Brick chambered a round, the metallic clack cutting through the night. "Been waiting for this all damn day."
Predator and Reaper peeled off silently, disappearing into the shadows as they made their way toward the loading dock. Frost broke left, moving to a position where he could provide overwatch while keeping the vehicles ready for immediate extraction.
Ghost adjusted his grip on the rifle until the weapon felt like an extension of his body. The rage that had been burning in his chest since watching that van take Rachel was still there, hot and focused now. Controlled. Weaponized.
He breathed in once. Deep and measured.
Then he looked at Brick and Rogue, the men who would breach that door with him, who would walk into hell at his side without hesitation.
They didn't need a speech. Didn't need motivation or rallying cries.
They just needed his word.
Ghost's voice came out quiet and cold. "Let's get my woman back."
49
Rachel's ribs screamed with every breath, the pain sharp and specific, like someone had driven a knife between each bone and was twisting it with every inhale. She forced air through her nose, slow and controlled. In. Out. A rhythm she could count. A pattern she could follow instead of spiraling into panic.
Her wrists burned beneath the zip ties, the plastic edges biting into skin that had already been rubbed raw. She'd fought the restraints earlier, pulled and twisted until she felt the warm trickle of blood running down her palms. Now every throb of her pulse sent fresh pain up her arms, sharp and immediate.
But she kept her spine straight. Kept her chin lifted. Kept her expression blank.
They thought she was broken. Thought the beating and the fear and the isolation had crushed whatever fight she'd had left.
They were wrong.
Somewhere behind her, water dripped from a broken pipe with metronomic precision. Plink. Plink. Plink. Each drop marking seconds she didn't have.
Then the door slammed open.
Rachel's muscles locked tight, adrenaline flooding her system even though she forced herself not to flinch. She kept her eyes forward, kept her breathing steady.
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Coming closer.
Carver walked in first, hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets, his stride unhurried. Like he was strolling into a coffee shop instead of a black site where a woman was zip-tied to a chair. He looked completely in control, relaxed, even.
Rachel's stomach clenched.
If Carver was here, that meant Ghost wasn't far behind. The team was supposed to be tracking him. Using him to find her. Which meant they were close. Had to be close.
She just had to survive long enough for them to breach.
Carver's expression stayed neutral as his gaze swept the warehouse, cataloging positions, counting hostiles, building atactical picture. When his eyes passed over Rachel, they didn't linger. Didn't show recognition. Professional to the core.
Two guards flanked the door, both armed with rifles slung across their chests. Their attention bounced between Rachel and Carver, uncertain about this new variable in an equation that had been simple moments ago.
"Langley sent me," Carver said, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. "Said she's clammed up. Thought I might have better luck." One of the guards snorted. "She's been real quiet since we brought her in. Barely said a word."
"That's usually when they're thinking hardest." Carver took a step closer to Rachel's chair, his tone more clinical now. "She was embedded with SEALs. Knows their tactics, their training. That makes her dangerous." He paused. "And valuable."
The second guard crossed his arms, his rifle shifting against his chest. "So what, you're the interrogation specialist now?"
"I get results," Carver said flatly. "But I need room to work. Space to build rapport." His gaze flicked to the guards. "Can't do that with an audience."
The first guard shook his head. "Langley's orders. We don't leave her alone. Not for anything."
A beat of silence passed.
