Page 28 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Marley

T he desert was still. Too still.

No traffic. No wind. Just the buzz of heat rising off cracked pavement and the steady click of Reina’s trembling fingers against the bolt cutters.

“Almost there,” she whispered, sweat glistening at her hairline despite the night chill.

Lark stood behind her, gun drawn, eyes sharp. I was crouched beside them, my ribs aching, heart hammering. Every nerve was lit up.

Inside this warehouse—maybe thirty yards away—were kids. Real ones. Scared. Forgotten. And we were their only shot.

Click.

The lock gave.

Lark caught it before it hit the ground.

We slid the gate open just enough to slip through, hugging the shadows as we moved toward the back dock. Reina led us through a narrow access tunnel reeking of mold and bleach.

The building was half darkness, half glowing red from emergency exit lights. Somewhere in the distance, boots echoed on concrete. Voices barked in Spanish.

Time was running out.

Frasier and Axel were supposed to hit the front any second now.

Boom.

Right on cue, a muffled thud shook the floor.

“Showtime,” Lark muttered.

Reina pointed to a steel door. “Storage. That’s where they’re kept until pickup.”

I reached for the handle.

It was locked.

Lark handed me a keycard Reina had swiped from her old contact.

One swipe. Green light.

I pushed the door open—and nearly fell to my knees.

Eight kids. Huddled in the far corner. Blankets. Water bottles. Fear.

I stepped in slowly, hands raised.

“It’s okay,” I said in Spanish. “We’re here to help.”

One little girl bolted into my arms like she’d been waiting her whole life to be saved.

I swallowed a sob and scooped her up.

Lark moved fast, guiding the others out. Reina whispered reassurances, clutching two toddlers by the hand.

We were almost clear when a voice shouted behind us.

“?Alto!”

Gun cocked. Boots stomping.

I turned.

A man in a black vest stood at the end of the hallway. Gun raised. Eyes cold.

I stepped forward. Shielding the kids. Pain lanced through my ribs, but I didn’t care.

“You don’t want to do this,” I said in Spanish.

His mouth twisted. “You’re too late.”

Before he could raise the gun— CRACK —a single shot rang out.

He dropped.

Frasier emerged from the shadows, rifle raised, jaw tight.

“You okay?” he barked.

“I’ve been better,” I rasped.

He crossed the hallway in three strides and cupped my face, eyes scanning for blood.

“We’re clear,” Lark called from behind me. “All kids accounted for.”

“Get them out,” Frasier ordered. Then he looked at me. “Can you move?”

I nodded. “Don’t let go of my hand.”

“Never.”

We ran.

Gunfire echoed behind us—Axel handling stragglers.

We burst out the back of the warehouse just as Axel rounded the corner, shirt ripped, lip bleeding, eyes wild.

“Van’s ready!” he shouted.

The kids climbed in fast. Reina followed, then Lark.

Frasier turned to me. “Get in.”

I hesitated.

“Now, Marley.”

I climbed into the passenger seat and collapsed against the window.

Frasier slammed the door, jumped into the driver’s seat, and hit the gas.

As we peeled away from the warehouse, tires screeching, adrenaline still roaring in my ears, I looked at him.

“You came,” I whispered.

He reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing hard.

“Every damn time.”