Page 66 of Creeping Lily

JUSTIN

M y phone buzzes against the polished wood of the table, the sound sharp and jarring in the stillness of my room. One glance at the screen is enough to freeze the air in my lungs:

Goliath Priority Alert.

My stomach drops. Goliath doesn’t reach out unless the situation is already circling the drain.

I snatch up the phone, thumb tapping the notification before my mind can catch up. The words spill across the screen, each one colder than the last:

Lily Snow missing. Goliath subject down. Immediate assistance required.

Lily. Missing.

The chair legs scream against the floor as I shoot to my feet. Adrenaline slams into my system, my pulse thundering in my ears. I swipe through to pull up the coordinates—an isolated cabin buried deep in the woods .

I don’t think. I move.

Keys. Jacket. The emergency medical kit I keep prepped for Goliath missions. My hands are already on them before the thought even fully forms. The rest of the world falls away; there’s only the target location and the clock already ticking down.

I pause just long enough to hit speed dial, connecting to a doctor I trust in the underground. My voice is clipped, all business, rattling off the coordinates and what little intel I have.

He doesn’t ask questions. People in our world never do.

Because when Goliath calls, it means someone’s bleeding. And the clock is ticking.

The drive to the cabin is nothing but a blur of headlights and clawing thoughts, each one uglier than the last. Every worst-case scenario plays out in my head, and all of them end with Lily.

The second notification still burns in my mind—Bentley Walker. Lily’s so-called family friend . Goliath’s number one persona non grata. His name alone is enough to tell me this isn’t random. If he’s involved, it’s deliberate, calculated, and dangerous.

That’s the thing about Goliath—explanations are rare, almost nonexistent. They deal in need-to-know, and what you don’t know is usually what kills you. The truth only ever comes in pieces, and only when the damage is already done. And now, there’s another layer: one of ours is down. Who? How bad?

I try to shove the questions aside, but they keep circling like vultures as I push through the streets. Night creeps in, shadows stretching long across the asphalt. I drop the windows, letting the icy wind slice against my face until my skin burns. It helps to keep me sharp.

When I finally pull onto the gravel road, the forest feels wrong. Still. Too still. The kind of quiet that’s listening. My tires crunch over the stones before I cut the engine.

The cabin waits ahead, its windows black and hollow, watching me.

Off to the side, a truck sits abandoned, the driver’s door yawning open like someone ran and didn’t come back.

No lights inside the cabin. No movement.

Just that charged hum in the air—like the moment before a lightning strike—that makes every nerve in me coil tight.

I grab the medical kit from the passenger seat. My other hand goes to the gun at my hip. The sound of cocking the slide is crisp, final.

The front door hangs crooked on one hinge, swaying faintly in the breeze. I push it open with my shoulder, weapon raised. My training’s drilled into me a thousand times, but I’ve never actually pulled the trigger on a living target. Adrenaline floods my system in hot waves.

The smell hits me like a punch—blood, thick and metallic, laced with the bitter tang of charred wood. It’s in the walls, in the floor, clinging to the air like it owns the place.

The light inside is weak, fractured through broken blinds, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. My voice is steady, low, but edged with urgency.

“Anyone here?”

A groan answers from the far corner.

My eyes aren’t adjusted yet, so I reach for the switch near the door. The light snaps on—and my breath catches.

A man slumps against the wall, his massive frame sagging like the weight of him has caved in. Blood soaks his black shirt, spreading across his chest and dripping to the warped boards beneath him. His head tips back, and beside him, his mask lies discarded.

And the face beneath it isn’t just anyone.

It’s my handler.

The doctor works fast, hands moving with the precision of a man who knows there’s no margin for error. He’s sewing up a wound that should have killed my handler—a bullet that skimmed past his heart by less than an inch before ripping upward through his shoulder.

The man on the bed is fully awake. No sedative. No painkillers. He refused them outright, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch beneath his skin, riding out every pull of the needle in raw, unfiltered agony. The stench of blood and antiseptic mixes in the air, sharp enough to taste.

There are a thousand reasons why Goliath employees keep their identities locked down tighter than a vault. Hell, we all sign NDAs before we’re even allowed to set foot in the Cathedral, the kind of contract that doesn’t just bind you legally—it can be enforced in blood.

But here I am, staring at the face of the man who’s always hidden from me behind a mask.

On a different day, under different circumstances, I’d call him handsome. Strong jawline. Eyes that cut right through you. But the left side of his face tells a different story—a brutal map of scar tissue and twisted flesh, a patchwork of survival carved deep into him.

It’s not the scars that hold me frozen—it’s the vulnerability of seeing him like this.

Unmasked. Exposed. And it’s not the kind of injury that justifies hiding behind suffocating plastic.

No… this mask was for something else. Something deeper.

Layers of secrets I can’t yet see, stacked one on top of the other.

For the first time since I joined Goliath, I’m looking into the shadows this organization truly operates in. Most people don’t even know it exists. Hell, I barely know the full reach of its arm, or how far its influence seeps into the darker corners of the world.

Until now, my work here has been basic. Mundane. Errands so small they felt like busywork. But this—standing in a room with a man bleeding out from a near-fatal gunshot while the one person who matters most to me is missing—is something else entirely.

My blood hums with adrenaline. Worry for Lily churns in my gut, a relentless, gnawing ache. I want her back. I want her safe. Yesterday. The urgency burns hotter than anything I’ve felt since the day I put Trick McCordy on the ground for putting his hands on her.

I think of Trick now—and the warning Goliath gave me:

Trick McCordy has the makings of a predator, someone who thrives on control and chaos.

Back then, I thought they were exaggerating. Trick was just a guy who didn’t know when to quit. But I’ve watched him change. Obsession growing sour under his skin. Advances turning from unwelcome to dangerous. Trick wasn’t just a problem—he was a storm waiting to break.

Goliath saw it long before I did. They told me to keep him away from Lily. I should have listened.

Now, all of it feels connected. Lily. Trick. My handler’s mask. The bullet wound. Threads in the same web, and I’m tangled in the middle of it. The weight of it presses down, but under the fear and urgency, there’s something else sparking in my chest.

Resolve.

Lily needs me, and I won’t fail her.

The doctor finally leans back, his stitches neat and brutal. He gives my handler a bottle of antibiotics and a curt nod before packing up his gear. My handler cracks one swollen eye open, the other sealed shut. His lips pull into a faint, crooked grimace.

“Lily?” he rasps .

“Gone,” I tell him.

He tries to swing his legs off the bed, but the movement drains the color from his face and he collapses back into the mattress.

“We need to get you out of here first,” I tell him firmly. “It’s not safe.”

He nods once, but his voice is ragged. “Don’t have… time.”

His head starts to loll, and I catch it, shaking him lightly. “Stay with me. Don’t pass out.”

I still don’t know his name.

He swallows hard, breath hitching. “Find Lily.”

And then he’s gone again, unconscious, leaving me with nothing but the echo of his words—and the ticking clock that’s about to run out.