Breakneck’s gut tightened.
He knew, knew, he should have gone straight to Ice. But he didn’t, and that was the first sign that this was going to bite him in the ass.
When he walked into the briefing room an hour later, the first person he saw was Iceman, and Ice was living up to his name.
Before Breakneck even reached the table, Ice surged out of his seat, closing the distance like a goddamn missile, getting right up in Breakneck’s face as the guys started filing in.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Ice growled, voice low and lethal, his eyes like chips of sleet.
The room froze.
Boomer stepped up beside them, eyes flicking between their faces. “What’s going on?” His voice was subdued, and Breakneck realized with a sick jolt that Boomer thought Ice knew about last night.
“Go sit your ass down,” Ice snapped. The tone was so sharp it cut the air in half. Every man in the room obeyed instantly, scraping chairs as they found seats without a word.
Ice didn’t look away from Breakneck. “Well,” he said quietly, icy contempt dripping off every syllable, “you cocky little bastard.”
Breakneck lifted his chin. “I was approached, and it sounds right up my alley.”
Ice’s jaw flexed once, hard. “Does it?”
Breakneck shut his mouth. He swallowed the retort sitting on his tongue. “I’m sorry, boss,” he managed.
Ice laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Don’t give me that shit. It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”
Ice pointed at the far end of the table. “Go. Take a seat.”
Breakneck did. The weight of Boomer’s gaze made him want to shrink inside. Yeah, he was glad he was getting out of town for a while, and taking a solo gig was perfect.
But for the first time in his life, the weight of Ice’s disappointment felt heavier than any punishment.
3
Backcountry near Kamloops, British Columbia
The storm was rolling in fast, a low bruise on the horizon smearing purple over the tree line. She and her two colleagues had left Wilderness Interdiction & Logistics Division or WILD Headquarters, tucked deep in Tranquille Valley just outside Kamloops, a rugged spread of timber buildings, paddocks, and training grounds carved straight into the wilderness, far enough from town for secrecy, close enough for the Mounties to matter.
The wind carried the scent of rain and pine pitch, and Royal Canadian Mounted Policewoman, Sergeant Blair Brown, leaned low over Jet Relevé’s thick neck as the black gelding thundered over the rough trail.
“Easy, Rev,” she murmured as branches whipped past. “Find me the trail.” This wasn’t any ordinary horse, and not even a typical Mountie horse. Blair smiled softly. God, when she’d found him, he’d been tied to a tree, starving, severely underweight, injured, dehydrated, and so aggressive toward men that two of her colleagues refused to go near him. But there had been something else in this magnificent creature, something trauma hadn’t been able to touch, his spirit. It had burned through the ruin of his body, bright and defiant, unyielding. She’d seen it in the fiery gaze he’d shot at her that day, the proud way he’d lifted his head despite the pain, the way he’d quivered when he saw her, as if some instinct inside him recognized something in her and reached back.
A lot of people liked to say she’d broken him to her will, but Blair knew better. Jet Relevé didn’t belong to anyone. He had chosen her because of that moment, because she saw him when no one else did, because she understood what an unbroken spirit looked like even when the body failed, because she carried her own quiet history of being pushed past breaking and still finding the strength to rise, the way a dancer rises after the fall.
Her colleagues thought she’d trained him into submission, that she’d shaped him into something useful, but Blair had nothing to do with Jet becoming part of their division. He chose her, and because of her, he chose service.
Jet snorted, ears flicking forward, muscles gathering under her like coiled lightning. The horse had a sixth sense for disturbance, broken underbrush, old scent trails, the shift of ground where someone had run instead of walked.
“Sarge,” Constable Jake Holmstein shouted over the engine whine, “slow up, we don’t have eyes on the drop yet.” He and her other colleague, Constable Malcolm Tyler, struggled to keep up on ATVs.
“Then get eyes faster, Beef,” she shot back. “They’ve been missing six hours already.” Irritation and fondness tangled in her tone. “I told you horses would be faster. You and Tyler needed Sundance and Blue. They know their way around here.”
Holmstein cursed under his breath, and Tyler chuckled. “She has a valid point, eh.”
“You were right, but you bucked the Superintendent’s orders.”
“He was misinformed,” was all she said. Superintendent Matthew Darrow, arrogant, self-serving, polished, a social and professional climber with the charm of a man who hated being second-guessed, but in Blair's opinion, his calls were often…misinformed. She knew that from firsthand experience. He had once been her partner, her mistake, her disappointment. He would never be in charge of her again, and her trust was now reserved for men who didn’t get to where they were on her back.
Blair didn’t wait. She trusted Jet, and he trusted her. He had more integrity than many men she knew. That was enough.
