Page 56 of Untamed Hunter Daddy

Two in the morning in January. The forest is silent. No birds to read.

“Positions,” Jax says. He’s in tactical command because I’ve got one working arm and a cast on the other. “Brock takes the loading dock. Kane holds the north perimeter and handles the exterior there. I breach through the office entrance on the south side. Ryker.”

He looks at me.

“Overwatch,” I say. The word tastes like compromise. “Hillside behind the complex has a sight line to both the loading dock and the north perimeter. I’ll cover the entry points from above.”

“Your arm.”

“I shoot right-handed. The cast is inconvenient, not disqualifying.”

Jax holds my eyes for a second, then nods. “Overwatch. Don’t be a hero. If Tyler runs, let him run. We’ll catch him in the open. You’re eyes, not action. Copy?”

“Copy.”

We both know I don’t mean it. He gives the order anyway because it belongs on the record.

We deploy into the dark. I climb the hillside behind the complex. Forty feet of steep frozen scree. The cast makes it harder—I can’t grip with my left hand so I use my forearm for balance. Every pressure point sends a protest from the broken bones. I acknowledge it and keep climbing.

At the top I go prone, rifle on bipod, scope at four power. Through the glass I pick up the loading dock and the north face. The perimeter guard is pacing a slow circuit around the northeast corner, rifle slung, radio on his belt. He moves like a man who’s been on this shift for hours and doesn’t expect trouble.

“Overwatch set,” I whisper into the comm. “North perimeter hostile at the northeast corner, moving counterclockwise. Loading dock hostile is inside the bay, seated, looks like he’s on his phone. Clear shots on both.”

“Copy,” Kane says. “I’ve got the north perimeter. On your mark, Jax.”

“Brock, loading dock. Set.”

“Jax, south entrance. Set.” A pause. “Thirty seconds. On my count. Three. Two. One. Execute.”

Everything happens at once.

Kane comes out of the tree line and drops the perimeter guard before the man’s hand reaches his radio. Clean. Silent. Zip ties on in under five seconds.

Brock hits the loading dock. The man on the phone looks up and has half a second to process the shape coming through the bay door.

“US Marshals! Don’t move! Hands where I can see them!”

Four seconds later Brock’s voice is on the comm. “Dock clear. One in custody. Moving to interior.”

Jax breaches the south entrance. The door goes with a sharp crack of forced entry.

“Federal officers! Nobody moves! Hands up!”

Through the scope the exterior stays clear. No runners. No reinforcements from the outbuildings. The operation is going by the book, which usually means the thing that goes wrong hasn’t happened yet.

Then Jax’s voice changes.

“Office is empty. Repeat, office is empty. The two signatures from the southwest aren’t here. They’ve moved.”

If those two men have moved toward the hostages, the breach team is walking into a mixed situation. Hostage scenario. The two worst words in the tactical vocabulary.

I abandon the overwatch position.

The record will show I violated the order. I don’t care. The two men who left the office are somewhere in that warehouse with Zoe and five other women, and a weapon is more useful at ground level than on a hillside forty feet away.

I come down the slope too fast. The scree gives way and I slide the last ten feet on my hip. The cast catches on a rock and a lightning bolt of pain turns my vision white for two seconds. I’m up and moving before it clears, running toward the loading dock where Brock has already gone inside.

The warehouse is cavernous and dark. Acoustics turn every sound into a ghost of itself. Brock’s flashlight sweeps left and finds the chain-link enclosure in the back corner. The women are on the ground with their hands visible, following instructions someone gave them before we arrived. Their hands are free. The zip ties are gone.