Page 46 of Reaper
Frost flinches, the absolute certainty finally shattering.
"You're the reason he's out there." I poke him again, refusing to back down.
My entire life, men have tried to overshadow me, treating me like I was weak. It's exactly why I became A.D. Hart. I will not let this man intimidate me. Not when Wyatt's life is on the line.
"You're the reason he's going to die. Tell me, is that something you can live with? Or do you have the guts to be the brother he deserves?"
Frost looks down at the piece of paper in his hand. The GPS coordinates stark against the dark shading.
"You can stand by his side and let him live, or you can turn your back on him and let him die." I point to the dark timber line. "I know what an honorable man would do. The question is, do you?"
He looks at the tree line. The silence stretches, heavy and thick, as the truth finally breaks through his armor.
He turns to look at his teammates. Flint, Hawk, Kade, and Riot. They are tier-one operators, strictly loyal to the chain of command.
"She's not wrong, boss." Flint shifts his stance near the lead vehicle.
Frost looks back at me. The tactical commander is gone. The older brother is back, and the look in his eyes is pure, unfiltered violence.
"This isn't a sanctioned op." Frost holds the gaze of his men. "None of you have to come. But if you do, I'm not turning you away. I need one of you to stay with her. We can't leave her alone."
"I've got her overwatch." Hawk steps out of the formation. "Go get your brother."
"Mount up."
The command cuts through the freezing air.
The rest of the team snaps into motion, converging on the lead SUV and leaving the second vehicle parked for Hawk. Doors slam. Weapons are racked. The heavy diesel engine roars, shattering the quiet of the night.
Frost opens the passenger door. He doesn't look back at me. He doesn't have to.
"We're going hunting."
FIFTEEN
The Assault
WYATT
The stolen truck dies two miles from the target. The engine sputters, choked by the dust and the punishing incline of the desert road, before the dashboard goes completely dark.
I don't try to restart it.
I grab my gear, kick the door open, and start walking.
The Sonoran Desert is a graveyard of scrub brush and cracked earth, plunging into freezing temperatures the second the sun drops below the horizon. The wind is a jagged blade slicing through the thin cotton of my shirt. I don't feel the cold. I don't feel the exhaustion dragging at my muscles.
I feel nothing but the singular, burning drive pulling me toward the Ares broker's secondary safe house.
Thirty miles south of the border. Far beyond the reach of federal jurisdiction. Far beyond the red tape of Guardian HRS.
I run a quick inventory as I hike up the steep ridgeline. I have a combat knife strapped to my right thigh. A stolen nine-millimeter sidearm holstered at my hip. A suppressed sniper rifle slung across my back. Forty-six rounds of pistol ammunition, and twelve for the rifle.
I have a heavy plate carrier strapped tight across my chest. What I don't have is a team, flashbangs, or overwatch.
It's exactly the way I operated for four years.
A ghost in the dark.
