I close my eyes, physically drained.
For the first time in fourteen months, the data doesn't matter. The audit doesn't exist. There is only the dark, the quiet, and the heavy, fiercely protective weight of the man holding me in the dark.
I sleep a deep, dreamless sleep until the heavy, mechanical crunch of tires on gravel shatters the silence of the cabin.
My eyes snap open.
The pale, gray light of early dawn filters through the frosted glass of the cabin window. The LED lantern on the floor has burned out.
Wyatt is already out of the bed. The devastating intimacy of the night is gone. He stands by the frosted window, dressed in his black tactical pants and heavy combat boots. The canvas jacket is zipped tight over his chest, hiding the scars I mapped with my hands only hours ago. His massive .338 Lapua sniper rifle is slung across his back.
The transformation is jarring. The lover who held me in the dark is gone. He looks exactly like what he is: a ghost. A highly trained weapon forged in the dark, preparing for war.
The low, rumbling idle of a heavy-duty diesel engine vibrates through the floorboards. Multiple car doors slam shut outside.
0600 hours.
The extraction has arrived. Frost is here.
SEVEN
Frost
WYATT
The heavy crunch of thick off-road tires on the gravel access road echoes violently through the freezing cabin. It's the sound of reality crashing back down on us. The isolation is officially over.
I stand by the frosted glass of the single window, my massive .338 Lapua slung tightly across my back. I've been awake for forty-five minutes. Watching the dark tree line.
Waiting for the inevitable arrival of my brother.
The pale gray light of the mountain dawn cuts across the floorboards, illuminating the wreckage of the small room.
It looks exactly like what it is: the aftermath of a violent collision.
My black tactical gear is scattered in a chaotic trail across the wood. The heavy wooden table we used to crack the syndicate network is pushed entirely out of alignment, the chairs kicked aside.
The air still smells faintly of woodsmoke, gun oil, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of sex.
Addy sits up in the narrow bed against the far wall, the rough wool blanket clutched tightly to her bare chest. Her dark hair is a wild, messy tangle falling over her pale shoulders. Her eyes are wide, the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of the long night warring violently with the sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
She looks at me, searching my face for the man who held her in the dark. But he's gone. The ghost is back.
"Shower." My voice drops into a harsh, commanding rasp that offers zero comfort. "Change your clothes. Pack your gear."
"Wyatt—"
"I'll keep them outside."
I don't wait for her to argue. I can't afford the distraction. I turn my back on the narrow bed—the only genuine warmth I've felt in four brutal years—pull the heavy timber door open, and step out onto the wooden porch.
The freezing mountain air hits me, instantly cooling the heat still lingering in my blood.
Two matte-black, heavy-duty armored trucks sit idling in the snowy clearing. The heavy doors open simultaneously. Four men step out into the freezing dirt, moving with the terrifying, lethality of a highly trained assault team.
They don't speak. They don't hesitate. They fan out immediately, securing the perimeter of the cabin in absolute silence. Their weapons are drawn, their eyes scanning the tree line for threats.
Flint. Hawk. Kade. Riot.
