Page 62 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Cassian

The convoy crests the hill in the distance like a fucking bad omen.

Three vehicles. One SUV in the lead, matte black with tinted windows, followed by two vans riding close behind like hounds circling a kill. They’re coming in fast, tires spitting gravel as they roll down the old service road toward Ashport Docks.

My fingers tighten on the rifle. Eyes locked on the approach. The drone feed on the screen strapped to my wrist confirms the heat signatures—six bodies spread between the first two vehicles, three more in the last one. One figure, smaller than the rest, slumped in the backseat.

Probably Delilah.

I see her shape, still, restrained, but alive. I can’t see her face, can’t see her eyes, but that silhouette—that's her.

She’s here.

I tap my earpiece. “Confirm visual. Targets inbound. Everyone hold position.”

Up in the tower, two of our snipers respond without a word. Just the faint rustle of shifting gear and the calm click of safeties being disengaged.

South crane—sniper three—has the best view of the van’s back window. If they try to move her before we’re in position, he has orders to shoot the driver first, engine second.

I glance to my left.

Malerick crouches beside a stack of old shipping crates.

Body tense, every muscle pulled tight as if he’s already halfway through the fight.

His jaw is clenched, one hand wrapped around the grip of his sidearm, the other presses to the ground for balance, eyes tracking the vehicles like a predator awaiting the signal.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

The second they stop, we move.

The SUV rolls to a halt first, door opening with calculated slowness.

A man steps out, tall, tactical gear, expression unreadable under a ball cap and dark lenses.

Two more follow from the passenger side, scanning the area, weapons drawn but not raised.

They think they’re alone. They don’t know we’re here yet.

That’s their mistake.

“Snipers ready,” I whisper.

“Ready,” comes the response from several of the agents including Mal.

The vans pull in behind the SUV, braking hard.

Doors fly open. Two men step out from the rear vehicle, one of them yanking Delilah by the arm, forcing her to stumble out onto the gravel.

Her knees give, but she catches herself, breathing hard, her hands zip-tied in front of her. Her lip is split. She’s barefoot.

And she’s still fighting.

She swings her elbow, clips the guy holding her in the ribs. He snarls, raises a hand?—

“Take him,” I say.

Crack.

The sniper’s shot slices through the air, clean and precise. The man collapses immediately, a bloom of red opening across his chest as he crumples into the dirt.

Everything explodes after that.

Shouts. Gunfire. The staccato bursts of suppressed rounds echo in every direction as our team emerges from the tree line, the crates, and the tower above.

Malerick breaks first, emerging from cover in a dead sprint, bullets hissing past as he races toward Delilah.

I’m right behind him, covering his flank, my rifle hot in my hands.

Two of the enemy scramble to redirect their fire, but our sniper clips one in the thigh, and I take the second down with a clean shot to the shoulder.

Delilah is now crawling, trying to get behind one of the vans. Malerick reaches her first, drops to his knees, and shields her with his body while cutting through the ties with a knife pulled from his vest.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low but urgent. “We’re here.”

She’s shaking. Her fingers curl into his vest like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she blinks.

“Cass—cover.”

I pivot, firing three controlled bursts toward the docks. Two more men are trying to escape toward the boat, dragging a case between them.

“Do not let that cargo leave,” I bark into the comm. “Engage. Now.”

Shots ring out again. Both men drop before they reach the ramp.

Malerick pulls her to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist. She’s limping, dazed, blood on her temple, but alive.

I reach them just as she starts to sag, and I catch her other side. Her body folds into mine without hesitation. She doesn’t speak, just breathes in short, fast bursts, and I realize she’s been holding it all in until now.

Until we got here.

“We’ve got you,” I say, brushing her hair back, voice rough in my throat. “You’re safe now.”

Her eyes finally meet mine.

And that’s when I know—we didn’t just get her back.

We barely have her in our arms.

A blur slices past the rear of the SUV—fast, trained, precise.

I catch it too late.

Malerick’s half a step ahead, his arm still wrapped around Delilah, scanning the far end of the dock. I open my mouth to shout, my hand already reaching for my weapon?—

Crack.

Gunfire.

A single shot punches through the air, followed by the sickening thud of impact.

Malerick jerks.

He stumbles forward—eyes wide, mouth open, blood blooming at his side—then collapses to one knee with a ragged grunt.

“Mal!” Delilah screams.

The man we missed—lean, masked, moving with terrifying focus—lunges forward and grabs her, dragging her from our grasp in one clean, brutal motion. She kicks, thrashes, tries to twist free, but the bastard moves like he’s done this before.

“Mal!” I shout, lunging toward him, but another shot rings out—close. I duck behind the SUV, return fire blindly to keep their heads down.

Malerick’s on the ground, breathing hard, his hand pressed to his side, blood soaking fast through his vest. “Go get her. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m going, but you better not die.” I snap into the earpiece. “Malerick’s hit, get him help. I’m going after her.”

“She—” he tries to speak, voice raspy and strained. “Don’t let them take her from us—kill them all.”

“I won’t,” I growl, already moving.

I sprint after them, legs burning as I cut across the loading zone, leaping over a coil of rusted chain and veering around the crates.

