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Heat floods my chest, fierce and insistent—a backdraft hunting oxygen.

It coils in my belly, winding tight as I force air through lungs that suddenly feel too narrow.

“There’s more,” I say, voice roughened by the friction of what I’m about to admit.

“Diaz saw Greer’s truck the night before Bitterroot. He finally told me.”

“That ties your ex to Ignis.”

“Ignis?”

Kade nods as he fingers the evidence bag, thoughtful. “A syndicate we know little about other than they seem to be smugglers and eco-terrorists. They use fire as a distraction. They’ve already poisoned the well so to speak. You’ll need insulation.”

“I’ll need a miracle,” I mutter, the words rasping out under my breath, heavy with exhaustion and desperation. They land flat in the charged silence between us, an ember on dry brush—too small to ignite, too sharp to ignore.

“You’ve got me.” Three words, simple as a promise, heavy as an oath. Relief flickers through me, swift and sharp—followed instantly by the twist of fear.

Trusting anyone right now is a risk I can’t afford. But the way he says it, steady and low, stirs something I’ve fought hard to bury. I want to believe him. That might be the most dangerous part.

Before I can answer, the auditor climbs onto a bench and claps for silence. “All personnel will submit to immediate gear inspection. Nonessential staff to staging. Crews on stand-down until further notice.”

A groan ripples through the room, low and discontented like distant thunder skimming across canyon walls.

My stomach knots. I meet Kade’s gaze across the sudden noise—sharp, unspoken understanding passing between us.

He picks up the bag and slips it inside his shirt.

This inspection isn’t just inconvenient; it’s a wrecking ball aimed straight at my only shot to get evidence into the right hands before it disappears like everything else.

Crews line up like chastised soldiers before inspection, packs resting on the gravel like offerings to a silent god of fire.

The air is tense, charged, the kind of hush that hovers before a siren blares.

I pace beside my squad, jaw tight, the inside of my cheek raw from chewing.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots, a gritty, restless rhythm.

Diaz shoulders me gently, a steadying nudge that says he sees the cracks I'm trying to hide.

“You okay, boss?”

“Define okay,” I mutter. “If the Feds find the spiked cans before Command does, I’m cooked.”

“Then we stall.” He picks up his canteen, opens it and lets it drop, splashing water all over everything and everybody. “Oops.”

Bless the kid. One splash, and chaos lights the room—rookies jolting like it was a bomb instead of a canteen.

Pandemonium erupts like a flare tossed into dry brush—sudden, bright, and loud.

Rookies scramble, boots tangling, equipment clattering against gravel.

Shouted curses slice the air. I dive in, barking orders sharp enough to cut through the noise.

My voice whips across the room, a crack that snaps heads into motion, buying precious seconds.

Through the swirl of confusion, Kade doesn’t falter. He moves with deliberate purpose—stride long and lethal, notebook tucked under one arm, flanked by Wilder and the fed like he owns the damn place.

Sweat trickles down my spine. Radios squawk low across the line—not urgent, but the static frays my nerves.

Then Wilder’s voice booms through the room: “All crews stand down. We have evidence of external tampering. The fuel storage area is now a crime scene.”

A collective exhale rushes through the line, the release crashing over the crew with the force of a storm breaking.

Shoulders sag in near-unison. I let myself lean into Diaz’s steady shoulder, the breath finally escaping my lungs in a shaky, uneven stream.

Relief rises—brief, fragile—until I catch the flicker of motion from Wilder’s direction.

He holds up the evidence box, the lid ajar, the weight wrong.

Panic claws up my throat, wildfire racing through dry underbrush—fast, hot, choking.

My heart slams against my ribs, a brutal percussion that drowns out reason, while my vision tunnels, the edges going dark as if the world’s collapsing inward.

I don’t think. I move. Boots tear across gravel and plywood decking toward Supply, breath rasping like I’ve been running for miles.

The door bangs open with a jolt. Inside, the scene is chaos—shelves yanked open, fuel logs scattered like confetti, manifest tablets gone.

“This lock was intact twenty minutes ago,” Mara mutters. “This place looks like a tornado tore through it.”

Footsteps thunder behind me. Kade fills the entry, fury simmering under marble calm. “Auditor’s restricting access. Says any chain of custody has been compromised.”

My knees threaten to fold, muscles going loose with the sharp tilt of betrayal.

I grit my teeth, lock them straight with force, grounding through my boots as if sheer willpower can hold me upright.

The blood drains from my face, but I refuse to give whoever’s watching the satisfaction of seeing me fall.

“Someone wants me buried,” I whisper.

Kade steps closer, broad hand bracing my lower back, heat bleeding through Nomex. “Then we dig out. Together.”

I search his face—every line honed with purpose, every angle shadowed with secrets he hasn’t told me yet.

There’s grit there, and something deeper—like fire banked under stone, barely leashed.

The war inside me crashes—distrust snarling to life, clawing at my ribs, but hope sparks bright in the wreckage.

Against every raw nerve of instinct, it flares—wins by an inch, just enough to light the fuse of belief I thought I’d buried.

“I gave you the baggie,” I murmur. “Tell me you still have it.”

He nods, eyes burning. “Safe.”

“Then we use it.”