“He’s gonna love the Crossfire Creek jail,” Harlan added, causing Doyle to call them a bunch of choice names that Colt didn’t find very creative.
Colt tapped a finger to his earpiece to contact their boss, Noah Riggs, head of Crossfire Ops. “Noah, you can send the ambulance in now. And roll a transport for Doyle Mercer. He’s restrained… and verbal,” he added when Doyle just kept on spewing profanity.
“Copy that,” Noah replied. “You and Harlan all right?”
“We’re good. Cassandra appears to be stable, but she needs to be seen now.”
As if on cue, the distant wail of a siren pierced the quiet. Red lights flared behind the line of mesquites, dancing across the dust and the front of the SUV.
Harlan exhaled. “You already had them waiting.”
“I don’t gamble with lives,” Noah said.
The sound of tires crunching over the road followed, and a white-and-red ambulance emerged from the trees, followed by a sheriff’s transport. Colt straightened as the first responders jumped out, med bags in hand, already moving toward the SUV.
Two deputies climbed out of the transport SUV, and they crossed the clearing. One of them, a tall woman with her badge clipped to a tactical vest, gave Colt a nod before kneeling beside Mercer.
“Name?” she asked.
Since Mercer clammed up, Colt provided the info. “Doyle Mercer. Kidnapped Cassandra Vale four days ago from her home in San Antonio, held her here. Her family hired Crossfire Ops to find her, and we tracked him to this location.” He tipped his head to Mercer. “Watch him. He’s got a temper and a limited vocabulary.”
Neither of the deputies attempted to hide their smiles. “We’ll take it from here,” the male deputy said, hauling Doyle to his feet with little concern for the man’s grunted protest. “Medical will check him out at intake.”
Colt stepped aside, watching as they perp walked Doyle toward the waiting cruiser. The guy struggled and fought them the entire way while cursing and repeating his demand for a lawyer.
Yeah, he was a piece of shit all right.
Colt’s earpiece buzzed, and he heard Noah’s voice again. “I’ll notify Cassandra’s family,” Noah explained. “They can meet her at the hospital.” There was a pause, then Noah added, “I’ve got someone here with me. She wants to talk to you. Both of you. Says it’s important.”
“Who?” Colt asked, though he already had a strange feeling creeping in.
Harlan stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he listened in on his own comms.
“It’s Brenna Keane,” Noah answered.
Colt froze.
For a second, the noise around him dulled—the scrape of boots, the quiet murmurs of paramedics, the distant rumble of the ambulance engine. It all faded under the sudden gut punch of hearing her name.
Brenna.
Memories hit like recoil. Dirt and blood. A compound deep in the woods. The metallic stench of fear and adrenaline. Brenna’s voice in his ear during that last mission when they’d all still worked for the private security company, Strike Force. Her hands had been steady enough when everything else was falling apart. Then her silence afterward. Months, years of it.
“Brenna showed up at headquarters looking for you two,” Noah went on, “and when she contacted me, I told her where we were. She drove straight here.”
Colt didn’t answer Noah right away. He exchanged a glance with Harlan as they watched the medics lift Cassandra Vale onto the stretcher. They’d done all they could for her now, and he had to hope that was enough.
“Has Brenna been in touch with you?” Harlan asked him.
Colt shook his head, and they started up the dirt and gravel road, such that it was. The narrow stretch of rutted earth wasn’t much more than a trail, winding between overgrown brush and weathered fence posts.
They moved toward the cluster of vehicles farther up, where a few responder rigs idled with headlights glowing faintly in the dark. A white van sat at the center of the chaos, Crossfire Ops decals faded on the sides. Noah stood beside it, talking to someone Colt couldn’t yet see.
As they got closer, Colt saw her.
Brenna.
She stepped around the side of the van, the overhead light catching in her blonde hair and casting shadows across her face. She wore jeans and a black field jacket, nothing tactical, but she stood with that old familiar tension in her shoulders. Watchful. Contained. Coiled like a spring.
