Page 24 of Rescuing Aria
Sounds exactly like him. Nearly seven feet of steel, and yet still the gentlest man I’ve ever met.
“And here you are.”
“Here we are.” Razor crouches behind the concrete slab, rifle steady. No tension in his shoulders. Just calm. Focus.
A beat of silence.
“So you pulled out the Holbrook heiress?”
“You’ve done your homework.” It’s meant to sound casual, but the words land heavier than I intend.
“Always do. Before joining any team.” Razor’s tone doesn’t shift, but everything else does. Muscles coiled. Breath shallow and slow. Rifle locked against his shoulder like it’s part of him.“High-profile rescue. The kind that travels fast through our circles.”
He exhales once. Low. Measured. Controlled.
Then he’s gone.
Not literally—but the man beside me changes in real time, right in front of my eyes. That easygoing, quiet new guy? The one who asked about the team, who told me about Morocco and sipping coffee with Forest? He evaporates.
Vanishes into thin air.
What’s left is something harder.
Sharper.
Like steel being drawn from a sheath.
His spine straightens, no wasted motion. Shoulders square. The slight slouch in his posture disappears. His left hand slides to stabilize the barrel while his right adjusts the scope without a sound, no hesitation, no fumble. Just precise, practiced movements. The kind you don’t learn in training—you earn it through fire.
Through blood.
His entire presence condenses—energy folding in, tightly coiled, silent, waiting to strike. There’s no tension in him. None. Just readiness. Stillness with purpose.
Even his breathing shifts—barely there now. Shallow and slow, tuned to keep his pulse down, his hands steady.
“Contact.” His voice is flat, razor-clean. All business. “Northwest corner, second floor. Moving east to west.”
It’s not just the words. It’s how he says them—like reading coordinates from muscle memory. Like he’s already calculated wind speed, distance, trajectory, and kill zone.
I know that tone. I’ve used that tone. It’s the voice of a man who’s been in kill-houses and deserts and rain-slicked rooftops. The voice of someone who doesn’t ask questions untilthe job’s done. Someone who’s lost enough that he doesn’t flinch anymore.
Razor’s not just watching that window.
He’s already in the room. Already five steps ahead.
And for the first time since Sam introduced him, I realize exactly what kind of operator I’ve just been paired with.
Not new.
Not junior.
Lethal.
I don’t hesitate.
“Blaze, you copy?” My voice drops, colder now. Efficient. “Visual on second-floor movement. Target heading west. Possible hostile.”
SIX