The attacker is moving quickly, using the layout of the docks to his advantage, weaving through blind spots and cover as if he knows the map by heart. He’s hauling her toward the back edge—toward the ship.

“Target heading to the cargo vessel,” I shout into the comm. “They’ve got her—they’re trying to board.”

“We don’t have a clean shot,” one voice replies. “He’s keeping her shielded.”

I push harder. My lungs burn, and my legs scream as I cross onto the dock, boots slamming over wet metal. My rifle’s useless now—too close, too risky.

They’re halfway up the gangplank. Delilah kicks out, strikes him in the knee, and he stumbles—but doesn’t fall.

“Delilah,” I bellow.

Her head jerks back.

Our eyes meet.

And in that single second, I see every damn thing I’ve been afraid to admit—fear, love, fury—all of it in her expression as she twists again, trying to throw him off balance.

He raises his arm, hits her across the face.

I lose it.

I drop low, skid behind a crate for cover, and pull the pistol from my side holster. I quickly climb the ramp on the opposite side of the ship.

They don’t see me.

I’m moving fast and low, boots silent on steel, keeping to the blind side of the gangway, the waterline below me dark and churning. I can hear the pulse of Delilah’s breath from up above—choked, uneven, resisting.

They’re almost at the door that leads below deck. Once he gets her through it, I lose my shot.

“Put her down,” I call out.

My voice cuts through the space between us like a blade—clean, precise, laced with fury.

He spins and that’s when I see him. He doesn’t have a mask on anymore.

It’s him—Desmond. Older than I remember, older than the last grainy photo we had in the file.

Late sixties, maybe. Hair now more iron than black, swept back with meticulous care, despite the chaos.

He wears tactical gear fitted over a starched white dress shirt, now blood-streaked and torn at the collar.

The lines around his mouth have deepened.

His jaw is tight. His pale blue eyes—once charming, once used to disarm and deceive—are wild and defiant now.

My blood turns electric.

I hesitate for half a heartbeat, stunned by the impossibility of him standing here. We could finish him. It could be over. Once we cut off the head of the Syndicate, the body will collapse. And I raise my gun, breath locked in my throat, trigger almost entirely drawn?—

But before I can pull the trigger . . .

Crack.

A single bullet tears through his thigh.

He cries out, stumbles sideways, collapsing against the gangway rail with a sickening clang, weapon flying from his hand and clattering to the floor.

I freeze.

What—

I turn, breath sharp and ready for anything?—

And there she is.

Rosalinda Mora.

Standing ten feet back on the dock like she just stepped out of the fog and rewrote the entire ending of this nightmare.

She’s holding a compact pistol with both hands—grip tight, shoulders square, stance practiced. There’s no hesitation in her face.

And beside her?—

A man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Mid-sixties maybe, but built like a storm front.

His crisp white shirt is half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing tan skin and sinew earned from decades of combat or something worse.

A thick scar cuts through one eyebrow, silver against weathered skin, but it doesn’t dull the intensity of his eyes—cool, sharp, and forever sweeping.

Military. Or ex-military with no intention of ever retiring.

There’s a carbine slung tight to his chest, movements clean and economical as he scans the docks, backing Rosalinda.

Like the scene might vanish. Like I imagined her, imagined him.

But they don’t vanish.

Rosalinda stands there, spine straight, gun still hot in her hand. She lowers it slowly—methodically—like she’s savoring the moment. Her eyes don’t leave Desmond. Not for a second.

Not even when Delilah—bleeding and breathless—turns in my arms, staring at her like she’s witnessing something biblical.

Rosalinda’s lips curl.

Fury. Satisfaction. A blade of something maternal and deadly and holy.

“Cabrón,” she says, voice low and steady, venom laced through every syllable. “?Crees que iba a dejar que te llevaras a mi hija?”

Her words cut through the wind, landing like a bullet in my chest.

“What did she say?” I mumble.

“Asshole. You really thought I’d let you take my daughter?” Lilah responds, almost chuckling—it’s probably the adrenaline.

And then she adds, quieter, deadlier:

“I warned you. You search for me. You’ll regret it.”

Desmond, bleeding and slumped, spits something indistinct—but he’s trembling now. Not from the wound. From her.

Delilah lets out a sound?—

A sob.

A laugh.

A choked, broken thing caught in her throat as she stares at the woman she thought she’d lost.

She turns in my arms, eyes wide, shimmering.

“Mom?” she whispers.

And Rosalinda—her expression softens just enough to flicker. Just enough to be human.

“I told you I’d never be far, mi chiquita.”

But she doesn’t move toward us. She keeps her stance. Protecting. Watching. “Somebody needs to get this man out and . . . where is your bracelet?”

I pull it out.

“That will give his people proof that he killed his brother.”

“Technically, I’m alive,” the man next to her mumbles.

Rosalinda narrows her gaze. “We are going to discuss that later. So many years gone. It hurt. It hurt too much.”

The man beside her moves forward and kicks the gun away from the downed attacker, eyes sweeping the deck like he’s expecting reinforcements.

“We need to move,” he says, tight and matter-of-fact. “There might be more. I’m not sticking around to find out.”