The forest doesn’t make a sound as I move through it.
That’s because I don’t let it. Every footfall placed with precision, every breath controlled, every movement calculated to leave no trace. This is what I’m good at. What I was made for.
Hunting.
My rifle is an extension of my body. Finger resting on the trigger guard, not the trigger. Not yet. But soon. Very fucking soon.
Behind me, Jace and Charles move in tactical formation, covering angles, scanning for threats. Cal brings up the rear, his tablet in one hand, weapon in the other, tracking electronic signals that might fuck up our approach.
We’re all wearing molar mics. Military-grade bone conduction comms that Cal got us last year. They sit against your back molars, transmit through your jawbone, pick up subvocal speech. Can’t be jammed like traditional comms. Can’t be detected unless someone’s running a dental x-ray.
Perfect for killing people who don’t know you’re coming.
Marcus and four of our best enforcers are positioned on the perimeter. Rodriguez. Chen. Williams. Petrov. All of them capable, all of them loyal, all of them ready to paint these mountains red if that’s what it takes.
Marcus, the stubborn bastard, practically hijacked a medevac helicopter. Broke out of his restraints with broken ribs, grabbed a pair of trauma shears off an EMT, and held them to the poor bastard’s throat until the pilot diverted to New Bedford Regional.
And instead of staying for treatment—like a normal, living person—Marcus limped off the helipad, bleeding all over the goddamn tarmac, andborroweda two-seater corporate jet from one of his cousin’s shell companies.”
No flight plan, no clearance, probably half-conscious, yet he still got that tin can in the air and beat half our intercept time.
I swear to God, if that man dies, I’m killing him.
“Thermal’s showing five, maybe six bodies inside,” Cal’s voice comes through, transmitted directly through bone. Clean. Clear. “Building materials are interfering. Can’t get exact count.”
“Confirmed,” I subvocalize back, barely moving my lips.
The rental property comes into view. Two-story, modern construction, big windows that are going to make this either very easy or very complicated. Two vehicles outside. The grey Suburban from the airport. Black BMW we didn’t account for.
More people than intel suggested.
Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead anyway.
I raise my fist. Everyone stops.
Through my scope, I scan the windows. First floor. Second floor. Looking for threats.
Looking for her.
Ground floor. Side window.
There.
Parker.
My heart does something I didn’t know it could still do. Stops, then restarts with enough force I feel it in my throat.
She’s tied to a chair. Wrists bound behind her. Head tilted. Hair partially covering her face but I can see enough.
Conscious. Alert. Alive.
The relief should make me weak. Instead it makes me lethal.
“Visual on Parker,” I subvocalize. “Ground floor, east window. Restrained but conscious.”
“Hostiles?” Jace asks.
I keep scanning. “Not yet.”
