Page 11

Axel

T he conference room wasn’t much—just a spare cabin with a whiteboard, a folding table, and a whole lot of dangerous men hunched over maps and camera footage.

I stood at the head, with Rush, Turner, Max, and Fraiser flanking me like chess pieces waiting for orders.

And there she was—Lark—perched on the edge of the table like she belonged. Fierce. Unshaken.

“Whoever this guy is,” I said, pointing to the freeze-frame, “he’s trained. Efficient. And escalating.”

Turner nodded. “He’s making this personal. We flip that. Make it his mistake.”

Rush grinned. “So we set bait.”

“No.” The word snapped out before I even thought.

“Yes,” Lark said, raising her hand.

Every head turned to her.

“I’m the reason he’s here,” she said calmly. “I know how he thinks. He used to message me all the time. I thought it was a stalker, and maybe he is. I can draw him out.”

My eyes locked on hers. “You are not going in as bait.”

“You’ll be watching, right?” she asked, voice softer. “Bravo can go with me.”

“You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

“No,” she said, “but I know what I’m capable of. And I trust you to back me up.”

Silence stretched. Frasier finally cleared his throat. “She’s got guts.”

Turner added, “And she’s not wrong.”

I looked from them… back to her.

Her chin lifted. Daring me to shut her down again.

I exhaled, tension crawling up my spine. “We do this my way. Controlled location. Emergency override. Full surveillance.”

“And a safe word,” Rush added with a wink.

Lark smirked. “How about Eggs ?”

I groaned. “This is going to kill me.”

She bumped her shoulder into mine. “Just don’t miss your shot, soldier.”

We picked an abandoned fire watch cabin on the far ridge. Perfect location. Remote. Open lines of sight. Minimal exits.

I watched her through the scope as she walked up the cabin steps. Hair tied up. A camera clipped visibly to her belt. Just a curious storm chaser logging footage.

She wasn’t alone.

We had her wired.

I was in a sniper nest two hundred yards out.

Turner and Fraiser were at the perimeter.

monitored the access trail.

Sunset crawled in.

The wind stirred the trees.

And then—

Rush Turner: Movement. Half mile out. He’s circling.

I adjusted my scope. “Eyes on?”

Frasier: Negative. He’s good. But he’s close.

Lark sat on the porch, sipping from a thermos like it was just another day in the woods.

My grip tightened on the rifle.

Come on, bastard. Show yourself.