Page 26 of Rescuing Aria
“Our hostage,” I murmur.
Razor doesn’t ease his stance. If anything, he coils tighter, scanning every shadow like it’s about to strike.
“This is wrong,” he says, voice low and flat. “Too exposed. Too easy.”
“Jenny doesn’t make mistakes like this,” I agree, raising my rifle. “She’s waiting for us to blink.”
And I don’t plan on giving her the chance.
As if summoned by Razor’s unease, a soft metallic clink cuts through the quiet. Something rolls across the cracked concrete between us, slow and deliberate.
My brain processes it a second too late.
“Flash-bang!” Blaze shouts?—
—but Storm’s already airborne.
He dives without hesitation, covering the sim-grenade with his vest, curling around it like a human shield. The pop is muffled, more of a puff of compressed air and a cloud of chalk dust than a real detonation—but the instinct?
Flawless. No pause. No calculation. Just action.
I blink through the haze, adrenaline spiking in my bloodstream like a jolt of electricity.
That could’ve blinded all of us.
Storm stands, white dust clinging to his front like frost. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t falter—just that same dry deadpan.
“Hate being blinded,” he mutters, brushing chalk off his gear. “Makes it hard to see the people I’m about to shoot.”
Blaze lets out a low whistle. “Remind me never to startle you.”
From there, the op wraps with surgical precision. Razor and I secure the asset dummy—vest intact, no paint hits—while Storm clears the last room and Blaze covers our six. The only hit comes when Blaze gets cocky, slicing the pie wide and catching a red round to the shoulder.
“Still pretty,” he mutters, wincing as we haul ass to the extraction point.
We regroup at the edge of the training field, sweat slick beneath my vest, lungs still working to settle after the finalsprint. Jenny’s already waiting near the debrief tent, arms crossed, hair pulled back tight, expression unreadable—except for the spark of satisfaction in her eyes.
She watches us silently for a beat. Letting the weight of the moment land.
“Solid work,” she says finally. “Times were sharp. Communications tighter than I expected for a first run. Combat skills? Excellent. You followed the mission parameters. You adapted when the scenario flipped.”
She takes a step forward, gaze flicking between Razor and Storm.
“But Delta team isn’t just about tactical proficiency. We’re more than a team. We’re a family. Dysfunctional, sometimes. Messy as hell. But blood-deep.”
Mac snorts. “The question isn’t whether you can shoot straight. It’s whether you’re looking for a job…” He looks between them. “Or something more.”
Storm shifts beside Razor. There’s a flicker—something vulnerable beneath the iron. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just meets Razor’s eyes.
Then he speaks. Quiet. Measured.
“After Kabul… After everything we lost…” His voice rasps, unpolished. “We’re not here for a paycheck.”
Razor nods once. “We’re here for purpose. For connection. For a reason to fight that doesn’t get erased by a politician’s pen.”
Jenny studies them both, reading between the lines like she always does. Then she turns to Mac.
“In?”
