My eyes must go dinner-plate sized as I search for my keys, racing outside.
Icy rain pelts me, halfway to hail. And my teeth chatter, eyes blinking against the chill and wet. I race to one side, checking the cabin.
Fine. Built atop rock. I see it now, the surrounding dirt likely washed out years before in another downpour just like this.
But my Jeep has no such luck. Angry rivers of rain hammer into it, washing away the mountain’s edge.
“No,” I scream, though there’s no one here to listen.
I race for the vehicle and immediately lose my footing. Mud sweeps my legs out from under me, dragging me downhill hard enough to rip a scream from my throat before the Jeep catches me with a groan of shifting metal.
Mud, water, branches, rock—the mountain comes alive beneath me. My hands grip then slip, my footing gone. Everything turns cold as I gasp and fight for balance.
Until something stops the swirl. Arrests the downhill sweep. Thick and strong like iron, it grips me, pulling me away from the current.
I fall onto the ground on top of him, against a body cut from rock. A chest heaving hard beneath me, breath fast and unmistakably alive.
I wipe my eyes, fighting back streams of rainwater. Another clap sounds overhead, then a burst of light so vibrant I feel struck.
“Inside,” a low voice barks.
A command. Like a Marine.
“No,” I shout, the entire world suddenly dark as night, though it’s early afternoon. “The Jeep.”
I start toward it, but he stops me, hand gripping my upper arm. “Leave it.”
In helpless agreement, I watch the vehicle slide away, further with each surge of water. Hail slams against my face. My skin stings, and my eyes fight to stay open.
Another burst of thunder rips through me. Then a crash of bright light. No lines or threads. Too close to measure. The hair on my arms lifts as fear crashes through me.
“Inside,” the man repeats.
I freeze.
He frowns.
Then, he sweeps me over his shoulder and sprints for the cabin. My teeth clatter, body jarring against him.
The door squeaks. Then slams shut.
He sets me down unceremoniously and retreats into the darkest corner, face grim, eyes cast to the ground.
But he’s not hiding—he’s choosing distance.
That feels far more dangerous.
I stand there shell-shocked and shaking. Cold rain drips from my clothes. The silence between us feels bigger than the storm outside.
Because that face.
God, I’d recognize him anywhere.
Sergeant Rhys Ward.
Phoenix’s commanding officer. The man I’ve spent two years believing abandoned my brother and his team.
The question remains: why?
