Page 45 of Isaac

Back in high school, there was a boy on the football team with me. Ryan. We'd snuck around together, keeping our relationship hidden from everyone because we didn't think they'd understand. Those moments held a certain thrill, but eventually, fear of discovery led to us going our separate ways.

I’ve known this about me all my life, carried this secret through the military during DADT, carried it with me ever since I joined the Bureau. But I never acted on it. Never thought about it. Never needed to. And now Isaac Thoreau is invading my mind all hours of the day with his ridiculously expressive eyes and pretty mouth.

No. Just no!

After a few minutes of sulking, I shake my head and I push those thoughts away, finding them strange and unnecessary.

This isn't the time to dwell on the past crush or my confusing feelings toward Isaac.

I need to stay focused on the mission.

With a heavy heart, I drive off into the night, ready to face whatever lies ahead.

Two days later, I find myself squeezed into the back seat of an SUV Marco's steering. Ricky is beside me, ending another round of Fortnite on his phone with a grin when the SUV swerves toward a large desolate property.

Through the tinted window, I watch us drive past a heavy chain-link fence encircling the building and the land around it. The metal, all rusted and bruised by time, clings to the earthy palette of parched Nevada sand like camouflage. It’s a sad view.

Gravel groans under our tires as we roll into an empty parking lot.

The early afternoon sun ricochets off shards in a weather-ravaged concrete floor before meeting what looks like a set of abandoned warehouses.

"Stay sharp," Jeremy barks. His voice prickles my nerves as he shoves me a cold Glock. His eyes carry an unsettling mix of wariness. "And look out for anything fishy."

"Sure," I return evenly while shrugging off the bite in Jeremy's tone. Can't blame him though–I wouldn't drop my guard around me either. Outsiders don't usually score high on trust hierarchies and he has no clue about how deep my potential threat runs.

But right now, I don’t have time to argue with him. I have to focus on collecting as much intel as possible. And it’s quite jarring when you’re kept out from what’s really at play.

What came clearly from Jeremy was simple—his requirement for perimeter backup with military chops during some crucial meet-up who can also provide an extra pair of watchful eyes but not much else.

Asshole is careful.

He looks dumb but he’s far from it.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks I’m a cop.

Being ready to protect the cover is nothing new to me, though. I’m prepared if the test comes.

The warehouse looms before us, its entrance like an open mouth spitting darkness.

There are eight of us, including Isaac. He rode in a separate car with Seven. Hector and Ocho took the third SUV. Everyone is armed, which tells me that the Hellhounds are meeting with someone they don’t trust. Or don’t do business with.

Russians?

I’ve been suspecting this much but without solid proof, I can’t do shit except just going with the flow to see where that flow takes me.

As we make our way inside, the atmosphere becomes increasingly tense. The air ratchets up a notch, going from graveyard stillness to electric anticipation.

The iron tang of construction dust fills my nostrils as Jeremy and I slip into the building first, armed like soldiers going into war.

My every nerve ending is alert as we survey the skeleton of a space overrun by neglect. My grip on my gun is white-knuckled, the cool steel my weird comfort in this stress-filled silence. Even behind my cracking facade, I'm scanning every single shadow for signs of danger—that's survival.

We sweep through the rest of the sprawling space before daring to go upstairs.

There, in the bleach-white open expanse crisscrossed by bulky concrete columns, shattered glass strewn across unkempt windowsills paints disturbing patterns onto the floor. Dust swirls under weak shafts of harsh light slanting between cracks in partially boarded-up windows.

Disturbing this eerie tranquility are two muscled figures in black standing guard at the far end of the room by the door, their stone-cold masks more intimidating than their weapons. Could be military-grade. Possibly AKs. Heavy-hitters brought out when things don't usually end with a round of friendly fire.

Fuck.

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