I cross the room and stand beside the bed. The red light from the clock casts harsh shadows across her face. The bruising along her jaw from the evasion is darkening. The exhaustion is written into the pale lines of her skin.
I trace the line of her cheekbone with two fingers, mapping the soft, warm skin. I memorize the absolute quiet of the room, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the sheer, undeniable reality of her survival.
She shifts, turning her face into my palm, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
Every instinct I have screams at me to stay. To drop the gear, get back in the bed, and let Frost handle the war. To let Guardian HRS shield us while we fade into the background.
The broker won't stop. He'll send kill squads until his money runs dry or his heart stops beating.
Addy deserves better than living the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She isn't meant for a cage, even a gilded one built by Guardian HRS.
My fingers trace her jawline one last time before dropping away. The severing of physical contact feels like tearing a muscle.
The walk to the door takes everything I have.
The deadbolt slides open. The freezing air of the parking lot bites through my damp henley. The heavy door swings shut behind me, the latch clicking into place.
The rain has stopped, leaving the asphalt slick. The neon sign of the motel reflects off the pavement in warped, wavering colors.
I don't have to wait long.
The low, heavy rumble of diesel engines vibrates through the gravel before the headlights sweep over the lot.
Two matte-black Guardian HRS tactical SUVs roll into the motel lot, cutting their lights instantly. The lead vehicle parks horizontal to the motel room, the heavy armored chassis blocking the sightline from the main street. The second vehicle secures the only exit, cutting off any avenue of escape.
Flawless tactical execution.
Four operators step out. Full tactical gear. Suppressed assault rifles held at the low ready. They spread out, securing the perimeter in absolute silence.
Frost steps out of the passenger side of the lead SUV.
He doesn't look like my brother. He hasn't looked like my brother in four years. He looks like the commander of an elite black-ops element. Cold. Precise. Absolute.
He walks toward me, his boots crunching against the wet gravel. He stops five feet away, the tactical distance required for a potential threat.
His eyes sweep over me. He takes in the blood on my tactical jacket, the mud caked into the tread of my boots, the rigid, immovable set of my jaw. He catalogs the sidearm, the knife, the lack of a primary rifle.
He doesn't look past me to the motel door. He knows she's inside.
"Addy's secure?" Frost's voice is completely flat. All business.
"She's asleep." I keep my hands away from my weapons, resting them on my tactical belt. "The drive is uploaded."
Frost nods slowly. "Guess you survived the tornado."
"Guess, you made it to the cellar."
"Barely. The other guys didn't."
"Two of them tracked us," I say, my voice flat. "They survived."
"What happened to them?" Frost's eyes narrow.
"They met their end." I rest my hands on my tactical belt.
Frost studies me. The tension is a physical weight, grinding against my last reserves of patience. He takes in the blood on my jacket, the exhaustion carved into my face.
"You did a good job taking care of her." The admission is quiet. Almost grudging.
