Page 49 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Twenty-Five

Moe

Extraction Point

“Alright! Two hostages. An unknown number of hostiles.

Let's make this a clean in-and-out—no casualties and minimal injuries.” Jon's voice roars over the headset, cutting through the relentless thump of the blades above us like a warning shot.

The rotor wash howls through the open bay doors of the chopper, rattling the hull so violently that it feels like the whole thing is coming apart at the seams.

We’ve only been airborne for fifteen minutes—fifteen minutes of vibrating metal, the smell of fuel, and the shriek of radio chatter drilling into my skull like a jackhammer.

My pulse thrums in time with the rhythm of the blades, fast and pounding, making it impossible to tell if it's the altitude, the noise, or my fraying nerves lighting me up from the inside out.

One more sound—one more voice—and I’m going to snap .

“You mean no casualties on our end, Cap?” Delilah's voice crackles through the line, light and playful in a way that doesn't suit the situation. I glance over at her, disoriented for a moment.

What the hell?

She’s smiling . The same woman who, just earlier, threatened to shoot my kneecaps for sneezing too loudly is now grinning like we’re on some amusement park ride with a glint in her eye that looks almost… excited .

I don’t get it.

Or maybe I do. Perhaps it’s the same reason my own blood is singing beneath my skin—the promise of a fight. The clarity that comes when you have a target and permission to act. No questions. No doubt.

King's voice cuts in, dry as sandpaper. “I hope you don’t mind a little blood, Bel?stigung. ”

Nuisance . Good try, jerk. I added German to my language app just to spite him.

I bare my teeth in a grin, syrupy sweet but with a blade’s edge. “I don’t know. I tend to get squeamish at the sight of red. It makes me hear voices and stuff.”

He lifts a finger, about to dive into one of his lectures—likely on discipline or focus—but Jon interrupts him.

“ Enough. ”

That single word cuts through the chatter like a whip crack, echoing in my skull, and sucking the air out of the cabin.

“This is a high-threat situation. We don’t have time to mess around.

” Jon's voice rises as the helicopter dips low, skimming over the crumbling remains of what used to be an industrial block. From above, it’s nothing but decay—concrete and rust, glass shattered from the windows, the roof caved in like a fist punched straight through it.

It looks like a broken mouth trying to swallow us whole: the drop zone.

We hook onto the fast ropes. My hands feel steady, but inside?

That’s a different story. My thoughts flicker where they shouldn’t—Raylen’s face, the feel of her breath on my skin, the sound of her voice trembling when she told me what she’d done.

I shove it down and lock it up tight because there’s no room for her here. Not tonight.

My boots hit the rooftop, and the unstable structure groans under my weight. The crunch of loose gravel skids beneath me as I unhook, knees bent and weight balanced.

Delilah is down next, smooth as a shadow with her rifle already up. She scans the perimeter as Jon and King follow, their landings quick and practiced.

Jon wastes no time, motioning for Delilah to the edge. The tension tightens like a noose.

King mutters something as he comes up beside me, probably about our formation, but I let it slide right past. I don’t want to engage. Not when I’m this tightly wound. Not when Raylen’s confession is still echoing in my head like gunfire I can’t dodge.

“ You’re staying here. ” Jon’s voice is low, but firm enough that everyone can hear the authority in his tone.

Delilah stiffens. “The hell I am.”

“It’s an order,” Jon growls. The sound of it is sharp enough to cut. It damn near does me and I’m not even the one it's directed at.

I glance away as her jaw clenches and nostrils flare. She’s pissed, and I don’t blame her. I’ve been in that position plenty of times before with Caspian. Luckily, she's like me and knows not to push.

After a beat, she shoots back, “Of course, Captain.”

I quickly glance back at them to catch the sugar-sweet smile she has forced.

Oof, that’s got to sting knowing it’s only plastered on because of their ranks.

Or maybe it isn’t that at all. I don’t know their relationship beyond their work.

Still, judging by the softness that suddenly crosses Jon’s features as Delilah turns on her heel and perches in a spot by the large opening in the roof, it’s much more than a simple familial love like Caspian and I share.

King leans toward Jon as he approaches, murmuring, “She’ll be okay.”

Jon doesn’t respond with words—just gives a single stone-faced nod.

