The screen winked on in a flash of blue light, Blackridge’s logo positioned in the center, the cursor blinking in a login box beneath it. Off to the side, a timer started counting down, his window quickly closing.
Coulter typed in the password Troy had given him, watched the cursor spin before the screen faded into the company’s server desktop, rows of folders lining the right side. He scrolled through the names, looking for the right file only to stop on the one titledOperation Bralorne.
A cold sweat slicked his skin, dread punching him low in the gut as he clicked the icon — opened the contents.
Dead.
That’s how he felt.
Hollowed out as he stared at the images plastered across the screen. Neve’s team frozen in time-stamped frames, the earliest taken six weeks before the incident. What looked like pictures from a telephoto lens, maybe a drone.
He traced his finger along the curve of her jaw, guilt slamming into him like a fist. The lost time. The broken promises. How he’d finally realized she meant more to him than the endless deployments.
That it was time to make her, his priority.
He closed his eyes, let the pain sharpen into a razor’s edge. That fine line between vengeance and justice. He clicked through more images, cataloging the files — maps and grid lines, communication frequencies, aerial photos of the Bralorne area, a large circle drawn around one choke point.
He slipped a thumb drive into one of the slots, dragged the files over as he ran through more reports, stopping when he found a list of operators, various medical stats overlaying their photos.
He scanned down the file, located the name Troy had mentioned in his note.
Peter Ramsey.
Founder of Blackridge Security and Troy’s boss. The guy was former JTF2 — had served twelve years before being discharged under claims of ethical violations. Troy had discovered financial discrepancies while preforming a routine audit of the legal side of Ramsey’s business — uncovered the dark half the man had hidden away.
And Ramsey had killed him for it.
Coulter stared at Ramsey’s face. Studied the lines and shadows until he knew he’d be able to ID the guy from nothing more than a glance, so that when the time came, he’d take the shot.
No hesitation.
No remorse.
Neve’s voice whispered in his ear like a damn angel on his shoulder. Reminding him of his oath. His honor. But morality had a way of bleeding out. Dying, just like she had.
The computer pinged, the sound jerking him back. He removed the drive, tucking it in his pocket as he shut everything down — replaced the chair. The images looped inside his head, Troy’s words mixing in.
Someone paid Ramsey millions to hunt them. I don’t know why. I don’t know who. But this proves it wasn’t an accident. Find out and finish this.
Coulter tapped the drive through his pocket. While he didn’t have all the answers, he had enough to start — to take the hunt to Ramsey.
He tamped down the rage burning beneath his skin as he listened at the door before slivering it open. An uneasy silence enveloped the floor, the occasional noise bleeding through. Proof Coulter wasn’t alone.
Footsteps tapped nearby, a radio crackling out a blast of static before it cutoff. Coulter froze, listening for movement — stepping back inside and closing the door when the hairs on his neck prickled. He slid behind the door, his Sig palmed in his left hand, tactical knife within reach.
Shadows moved past the frosted window, disappearing off to the left. Silence hung heavy in the air, every sense dialed in.
A scuff, then the door busted open, nearly slamming into his head as it bounced off his forearm, swung back. Two men in black gear barreled in, their steps seemingly carrying them farther than normal.
Coulter slammed the door shut behind him, opting for his KA-BAR as he stepped into the fray, caught one guy in the side, knife slipping between the edges of his vest, sinking into his torso with a wet slap.
His buddy took a swing, missed, stumbling back when Coulter kicked his knee. Bones cracked a second before the guy’s leg buckled — dropped him onto the floor with a dull thump.
The first asshole hissed out a breath as he teetered on his heels, shaking his head, then lunging forward, throwing punches as if the knife had simply glanced off him. His partner recovered, joining in, using that leg despite the way his kneecap pointed to the right. What looked like an obvious dislocation.
Coulter countered their strikes, landing punches that would cripple other men, cursing when they simply bounced off. He ducked low, took a crushing blow to his ribs, his next breath hissing out on a wheeze.
He shoved down the pain, managed to beat them back — open up a bit of space. He flipped the knife, tossed it, pegging one asshole in the neck. The guy’s breath hitched, mouth gaping open as he lurched back, folded onto the slick floor. His partner didn’t blink, reaching for his weapon as Coulter drew his Sig, downed him with a double tap to the head.
