Ranger came through the comms next. “Already outside. Smoke’s with me.”
I hadn’t even known Smoke was back. I barely knew what day it was.
Ghost: “I’m in the woods. One target’s flanking. Masked. Light footed. Not Watcher.”
Cap: “Don’t engage yet. I want eyes before we hit back.”
I pressed my back harder into the cabinet behind me. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I tried to press my palms together, tried to breathe, but it felt like my ribs were made of stone.
Wrecker turned back to me, crouched low, and cupped my face gently, like I was glass, and he knew I might break.
“Hey. With me. Don’t drift. Right here.”
I dragged in a breath. It caught halfway. “This is my fault.”
His brow furrowed.
“They came for me. Again. It’s because of me?—”
“No.” His voice was sharp, not with anger—just final. “They came for all of us. You just woke them up.”
He let that hang for a beat. Let me absorb it.
The ring underestimated this club.
They weren’t going to make that mistake again.
The comms crackled again. Ghost: “Moving in. Confirm two shooters. Low-level militia, not trained hitters.”
Wrecker shifted, reaching for the door handle, then froze.
Boots.
Heavy, quick steps outside the garage.
He signaled me without looking. Flatten down, stay quiet.
I slid lower, heart punching my ribs.
Then—
The door exploded inward.
A masked man charged in, rifle raised.
I screamed.
Wrecker slammed me behind him with one arm and charged.
No hesitation.
The man fired. Missed.
Wrecker tackled him into the tool bench, the crash loud enough to wake the whole block. Metal flew. Tools scattered. Wrecker drove his elbow into the guy’s throat, then slammed his head into the concrete floor once, twice, until he dropped.
The man didn’t move again.
Wrecker stood over him, chest heaving, shaking from adrenaline. His knuckles were split. Blood smeared across his vest.
