Page 77 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

A thumb drive—probably containing proof we don't want seen.

And a single brass shell casing—.338 Lapua Magnum, match grade.

Granger's signature. His way of sayingI'm watching.

The paper's headline screams about military corruption. The drive probably holds classified intel. And the casing? That's his promise of what's coming.

Story. Evidence. Threat.

The three pillars of psychological warfare.

I'm about to call for an evidence bag when I hear it—the distinctivecrackof a high-powered rifle echoing through the buildings, followed by the sharp impact of a round finding its target.

A soft thud echoes behind me. My body reacts before my mind processes—spinning, dropping into a defensive stance.

And Sloane lies crumpled on the ground, her body limp against the concrete.

25

SLOANE

Pain rips through my thigh like lightning, hot and sharp. Blood seeps between my fingers as I press down, refusing to make a sound.

Don't show weakness. Never show weakness.

Logan drops beside me, his presence solid and immediate. I grab his hand before I can stop myself, needing something—anything—to ground me against the waves of agony.

His fingers curl around mine, steady and strong.

No hesitation. No pulled punches. Just anchor points of pressure that help me focus on something besides the burning in my leg.

Elias appears on my other side, his movements precise and purposeful. The gentle medic facade drops away, revealing the combat specialist underneath. His hands move with practiced efficiency as he cuts away the fabric around my wound.

"Breathe," Logan orders, his voice low and firm against my ear.

I want to snap back that Iambreathing, but my lungs feel like they're lined with frost. Each inhale burns. Each exhale shakes.

My fingers dig deeper into Logan's palm as Elias works. I catch the flash of concern in Logan's eyes—quickly masked, but there.

It should make me feel weak. Instead, it makes me grip harder. Like maybe, just for these few seconds of white-hot pain, I can allow myself to need someone.

"You're lucky," Elias says, voice calm despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. "A few centimeters to the left and we'd be having a very different conversation."

I stare at the white bandage, already spotted with a bloom of crimson. Lucky. Right.

The bullet barely grazed me—a clean slice through flesh that'll heal in a week, maybe two. But the real damage is already done.

Not to me.

Tothem.

Because Granger didn't need a kill shot. He just needed eyewitnesses. People to see blood on the pavement, to hear that crack split the quiet mountain air, to watch a woman fall while The Forge men scrambled with weapons drawn.

That image will spread faster than any bullet.

"How's the pain?" Elias asks, securing the final piece of medical tape to my thigh.

"Manageable."