What would he do with his hatred of me if I touched him? What if I dug my fingers into the tension in his shoulders? Would he be scared? Would he punch me? Did I care either way?
If he made me bleed, would I make him bleed in return?
“If a victim is held, what do you want me to do?” I was curious what he would say. His priority was always the innocents, and what I’d asked was a legitimate tactical question, not a puzzle for him to solve, even if he frowned at me.
“Prioritize the kids,” he said finally.
I frowned. “That wasn’t the question.”
Caleb full-on snarled at me. “Just get rid of whoever’s holding them, find me someone to get intel from, and don’t hurt the kids, you fucking serial killer.”
Oh, there was so much wrong in that sentence. “I don’t hurt kids,” I reassured him. “Or animals. I don’t torture for curiosity or escalate for pleasure, and I don’t kill without purpose.” I cleared my throat. For a second, something flickered at the edges of my control—a thin, quiet thread of doubt, almost like static. “Most people assume I’m a psychopath, but true psychopaths don’t bother with rules, and I don’t lose control.” The words hung a little off balance, more uncertain than I meant. He blinked at me. I found myself wishing I could be sure of that last part, for a second. Hmmm. Maybe explaining serial killers wasn’t a thing I should be doing right now.
I watched his eyes darken and narrow, his mouth flattening into a hard line before he turned back to the screen. Was that horror? Anger? Disgust?
Recognition?
I straightened, stepping back enough to give him some room.
“Five adults,” he repeated, returning to logistics.
Okay, I could do that—ignore the moment and focus on the work. “One minute from breach to clear,” I said, and tugged zip ties from the pocket of my combat pants. “Maybe less, or more if they resist intelligently.”
“Jesus, it’s not fucking intelligent to use a kid as a shield.”
I stared at him, noting the way his skin reddened. Anger, probably.
“Ready?” Levi asked, interrupting my staring, analyzing, and stopping Caleb from doing whatever he was about to do next. Shame. I liked it when that perfect pulse quickened. “Novak?”
I didn’t need to check my weapons, but I did anyway. The Glock 19, fifteen in the magazine and one already chambered, sat familiar and solid in my hand, customized trigger breaking clean, night sights filed to my preference, the same weapon I carried every time because reliability mattered more than novelty. I’d lifted it off a Southside gang lieutenant three years ago after he’d tried to put a round through my spine; he was now sealed in concrete at the bottom of the Pacific, and the gun had better discipline than its former owner ever had. Two spare mags at my back, a fixed-blade knife at my spine, compact suppressor in the kit if we needed quiet entry.
Caleb exhaled slowly and refocused on the screens. “I can delay the system alert once,” he said. “After that, they’ll know.”
“Then we don’t give them time to think,” Levi replied.
He nodded once.
I stepped out of the van with defined objectives. Remove obstacles. Extract kids. Try to keep either Skinny or Ballcap alive.
Through the van’s open doors, I could still see Caleb in profile, lit by screens, jaw tight, hands precise.
The pull in my chest remained.
I didn’t understand it.
But again, I couldn’t ignore it.
The property was set a mile back from the main road, surrounded by barbed wire and cameras. The security was expensive and deliberate, given the motel was ancient and crumbling, which was why Caleb was there—after all, he was only here for the ones where security needed to be breached. It took us twenty minutes to get close, winding our way through security zones, with Caleb manipulating whatever he could.
“Levi, Doc, rear corridors clear. Three targets are seated in a room off the front entrance. One in the bathroom.”
Levi checked his weapon and moved first. Doc followed, already focused on the west wing entrance Caleb had isolated on the map. I took the front approach, shifting slightly left to control the primary sightline into the space that had once been reception, the faded signs in the window readingcash only.
“Sixty seconds,” Caleb said evenly.
The front door opened at his signal. The first guard looked up from a ratty sofa, confusion registering too late. I shot him through the throat before he could rise. The second reached for his weapon; I put a round through his shoulder, then another through his eye as he fell. The third exited the bathroom, pants around his ankles, shouting a warning that never finished when I shot him off-center in the neck and closed the distance, ending it with a round to the back of his head.
Levi’s voice came sharp through the comm. “We’re by the room.”
