Page 61 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Malerick

We spread out fast. Every second we buy now is one we might not have later.

The advance team fans left, moving through the tree line like they were born there, boots muffled against the wet earth, weapons angled low but ready.

The second unit slips toward the service road that cuts through the back of the property, a route likely to be used if the convoy attempts to enter discreetly.

I keep my pace tight, body low, eyes scanning everything—not just for movement but for signs that someone’s already here watching us.

It’s too quiet.

The bay isn’t exactly still, but it feels . . . held. It’s as if the wind is waiting for something to go wrong.

I raise a fist—signal to pause—and crouch behind the crumbling shell of an old supply shack, its roof slanted and rotting, the siding curled from salt and years of neglect. Across the clearing, the boat looms over the dock like a sleeping animal. Still no lights. Still no movement.

But that doesn’t mean it’s empty.

“Team Bravo, hold perimeter north. Thermal scan says clear, but no assumptions,” Cassian says into the earpiece. “Eyes up. We’re not walking into a goddamn trap.”

He’s behind me, maybe ten feet back, scanning the opposite ridge with his rifle braced tightly.

I can feel the tension radiating off him even from here—controlled, but barely.

His finger taps a pattern against the grip of his weapon, a habit I’ve seen him fall into when he’s trying not to think about the worst-case scenario.

Delilah.

She’s not here yet, but I can feel her getting closer. It’s not logical, not something I can explain, but it’s there—that wired pulse in my chest, the certainty that time is slipping away quickly and if we miss this window, we lose her.

For good.

I duck into a lower crouch and pull up the latest drone feed.

Three vehicles are all heading southeast, with the lead just passing the turn-off to the secondary road that snakes down toward this side of Eastmoor Bay.

We’ve got maybe thirty-five, forty minutes before they roll in. Maybe less if they’re driving hard.

“Let’s get the snipers in position.” Cass points toward the right. “Tower. South crane. Rooftop above the loading bay. We cover them before they make it out of the vehicles.”

Everyone moves like we’ve done this a hundred times before. I guess because we’ve done this before—but never like this. Never when it was her. Never when it felt like something alive was being pulled out of my fucking chest and dangled in front of me like bait.

I move along the east wall of the dock building, checking for breach points, wiring, and anything rigged or tampered with. No signs. Either they’re careless, or arrogant, or both.

Or maybe they’re counting on us being too late.

I grip my radio again, throat raw. “We hit them hard before the boat’s loaded. Disable their exit first, take the drivers second. I want eyes on the cargo doors the second they open. I don’t care what intel says—we don’t trust anything until we see her breathing.”

My voice cracks just slightly on she, but no one calls it out.

There’s too much riding on this.

Cassian moves in beside me, breath slightly off, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am—about the last time we let her walk away unprotected. About how fucking stupid we were to believe the danger had passed.

He doesn’t speak, just reaches into his pocket and pulls out her bracelet—the one we found in the car, cold and streaked with something that might’ve been blood or dirt or both. He presses it into my palm.

“She left this for us,” he says, voice tight. “She’s waiting for us to follow through.”

And, fuck, we will.

We didn’t come this far to fall apart now.

Not when she’s so close we can feel it in our bones.

Not when we’ve already failed her once.

I close my hand around his hand. The one holding the bracelet presses my back to the rusted wall and looks out over the open dock one more time.

Let them come.

We’re ready.

And this time, no one takes her from us.