Page 26 of Crossfire Creek Siege

“After going through thousands of files, cross-checks, and data pulls,” Noah said, voice gravel-rough from fatigue, “these are the three most likely suspects. And before anyone says it, yes, Dr. Corrine Astor and I have a history.”

The air tightened.

“It ended badly,” he went on, his tone flat but hard. “After I found out she used me. Used Strike Force and Maverick Ops. She wanted details on an operation we were running, intel she could sell. She fed that information to a silent business partner.”

He paused, and the silence in the room was absolute.

“That intel got her partner killed,” Noah said, the words edged with something that might have been old grief. Or fury held in check. “And it got one of our operatives killed, too.”

Gage’s hand curled into fists under the table. He knew better than to speak when Noah was holding himself together by sheer will, but every instinct in him burned for payback. If Corrine Astor was behind last night’s attack, then she wasn’t just a disgraced shrink.

She was a traitor who’d just declared war on Crossfire Ops.

Noah picked up the remote and tapped a button. The photo of Corrine expanded across the center monitor, her file opening beside it. Her face was sharp and polished, with a confident smile, the kind of woman who’d been used to commanding attention on camera.

“Corrine Astor,” Noah said, his tone clipped and professional now. “Age forty-two. Doctorate in Clinical Psychology from Stanford. Undergraduate at Georgetown. Former Air Force consultant, rank of major before she went civilian. After that, she built a reputation in trauma and performance psychology. Media appearances, speaking tours, multiple government contracts.”

He paused, his gaze fixed on her picture. “She comes from old money. The Astors have been East Coast elite for generations, but Corrine wanted her own empire. She nearly had it—book deals, think-tank consulting, the works—until she leaked classified intel from a joint mission.”

Gage swore under his breath. He remembered the fallout. Operators pulled from the field, cover identities burned, one of Noah’s men dead. The whole thing had shaken Maverick Ops and Strike Force to its core.

Noah continued, voice low. “She lost everything. License revoked. Contracts terminated. Blacklisted from government work.” He tapped the remote again, bringing up a line of smaller photos, public appearances, gala shots, headlines. Dr. Corrine Astor: The Mind Behind Elite Warriors. Scandal and Betrayal: The Psychologist Who Crossed the Line.

Gage’s jaw tightened. “So she went from TV spots and TED Talks to nothing.”

“Nothing,” Noah agreed. “And people like her don’t live with nothing for long.”

Rena leaned forward, her voice steady but cold. “Then she had a score to settle.”

Gage nodded, eyes still on Corrine’s picture. Her confident smile seemed to mock them through the screen.

“Did she go to jail for it?” Rena asked. “Leaking intel that got people killed, seems like that should’ve earned her some time behind bars.”

Noah shook his head. “No. What she did wasn’t technically a criminal offense.” His voice was flat, the words forced out like they tasted bad. “She didn’t sell state secrets. She leaked strategic details, enough to compromise the mission but not enough for a federal charge. The fallout was administrative, not criminal.”

“So she got to walk away,” Gage snarled.

“Yeah.” Noah’s eyes still locked on the monitor. “But she didn’t walk away clean. She lost everything. And she blames me for it.”

A low silence settled over the table. The kind that felt heavy with unspoken things.

Across from Gage, Sheriff Arden Chase checked her watch, then looked up. “I’ve got her interview scheduled for an hour from now.” Her tone was brisk, businesslike, but there was a steel edge to it.

Gage was glad to hear that. Maybe that would rattle Corrine enough to slip up, to show her hand before she had a chance to hide it again.

Noah clicked the remote, and Corrine Astor’s image faded, replaced by the next photo, a hard-eyed man with a scar bisecting his jawline. The name beneath it read Brady Halden.

“Halden,” Noah said, turning slightly toward the room. “Thirty-eight. Former special tactics operator. Once part of a Crossfire-affiliated mission.”

Across the table, Cal Granger leaned forward, shaking his head. “Yeah, I remember him. We ran ops in Syria together, years back. Smart guy. Good trigger discipline, better instincts, but he was always a little too convinced he knew better than command.”

Garrett McCall grunted. “You’re putting that mildly. Brady thought every order was optional. Got people hurt more than once.”

Noah’s jaw ticked. “His team was disavowed mid-mission. Intel compromise. Extraction window closed before they could be pulled. Crossfire had to cut ties to protect the larger network.”

Gage frowned. “Left to die?”

“That’s what he believes,” Noah said evenly. “But he and two others survived. He spent four months off-grid before resurfacing under a new identity.”