Page 2 of Crossfire Creek Siege

Their eyes met across thirty feet of empty air.

And the rifle barrel swung toward Gage.

Chapter One

Two Hours Earlier

Rena Calloway paused just inside the hangar doors, blinking against the wash of color and lights. She’d expected stark concrete and steel, maybe the cold smell of oil and gun cleaner.

Instead, the Crossfire Ops training bay looked as if someone had detonated a glitter bomb.

A huge banner of metallic balloons floated overhead, spelling out HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY, LILY in gold and pink. Beneath it, a cake the size of a truck tire dominated a long table. Four tiers of pink frosting, ribbons of silver sparkle, and tall taper candles glowing like runway lights. The battery-powered strands woven through the frosting blinked red and blue, flashing against the sleet-streaked windows.

Pop music thumped from a portable speaker system near the front of the room. Something bouncy and unapologetically teenaged. She recognized the rhythm from the flight line gym, one of those songs with too much bass and not enough melody. The kind of song that made eighteen-year-olds dance and thirty-somethings, like Rena, feel ancient.

Food tables lined the edge of the bay, a mix of military practicality and party excess. Stainless trays held rows of sliders, pigs-in-blankets, and an absurdly neat tower of cupcakes frosted in pink camo swirls. Someone had turned ammo crates into makeshift tables, draped with tulle and fairy lights. Big tubs of ice held sodas and sparkling juice, and the air smelled of sugar and barbecue.

What had once been a training ground for tactical drills now looked like a carnival. The obstacle course—ropes, barrels, foam barricades—had been repurposed into a laser tag arena. The combat dummies wore party hats. Someone had even hung a disco ball from the rappel rig.

Rena caught herself smiling. It was ridiculous.

And kind of perfect.

The smile couldn’t cut through the dull throb behind Rena’s eyes though. The pain had settled into a steady drumbeat, warning her that a migraine might be waiting just around the corner.

Talk about lousy timing.

But then the migraines usually were.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, counting the breath the way the flight surgeon had taught her, and she prayed the pain would level out before even more lights and noise kicked in.

Rena pushed that thought aside, the way she’d learned to push aside a lot of things since the crash. Too bad the memories always made it through any pushing aside she did.

Always.

One second she’d been flying a routine training sortie, the next she was fighting a systems failure at thirty thousand feet and bailing out over the wrong damn stretch of desert in the Middle East. Endless sand, hostile airspace, and no one eager to help a downed American pilot.

Even though it’d scrambled her head for good, the ejection had saved her life. Not that of her Weapons Systems Officer. Not Mack’s life. But that was yet something else she’d have to try to shove aside for tonight.

Movement near one of the equipment bays caught her eye. Ruby Maverick, head of Maverick Ops, stood with her husband, Owen Striker, and Noah Riggs, Rena’s boss and the man who’d taken a chance on her. Private security royalty, all three of them with Ruby head of Maverick Ops. Owen, top dog at Strike Force. And Noah in charge of Crossfire Ops, Rena’s soon-to-be unit.

Well, hopefully her soon-to-be unit anyway.

Making it in Crossfire Ops was a lot like any special forces training. Grueling tests of a person’s limits, weaknesses, and strengths. Rena was still weeks away from finishing.

Ruby, Owen, and Noah were huddled around a section of the hangar cordoned off with hazard tape and a row of heavy-duty tables. Even from a distance, Rena recognized some of the hardware. Next-gen simulation rigs, sleek black consoles threaded with fiber optics and cooling tubes. Prototype drone controllers. A neural-feedback harness that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Experimental gear that wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near civilians, much less a birthday cake.

Apparently, Noah had decided his niece’s party was the perfect excuse to show off. Word around the compound was that she’d insisted on a bash that her friends would never forget. Judging by the look of the equipment and the fact that it was all powered up, Rena had no doubt she’d get her wish.

Footsteps echoed behind her, quick and sure against the polished concrete. Rena turned toward the corridor that connected the hangar to the main Crossfire Ops headquarters building and caught sight of Gage Kellan striding toward her.

He looked as if he’d just stepped off a mission instead of into a party. Olive tee stretched across his shoulders, camo pants tucked into combat boots, sidearm riding his hip like it belonged there. The short hair, the steady gait, all screamed Air Force PJ, a pararescuer. The kind of man built to jump out of perfectly good planes and run straight into hell.

Like her, he was still in training gear. Noah had told them both to stay that way. When she’d asked if she should change into something less… tactical, he’d just smiled and said his niece wanted an authentic training experience. Apparently, having two real operatives, even untested ones, wandering around in uniform added to the effect.

So, here she was with sidearm, tac pants, and a pulse that hadn’t decided if it was excited or just on edge. Her eyes had opted for both of those particular sensations with the added edge of seeing a really hot guy walking toward her.

Seeing Gage hit hard, like always when she saw him. Because that other stuff—the excitement, on edge, reaction to a hot guy—came with the added bonus of the flashback. Just a flicker at first. Smoke. Heat.