Page 23 of Rescuing Aria
“Among other things.” His voice is cool, unreadable. But that half-beat pause tells me I nailed it.
Not much rattles the guy. Which makes me wonder what did.
“Tell me about the team,” he says, not quite a deflection—more like a measuring stick.
“Delta team specializes in boutique rescues,” I offer as we cut across a scrubby clearing. “Mostly high-value targets. We get called when shit goes sideways and the FBI needs surgical precision. Most of our ops are off-book, partnered with their Black Book division.”
“And the Damien Wolfe op?” Razor checks the tension on his chest rig without breaking stride.
“That one started small. Aria Holbrook kidnapping. Supposed to be an easy extraction. Turned out Damien Wolfe’s network ran deeper than anyone thought.”
I pause at the concrete barrier that marks our staging position. It’s cool under my palm, solid. Sightlines are clear to the mock structure ahead—a two-story building with boarded windows and entry points at the north and west.
“We adapt fast,” I add. “It’s what sets Delta apart.”
Razor nods, eyes scanning the structure, taking mental notes. His movements are disciplined, methodical—but a beat of something else hides under the surface. Tension, maybe. Or history.
“Delta’s not just a tactical unit,” I say, then stop.
He turns slightly, one brow raised.
“We’re family,” I finish.
“Yeah.” He pulls back the charging handle on his sim rifle, the faint clack crisp in the quiet. “That’s why I’m here.” His voice softens, just enough to reveal something unspoken.
Loss? Maybe. Or exile.
I file it away for later. Everyone’s got a reason. The good ones never say it out loud.
There’s weight behind his calm, something older than pride or pain. The kind of thing that doesn’t fade with time. It buries itself in your spine, lives behind your ribs.
“Your file said your last unit was disbanded after Kabul.”
“Storm and I were the only ones who made it out.” His tone doesn’t flinch. “Six months of investigations, then honorable discharges with commendations nobody wanted.”
Our eyes lock. No mask this time. Just a flash of raw, unfiltered memory before he buries it again.
They’re not just looking for jobs.
They’re looking for what we all came to Guardian HRS to find.
Purpose. Belonging. Redemption.
“How’d Forest find you?” I scan the windows of the target building, senses sharpening. The stillness is loaded. Jenny and Mac are in place, traps laid, waiting.
“He didn’t.” Razor’s mouth curves, just slightly. “We found him.”
His tone holds a quiet reverence, like saying Forest’s name is a kind of prayer.
“After our discharge, we kept hearing about Guardian HRS. Ghost stories. Black ops without a country. Impossible missions pulled off by ghosts with call signs. Sounded like bullshit until we tracked a safe house in Morocco.”
I glance at him, impressed. “You tracked Guardian HRS?”
“Watched Alpha team extract a diplomat’s daughter without firing a single shot.”
“Classic Alpha.” I nod. “They’re surgical. Quietest team we’ve got.”
“We followed them back to their extraction point. Figured we’d get lit up. Instead, Forest offered us coffee. Told us we were wasting our talents playing shadow games.”
