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)
“I don’t care how,” I say. “Get it.”
Another pause. “Coordinates inbound.”
My phone buzzes again. A pin drops onto my map. A location high in the mountains, off a service road that leads into older training land Ridgeway uses sometimes for cold-weather exercises. It’s remote. Secluded. The kind of place you go when you don’t want to be found.
My vision tunnels. “There,” I breathe.
Chen’s voice is clipped, urgent. “That land isn’t officially active right now, but there are structures—old cabins, an equipment shed, a disused comms tower from a previous range project.”
A comms tower.
My mind snaps through possibilities.
If Hammond is coordinating with Stanton—or worse—he might use that tower to transmit data out.
Or to stage something bigger.
Or to disappear again.
“We’re mobilizing a response team,” Chen says. “Security Forces and a tactical element. You are not going alone.”
I don’t argue.
Not because I agree.
Because I’m already moving.
“I’m gearing up,” I say. “You want Riley alive? You want her out fast? You use me.”
Chen’s voice goes still. “Hawthorne.”
“I’m pararescue,” I say, voice low, steady. “I do recoveries. In storms. In hostile terrain. In bad visibility. Whatever Hammond thinks he’s done, he picked the wrong mountain.”
A beat of silence on the line, then: “Copy. Meet at the ready bay. Ten minutes.”
I’m already running.
The ready bay smells like oil and cold metal and men who don’t ask questions because they don’t need to.
I strap into gear like my body is on autopilot: harness, comms, gloves, the tools I’ve carried into hell and back. My team moves around me, faces grim, eyes sharp. Nobody cracks jokes.
They can see it on me.
They can feel it in the air.
Chen meets me at the edge of the bay, tablet in hand, jaw set. “We have probable cause for Hammond’s involvement with Stanton. Financial transfers. Off-book accounts. He’s been feeding them pieces of the program.”
My vision blurs at the edges. “Pieces,” I repeat, voice tight.
Chen nods. “But he needed the full offline backup. He couldn’t access it without Riley’s physical key and her cooperation. So he took both.”
I swallow hard.
Riley in a van with men.
Riley drugged.
Riley waking up to Hammond telling her this isn’t personal.
My hands tighten on the straps until they creak.
Chen’s voice lowers. “We think Stanton planned to use the rescue platform to hijack drones for targeted sabotage—false-flag attacks. Make it look like Ridgeway assets went rogue.”
Riley’s worst fear.
Weaponizing her work. Turning rescue into harm.
My jaw locks so hard it aches.
Chen studies my face. “Hawthorne, this is an order. You go in with the team. You do not deviate.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Then I add, quieter, the truth I can’t swallow back anymore.
“I’m bringing her home.”
Chen’s gaze holds mine, and for a second the hard Major is gone and it’s just Lexi—someone who’s seen too much loss and doesn’t want another name added to the list.
“I know,” she says softly. Then the steel returns. “You’ll have an insertion option. Terrain is rough. Weather’s still unstable. A ground approach risks being spotted.”
I nod once. “We go in fast. Quiet. Recover and extract.”
“Exactly.” She lifts the tablet. “We’ll stage at the edge of the training land. You’re our best chance of getting to her without them moving her.”
My heart hammers.
Because she isn’t a casualty.
She’s my girl.
And that thought hits me with terrifying clarity.
Not mine like property.
Mine like… love.
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t choose it. It just happened—somewhere between her laughter and her fear, between her hand on my chest and her mouth on mine.
I love her.
And I’m not willing to let her go.
Chen steps closer. “Hawthorne.”
“Ma’am.”
“She’s smart,” Chen says. “She’ll fight. She’ll look for openings. But Hammond has men. He has planning. You stay focused.”
I nod. “Always.”
The team gathers. Radios check. Route brief. The kind of calm organization that keeps people alive.
But my mind is locked on one thing:
Riley’s eyes when she realizes I’m there.
The relief.
The trust.
The way she’ll breathe again.
I slide my helmet on and glance at the map one last time.
The location pin sits like a target.
“Let’s go,” I say.
And as we move—boots hitting concrete, gear clinking, engines starting—one thought beats louder than the storm outside:
Hang on, sweetheart.
I’m coming.
FOURTEEN
RILEY
I wake up groggy. My mouth tastes like cotton, my limbs heavy, head fogged like I’ve been drugged. There’s the faint scent of antiseptic and something else—gasoline?
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead as I blink into consciousness, realizing I’m tied to a metal chair in a room that looks like a makeshift ops center. Monitors line one wall, each with blinking readouts and live feeds from drone cameras.
Then I see him.
Dr. Lyle Hammond.
Standing across the room, arms crossed, brows furrowed like he’s the one in distress.
“You’re awake,” he says, like we’re just catching up over coffee in the breakroom.
My heart breaks in the same moment my stomach turns. “How could you?”
“It wasn’t personal,” he replies, hands splayed in some twisted form of apology. “You know I always respected your work.”