finally starting to even out.
“Go,” Jace says quietly. “They need answers more than they need you sitting here. I’ll stay with them.”
He’s right. As much as I want to stay here, holding Noah, making sure he feels safe—the best way to protect these kids is to find out who the fuck just tried to kill them and eliminate the threat.
“Okay.” I look down at Noah. “Hey, buddy. Uncle Jace is going to sit with you for a bit while I help Uncle Cal with some work. That okay?”
Noah looks between me and Jace, uncertain.
“I’ll be right over there,” I point to the dining table, maybe fifteen feet away. “You can see me the whole time. And Uncle Jace gives way better hugs than I do anyway.”
“That’s a lie,” Jace mutters, but he’s already settling on the floor where I was sitting.
Noah considers this, then nods slowly. “Okay. But don’t leave the house.”
“Not leaving the house,” I confirm. “But I may have to if I find out where the bad guys are, okay?”
He hesitates and eventually nods.
I extract myself carefully, watching as Jace takes my place, Noah immediately curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Because it is.
These kids trust us. All three of us. Want us here. Need us here.
And someone just tried to take that away.
I move to the dining table, standing behind Cal’s chair, looking at the screens he has open. Security feeds from the park, frozen on frames showing the attackers. Traffic camera footage from surrounding streets. Database searches running in the background.
“Talk to me,” I say quietly.
“Got clear shots of four of the shooters,” Cal says, pulling up images. “Ran them through facial recognition. Two came back with hits—former military, dishonorably discharged, known to work as mercenaries for hire.”
“Mercenaries.” Not random thugs. Not opportunistic criminals. Professionals.
“Yeah.” Cal switches to another screen. “But here’s where it gets interesting. Look at the shooting patterns.”
He plays back the security footage, highlighting the bullet impacts. I watch carefully, my brain automatically analyzing angles, trajectories, coverage.
“Ground team here,” Cal points. “Six shooters, semi-automatic rifles, spray pattern designed to create chaos and panic.”
“But not designed to kill,” I observe. “If they wanted us dead, with that many shooters in position, someone would be.”
“Exactly.” Cal switches views. “Now look at this.”
He zooms out, showing a wider angle of the park and surrounding area. Enhances two buildings in the background.
“What am I looking at?”
“Sniper positions.” He adjusts the audio, cranking up the volume. I hear it then—the sharp crack of a high-powered rifle, distinct from the rapid fire of the ground team.
“Two snipers,” I say, my blood going cold. “Long-range positions with clear line of sight to the diamond.”
“Yep. And they fired—” Cal pulls up a count. “—eight rounds total. Want to guess how many hit anywhere near their targets?”
“None.”
“None,” Cal confirms. “Professional snipers, elevated positions, clear shots at stationary targets. And they hit dirt, fence posts, and bench wood. Nothing that would actually hurt anyone.”
