43
Logan
The call came at 2:14 a.m.
Not the polite chime of a normal phone call — the encrypted buzz that meantsomething had gone wrong.
I was already awake.
Couldn’t sleep. Not lately. Not since Missouri. What happened to catching the cartel? They were so much easier.
Not since watching my best friend almost die in a tower full of nightmares, only to walk out holding the hand of the detective who finally made him stop running from himself.
Good for Hawk. He can take off for a couple more months, unless we need to bring him in with us.
Bad for me.
Because when the adrenaline crash came, there wasn’t anyone waiting on the other side of the door for me.
The secure line buzzed again.
I snatched it up, thumb sliding across the accepted code. “Carter.”
Static first. Then a breath. Then Aaron’s voice, low and sharp.
“This is Aaron from Delta Five. We have a problem.”
My spine went straight. “Where?”
“West Texas.”
I rubbed a hand down my face. “Thought the threat cells out there were dormant.”
“They were.” Aaron paused. “Until two hours ago.”
I sat up fully. “What happened?”
There was a long, heavy silence before Aaron answered.
“A tactical convoy was hit six miles outside Marfa.”
“Hit how?”
“Ambushed. Precision explosives. Coordinated fire. Three wounded, one critical. And…” Aaron exhaled hard. “We’re missing someone.”
My pulse stopped, held, then hammered.
“Who?” I asked.
More static. More silence.
Then:
“Raine,” he said. “Your sister’s missing.”
Cold, sharp dread sliced through me. “She wasn’t supposed to be in the field.”
“She wasn’t,” Aaron growled. “This wasn’t an op. This was a black-bag transport—no one was supposed to know about it.”