We rig up quickly—gear checks, toggles clicked, mics adjusted. My fingers move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over where my brain is still tangled in things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

“You boys are clear!” Delilah calls over the comms, her focus unwavering as she peers through the scope of her sniper rifle.

We rappel through the damaged ceiling, descending into the building’s interior. The air changes the moment we step inside—cooler and heavier. It reeks of mildew, wet concrete, and decay, as if this place has been abandoned long enough for nature to begin reclaiming it.

My boots touch down on the upper floor of what used to be a flower shop.

I can’t help but notice the irony. Dead blooms are scattered everywhere—petals browned and crumbling, stems snapped like bones.

Flower pots lie shattered across the warped tiles, akin to the aftermath of a funeral that no one attended.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I mutter, stepping over what looks like a fossilized rat. Raylen would have my ass if I brought back any kind of creepy crawly stowaway in my vest. Or worse, in my pants.

“Pitch black, boys,” Jon mutters.

“Wha–” I start but quickly catch on as King nudges my shoulder, pulling my attention to him as he flicks down his night vision goggles. I guess he's not too bad.

I lower my night vision goggles, and the world transforms into shades of green and grainy textures. The shop stretches around us in eerie, silent ruin. Tables are half-rotted, vines curl through cracks, and wilted petals are pressed into the dirt like forgotten promises.

We fan out, weapons raised. King takes the rear, while Jon and I sweep opposite walls.

This part steadies me. This is the part that makes sense.

There are no echoes of Raylen’s voice, no shadows shaped like my father lurking in my mind, and no confessions that leave me feeling hollow.

Just silence. Just the mission.

Every footfall is a drumbeat. Every breath tastes like dust and iron. My heart slows—not because I’m calm, but because I have to be. Because control is the only thing that keeps me sharp.

Delilah’s voice crackles in our ears. “You won’t have eyes once you hit the stairs. It's only two stories though and I already spot an opening. Stay close to the light. ”

Jon doesn’t reply. He simply raises his hand, the subtle flick of his fingers barely noticeable as a signal.

We descend the stairwell in tight formation, the clunk of boots softened by discipline but still echoing like a countdown.

Each creak of the old metal railing vibrates up my spine.

Jon scans the corners, his hand resting on the grip of his weapon like it belongs there more than a limb.

It makes me wonder if I’ll ever reach a stage where I’m not chaos but calm.

The dude's a goddamn superhero at this point, and I wish I could have some of whatever genes make him up in my own. But of course, I have a stupid brooding giant breathing down my neck, nudging the butt of his gun between my shoulder blades and straightening my stance each time I slip out of position reminding me I’m nothing more than walking destruction. A villain playing a hero.

“So… have you told her yet?”

The question comes out of nowhere, blindsiding me harder than the faint whine of radio static crackling in my comms. I glance at him, wondering if this is his version of small talk to cut the tension, or if he’s trying to read me the way he reads a room—efficient, precise, invasive.

“Well, uh...” I clear my throat, adjusting my grip on my rifle out of reflex. The metal feels cold through my gloves, grounding me. “I’m sure you know how it goes—young and in love, full of bad timing and worse choices.”

The words taste bitter as I say them, like I’m trying to laugh off something that’s not remotely funny.

Jon snorts, low and dismissive. “I wouldn’t say young and in love, but I know what it’s like to feel like you love someone.”

That pulls my gaze to him, just a flicker. His posture remains the same, and his movements are steady as we descend the narrow stairwell—one slow, deliberate step at a time—but his voice carries an undercurrent. The one that suggests he’s remembering more than he’s letting on.

“Come on, spill it.” The corner of my mouth twitches as I nudge him with my elbow. “You’ve got that look.”

Jon sighs through his nose, eyes flicking down the stairwell, then back up to check the angles before he talks. “Before I took over Greenport, I trained with a faction back in America. Bay.”

“No way?” I laugh. Nobody speaks openly about Bay since we merged into Seaborn, partly because of the complicated history that comes with it.

Conversations often drop to a whisper, and people glance over their shoulders as if the boogeyman might be listening.

I can’t even get Cordelia to discuss it, and she was originally part of that faction.

It makes me wonder if he knew the old her—the version of her before she joined us.

It also makes me question if he knew my mother. I flex my hands around the rifle.

“I remember those days,” King grumbles from behind me. Great, not him too. It only adds to my suspicions. I clear my throat, hoping my thoughts will clear with it.