That’s Beau “Shark” Rutledge, one of Cal’s best. Hard eyes. Calm posture. He looks at my face and doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need answers to.
“Sin,” he says, opening my door before I can. “We roll together.”
“Where’s Cal?” I ask.
“On comms,” Shark replies. “He’s coordinating airfield security and local response. He wants Grant breathing.”
I swallow hard. “I want Rowan breathing.”
Shark nods once. “Then we move.”
He hands me a headset. I slip it on.
Cal’s voice comes through immediately. “Sin. You with Rutledge?”
“Yeah.”
“Airfield has minimal staff overnight,” Cal says. “Two guards at the gate. We’ve got a drone up. Van just arrived at hangar three. Plane is a light jet, engines are hot. If it lifts, we shift to pursuit, but we don’t want that.”
“We stop it here,” I say.
“That’s the plan,” Cal replies. “Sin, listen to me. You stay locked. You don’t go feral.”
A rough laugh threatens. I crush it. “No promises.”
“Promise me anyway,” Cal snaps.
I breathe in. “I promise I’ll get her back. That’s it.”
Cal goes quiet for a beat, then his voice steadies. “Go.”
We move as a two-vehicle stack, lights off, sliding down the narrow road that runs parallel to the trees. The airfield appears ahead, a scatter of runway lights and low buildings. Hangars squat in the dark like sleeping beasts.
Shark signals. We stop short of the main gate. Two guards stand under a light, bored, armed. They’re not bored enough.
We approach fast, silent. One guard turns, hand lifting toward his radio. Shark is on him in two steps. A sharp strike to the nerve point under the jaw. The guard drops without a sound. The second guard reaches for his weapon. I slam into him, wrench his arm up, twist hard. The gun clatters. He grunts and goes down on his knees, breath whooshing out of him.
I crouch close, voice low. “Stay down. Breathe. Don’t make this worse.”
His eyes are wide and terrified. He nods frantically. We zip-tie them, drag them behind the booth, and move through the gate.
Cal’s voice in my ear. “Hangar three. You’ve got one minute before they taxi.”
One minute. My body turns into pure function. We cut across the tarmac, staying low, using the shadow line of the hangars. A jet sits ahead with its stairs down, engine whining, lights on. The van is parked beside it.
Two men in dark jackets are at the base of the stairs. One is holding Rowan. Even from this distance, I recognize her. Hood up, hands bound, posture fighting even as they shove her forward.
My vision tunnels. My blood goes hot.
Rowan turns her head, searching, and even in the dim runway glow I see it, the fear she’s trying to bite down.
Then she sees me. Her eyes go wide. My chest tightens so hard it hurts. She tries to move toward me, and the man holding her jerks her back. That’s it. Something in me breaks loose.
I surge forward.
Shark catches my shoulder briefly, grounding me. “Sin. Targets.”
“Rowan,” I growl.
