Jackson gave a slow nod, but his gut stayed tight. Avery wouldn’t sit back for long.
And that scared him more than the Brotherhood itself.
When Avery came out of the bathroom, she looked different. The jeans fit well, the boots sturdy, and the black tee hugged her just enough to show her shape. The change wasn’t just in the clothes, though. She carried herself straighter, steadier. For a moment, Jackson thought she could have passed for one of their own. A Crossfire Ops operative.
Noah gave her a quick nod. “Good. Let’s move.”
He led them down the main hall into the operations room. The space was a blur of motion, filled with the hum of computers and the low voices of techs and operatives calling out updates. Screens lined the walls, each one showing live feeds, maps, and scrolling data.
At the far side of the room, Isla Prescott glanced up from her station. She had a pencil tucked in her messy bun, and her shirt readSarcasm: My Superpower. Her fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.
“Hey, boss,” her tone all business, “the image the kidnappers sent had some background noise. I cleaned it up and ran it through enhancement filters.”
She pointed at the large monitor behind her. The photo of the hostages appeared—Riley and Megan, sitting on the concrete floor of a dim room.
“There’s reflection here.” Isla circled a faint glimmer in the upper corner of the image. “Metal siding, maybe corrugated. And this shadow on the right looks like the edge of a feed trough. My guess is an old storage barn or a feed warehouse.”
Noah studied the image, his arms folded. “You have potential coordinates?”
“Working on it,” Isla said, eyes never leaving the screen. “I’m cross-referencing locations that match those materials and light patterns. I’ll have a list in five.”
“Good,” Noah said. He turned to one of the nearby operatives. “Get eyes out there right away. Drones, patrols, whatever we can spare.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said and hurried off.
Jackson watched the feed as Isla worked. For the first time since the call came in, he felt a flicker of something that wasn’t anger. It was focus.
They finally had a direction.
The room was alive with noise. Keyboards clacking, voices calling out updates, the low buzz of equipment. Then one of the techs, a young guy named Ethan, lifted his head. “Incoming call,” he said. “Unknown number. It’s routed through a burner.”
Noah was beside him in seconds. “Patch it through.”
The speakers filled with static before a distorted voice came on the line. It was low and warped, impossible to tell gender or age.
“Crossfire Ops,” the voice said. “You’re not taking us seriously.”
Noah’s jaw tightened. “You have our attention. What do you want?”
There was a pause, a faint crackle in the background, maybe machinery. “We’ve decided to raise the stakes. The woman, Avery Hastings, has twelve hours to turn herself in. Otherwise, the hostages die.”
Jackson felt Avery go still beside him.
Noah leaned closer to the console. “You harm one of my people, and I’ll make sure there’s nowhere on this planet you can hide.”
The voice gave a soft, distorted laugh. “You think you’re in control. You’re not. And since you’re stalling, we’ve added an incentive.”
Jackson’s gut went cold. “What kind of incentive?”
The line clicked. A moment later, Isla’s computer pinged with an incoming file. She opened it, and the image filled the big screen at the front of the room.
It was a man, tied to a chair, his face swollen and bloodied.
Avery’s breath caught. “Oh God.”
Jackson stared at the photo, a jolt of shock running through him. What the hell? Even through the bruises and blood, he recognized the man.
Mick Barker.
