By the time the last gun was secured and the final man restrained, the building had gone eerily quiet again.
Only this time, the silence belonged to us.
I keyed my mic. “Trigger. Facility secure.”
There was a pause.
Then his voice came back—lower now. Steadier.
“Copy.”
I turned and headed toward the upper exit, knowing exactly where he’d be.
Rylie sat wrapped in his jacket, hands bandaged, her head resting against his chest. His arm was locked around her like he was afraid the world might try again if he let go.
She looked up when I approached.
Not broken.
Not shaken.
Alive.
“You did good,” I told her.
She gave a small, fierce smile. “So did you.”
Trigger didn’t say anything. He just nodded once, eyes never leaving her face.
As medics moved in and the sun crept over the tree line outside, one thing was clear—
This wasn’t over.
Because men like Thomas didn’t stop when they lost.
They retaliated.
And now?
They’d made it personal.
36
Trigger
The world didn’t come back all at once.
It returned in pieces.
The low hum of the medical unit. The rustle of fabric as someone adjusted a blanket. The steady beep of a monitor that told me what I already knew—Rylie was alive.
I sat on the edge of the cot, my forearms braced on my knees, my hands still shaking just enough to piss me off.
Rylie lay propped against pillows, a bandage on her shoulder, both wrists wrapped, her hair tangled and damp like she’d fought a storm and won.
She opened her eyes.
The moment she focused on me, something in my chest cracked clean open.
