No one spoke. There was nothing to say.
"This isn't just about territory anymore." Tank's voice dropped, went cold in a way I'd never heard from him. "This isn't about drug shipments or federal corruption or even Cross. This is personal. They took my brother from me. They're trying to take Tyler's people. They've got Kai's name on a fucking kill list." He looked around the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "Whatever we do next, I'm in. All the way. Until every last one of them pays for what they've done."
"Then we make them pay." Hawk nodded slowly. "Starting with Sarah Reyes. We get her out. We keep her alive. And then we use what she knows to burn this whole network to the ground."
I stepped away to make my calls, finding a quiet corner of the room while the others bent over maps and started planning contingencies.
Three contacts. Two voicemails. One answer. Maggie Jones was a clerk in the U.S. Marshals Service who'd fed me information during the Chen case. She owed me for keeping her name out of the final report. When I explained what I needed, there was a long pause.
"You're asking me to risk my career. My freedom."
"I'm asking you to help me save a woman's life."
Another pause. Then: "Transport leaves Pendleton at 06:00. Route 395, I-15 southwest toward a private facility near Barstow. Two marshals in the vehicle, plus the driver. But Tyler—there's more."
"More?"
"Additional security requested. Private contractors—off the books. The paperwork says 'enhanced protection due to credible threats,' but I've seen this before. It's cover. They're bringing in outside muscle to make sure she doesn't survive the trip."
Cross's Wolves. The ones who'd mobilized tonight. They'd be there in the morning, riding alongside the transport, waiting for their moment.
"How many?"
"I don't know. The request just said 'appropriate force.' Could be four, could be twelve. Whatever it is, they're planning to make sure she doesn't reach Barstow alive."
"Thank you, Maggie."
"Don't thank me. Just make sure she lives. And Tyler?" A pause. "Don't ever call this number again."
The line went dead. I walked back to the table, where the others were hunched over a map of the region. "Route 395 south, then east on the 15 toward Barstow. Transport leaves at 06:00. Two marshals, one driver—but they've got outside contractors joining the escort. Private muscle. Probably Cross's people."
Hawk looked up. "How many?"
"Unknown. Could be a handful, could be a small army."
"Then we bring our own army." Hawk's finger traced the route on the map. "There's a stretch of road about forty miles south of Pendleton. Desert on both sides, minimal traffic, blind curves. If we're going to hit them, that's where we do it."
"The marshals are just doing their job," I cautioned. "Non-lethal if possible."
"Agreed. We take them down clean, restrain them, and disappear with Sarah before anyone knows what happened." Hawk looked around the table. "But the contractors—Cross's people—they knew what they signed up for. No mercy."
The planning continued into the night. Routes memorized, weapons checked, roles assigned. I worked alongside the others, the tactical part of my brain fully engaged while the rest of me cycled through fear and determination and the gnawing awareness that we were about to assault a federal transport with barely any preparation.
But underneath all of it was something else. Tank, across the room, methodically checking weapons with hands that never trembled. Tank, who'd just learned his brother was murdered and was pushing through it because someone else needed saving. Tank, who'd looked at me in the parking lot and saidafterlike it was a promise. I'd meant what I told him. When he was ready to fall apart, I'd be there.
But first, we had to survive the dawn.
11
EXTRACTION
TANK
The desert before dawn was a study in shades of gray. I crouched behind a rock outcropping forty miles south of Pendleton, watching the road curve through the emptiness below. The sky had just begun to lighten along the eastern horizon—a thin line of pale gold bleeding into the darkness, promising a sun that wouldn't rise for another twenty minutes. Cold air bit at my exposed skin, carrying the smell of sage and dust and the faint chemical tang of the highway.
Danny would have hated this.
The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp as a blade. My brother had never been a morning person—used to complain that anything before noon was an offense against nature. I'd dragged him out of bed for a hundred early rides, watched him stumblethrough coffee and curse the sun until the engine vibration finally woke him up.
