Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
A flicker of something warm moves over her face—surprise, maybe. Or something softer.
Then she looks away, because this isn’t the time to melt into anything.
We’re standing in a broken room with enemies we can’t see.
I pull my phone out and text the brothers’ thread.
ME: lab got ransacked. not a random break-in. they’re after Willow’s program. MPs got nothing.
It lights up instantly.
MACK: names.
SIN: any security footage?
BANKS: is she okay??
JACE: you need backup?
COLT: keep her off-grid. treat everyone as a suspect until proven otherwise.
I don’t answer yet. My eyes are on Riley as she carefully picks up a ruined notebook, fingertips brushing the bent cover like it’s a wounded animal.
She looks small for the first time since I met her.
That doesn’t sit right with me.
My phone buzzes again.
Not a text.
A call.
Nash.
I answer. “What’s up?”
“Crewe,” Nash says, voice tighter than usual. Less joking. More serious. “You got a minute?”
“Make it quick.”
There’s a pause. Then: “I took a job.”
I frown. “What kind of job?”
“Security,” he says. “Private.”
My shoulders go rigid. “Why?”
“Because they came to me,” he says, voice low. “And because they’re going after Dad.”
The world narrows.
Riley glances over at me, immediately reading the shift in my face.
“Dad’s dead,” I say automatically. It’s not a denial. It’s the truth I’ve lived with for years.
“That’s what we thought,” Nash replies. “But Maddox Security thinks… he might not be.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Say that again. Maddox Security?”
“They’ve got intel,” Nash says. “Something old. Something that didn’t add up back then. They think he’s alive, Crewe. And in trouble.”
Every muscle in my body goes still.
Maddox Security. I’ve heard the name. Enough to know they don’t chase ghosts without reason.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, keeping my voice level because Riley’s watching and I won’t bleed this into her panic.
Nash exhales. “I’m saying… I’m in. They’re forming a team. They want me because of what I know, and because I’ve got a reason to care.”
I stare at the shattered lab and feel the ground tilt under my feet.
Because suddenly, everything feels connected in the way bad things connect—threads you don’t see until they tighten around your throat.
Riley’s program. The sabotage. The threats. A shadow organization. And now my brother telling me Dad might still be alive?
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Can’t say on an open line,” Nash replies. “But I needed you to know.”
I swallow, forcing air into my lungs. “We’ll talk when I get Riley secured back at the safe house.”
“Yeah?” Nash says, voice softer. “You staying with her?”
My eyes flick to Riley. She’s watching me carefully now, worry sharpening her features. She’s trying not to ask.
I lower my voice. “I’m keeping her alive.”
Nash huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I asked, brother.”
“Later,” I say. “I’m serious. Later.”
“Fine,” Nash replies. “But, Crewe?”
“Yeah.”
“Be careful. If this is bigger than her lab… it’s bigger than you think.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a beat, phone still against my ear, jaw clenched.
Riley steps closer, her voice soft. “What happened?”
I turn to her, and for a second I let myself just look.
She’s brave. Bright. Terrified and trying not to be.
And someone out there is playing a game with all of us.
“I’ll tell you when we’re out of here,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “Right now, we’re going back to the safe house.”
Her throat bobs. “Crewe…”
I step in, close enough that she can feel the promise in my body language even before my words land. “I’ve got you,” I say. “And I don’t care who’s behind this—nobody gets to take you.”
Her eyes soften, and she nods once. Then she whispers, barely audible, “Okay.”
And in that single word, I feel the weight of everything.
The mission. The woman. The threat.
And the growing suspicion that whatever is coming next is going to hit harder than any storm I’ve ever jumped into.
EIGHT
RILEY
The safe house feels different at night.
Not scary exactly—Crewe has swept every corner and checked every lock like the cabin itself might sprout teeth—but quieter in a way that makes my thoughts sound louder. The wind scrapes at the windows. Snow ticks against the glass like impatient fingers.
Crewe builds a fire and pretends it’s just another task. Like the steady flicker of warmth in the hearth isn’t doing something to my nerves I didn’t realize I needed.
I can’t stop seeing my lab in pieces.
My desk overturned. My monitors smashed. My notes scattered like confetti at a party I didn’t want to attend.
Someone went through my work with intention. Not rage. Not random vandalism.
Hunger.
And now I’m sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the couch, surrounded by old notebooks and folders I grabbed in a blind panic before we left base. My “go bag” looks less like an overnight bag and more like the panic suitcase of a woman who might be having a breakdown but is trying to make it productive.