Page 3 of Shelter for Shay
She thought nothing more of it.
Not then.
1
SIX MONTHS LATER…
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION – 0200 HOURS
The night breathed like it was holding something back. Something dark. Something dangerous.
Matthew “Moose” Rhoades crouched in the scrub, his rifle braced, breath controlled. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck under the matte-black helmet. Ahead, the compound loomed—two crumbling stone buildings inside a wired perimeter. No lights. No movement. Just the hum of something wrong vibrating in the stillness. Moose trusted two things. His gut and his team. His gut told him something wasn’t right, he just couldn’t put his finger on it and neither could his teammates.
Mission went on as planned.
“In and out, clean and quiet,” Jupiter’s voice crackled in their comms. “Two guards at the north gate, thermal confirms.”
Moose tapped twice on his earpiece. Kawan ghosted up behind him, tall and steady despite the weight of his gear.
“North entrance clear in ten,” Kawan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Rules were suggestions to him—Moose had long since stopped trying to rein him in.
Sloan and Lief were somewhere behind, flanking wide to create the fallback lane. The plan was simple: breach, sweep,extract one American national—a journalist named Kramer—and disappear before dawn. But simple didn’t equate to effortless.
Moose signaled forward with two fingers. They moved as one.
The perimeter was too easy. One wire snipped, two guards down with suppressed shots. Clean. Almost… rehearsed. That made Moose twitchy.
They reached the side of the first building. Jupiter’s voice returned, taut with static. “Still seeing no heat sigs inside. Either they’re sitting in ice baths or?—”
“They know we’re coming,” Moose muttered. But it was too late to turn back.
Inside, the room smelled of damp earth and old blood. A cot in the corner. A camera tripod. Shackles on the wall. But no one inside.
“No visual on Kramer,” Sloan called over comms from the other wing.
Moose stepped forward—and that’s when he saw it.
A SATphone. Wiped. Battery removed.
“Jupiter,” he said. “Pull us out.”
A click.
No reply.
“Jupiter, do you copy?”
Moose turned just as Kawan muttered, “Shit,” and shoved him to the floor.
The explosion ripped through the center wall, heat and shrapnel punching the air. Moose’s ears rang, and the ceiling collapsed in a haze of dust. He rolled, dazed, vision narrowed. Kawan yelled as he dragged Sloan by the vest. Gunfire erupted from outside. Lief returned fire, limping badly.
“Fall back,” Moose shouted, but the team was scattered.
Another blast—closer this time—knocked him backward. Everything blurred. Concrete. Gunfire. A scream.
He raised his weapon—but someone kicked it away.
Heavy boots stomped through the haze.
