Not just a survivor. The man who killed for me. And God help me, I let him.
18
Ghost in the Machine
BOYD
The vibration stops first.
The ceaseless, thumping rhythm of the rotors cuts out, leaving a ringing silence that screams in my ears. The Blackhawk settles onto the concrete pad with a heavy, hydraulic sigh.
We’re down.
I sit on the floor of the cabin, back against the bulkhead. The adrenaline dump is complete. The crash has arrived, absolute and crushing. My body is a dismantled engine reassembled by a blind mechanic. My right arm throbs, a log of pain wrapped in pressure dressings. My ribs feel like ground glass every time I inhale.
But I’m breathing.
And she’s here.
Iris sits across from me. Her parka is ruined, stained with grease and blood. Her hair is matted with soot from the fire. Her face holds gray exhaustion.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. A fighter and a survivor.
The side door slides open. Cold mountain air rushes in, clean and sharp. Pine needles and aviation fuel. Not a storm. Not a battlefield.
“End of the line, meatbag.” Ford “Bronco” Sterling fills the doorway. Bronco is massive, a Viking in a flight suit, his beard bristling around a grin struggling to hide the concern in his expression. He offers a hand the size of a shovel.
“Can you walk, or do I need to carry you like a bride?” Bronco grins.
“I can walk.” I grab his forearm with my good hand.
He hauls me up. My knees buckle, but he takes the weight, steadying me without making a show of it.
We step out onto the tarmac.
We’re at the Ranch. The team’s primary safe house sits tucked deep into the Sawatch Range as a decommissioned radar station converted into a fortress. It operates off the grid, off the maps, and acts as the only place on earth I can rest my head without waiting for an ambush.
The team is already moving.
Dax “Wraith” Calloway is the first one out. The sniper moves like smoke, his rifle bag slung over one shoulder. He scans the perimeter out of force of habit, his scarred face unreadable behind tactical glasses. He nods to me as he passes, a silent acknowledgement of survival.
Silas “Rook” Jensen waits by the hangar doors. The man is a wall of intent, broad shoulders blotting the light, tall enough that the door frame barely clears him. The profiler. Nothing escapes his storm-grey gaze. My stumble registers. He tracks Iris stepping out of the chopper, reading the way she immediately moves to my side, her hand hovering near my elbow, ready to catch me.
“She’s solid.” His voice rolls out low and unhurried, gravel and smoke, a Southern drawl tucked under the words.
“She’s better than solid.” I lean heavily on Bronco. “She’s the reason we’re breathing.”
Hutch brings up the rear. The Chief looks weary. The lines on his face deepened in the last twelve hours. He carries the laptop case like it contains a nuclear football.
“Get him inside.” Hutch points to the doors. “Medical. Then debrief. Cipher’s prepping the war room.”
We move into the hangar.
Blissful, wonderful heat from the floor hits us immediately.
“I need a shower.” I stop walking. “I need to get this filth off me.”
“Medical first.” Iris blocks my path, full doctor mode.
