Page 123 of The Last Call Home
Everyone moves like we’ve done this a hundred times before.I guess because we’ve done this before—but never like this.Never when it was her.Never when it felt like something alive was being pulled out of my fucking chest and dangled in front of me like bait.
I move along the east wall of the dock building, checking for breach points, wiring, and anything rigged or tampered with.No signs.Either they’re careless, or arrogant, or both.
Or maybe they’re counting on us being too late.
I grip my radio again, throat raw.“We hit them hard before the boat’s loaded.Disable their exit first, take the drivers second.I want eyes on the cargo doors the second they open.I don’t care what intel says—we don’t trust anything until we see her breathing.”
My voice cracks just slightly on she, but no one calls it out.
There’s too much riding on this.
Cassian moves in beside me, breath slightly off, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am—about the last time we let her walk away unprotected.About how fucking stupid we were to believe the danger had passed.
He doesn’t speak, just reaches into his pocket and pulls out her bracelet—the one we found in the car, cold and streaked with something that might’ve been blood or dirt or both.He presses it into my palm.
“She left this for us,” he says, voice tight.“She’s waiting for us to follow through.”
And, fuck, we will.
We didn’t come this far to fall apart now.
Not when she’s so close we can feel it in our bones.
Not when we’ve already failed her once.
I close my hand around his hand.The one holding the bracelet presses my back to the rusted wall and looks out over the open dock one more time.
Let them come.
We’re ready.
And this time, no one takes her from us.
ChapterFifty-Eight
Cassian
The convoy creststhe hill in the distance like a fucking bad omen.
Three vehicles.One SUV in the lead, matte black with tinted windows, followed by two vans riding close behind like hounds circling a kill.They’re coming in fast, tires spitting gravel as they roll down the old service road toward Ashport Docks.
My fingers tighten on the rifle.Eyes locked on the approach.The drone feed on the screen strapped to my wrist confirms the heat signatures—six bodies spread between the first two vehicles, three more in the last one.One figure, smaller than the rest, slumped in the backseat.
Probably Delilah.
I see her shape, still, restrained, but alive.I can’t see her face, can’t see her eyes, but that silhouette—that's her.
She’s here.
I tap my earpiece.“Confirm visual.Targets inbound.Everyone hold position.”
Up in the tower, two of our snipers respond without a word.Just the faint rustle of shifting gear and the calm click of safeties being disengaged.
South crane—sniper three—has the best view of the van’s back window.If they try to move her before we’re in position, he has orders to shoot the driver first, engine second.
I glance to my left.
Malerick crouches beside a stack of old shipping crates.Body tense, every muscle pulled tight as if he’s already halfway through the fight.His jaw is clenched, one hand wrapped around the grip of his sidearm, the other presses to the ground for balance, eyes tracking the vehicles like a predator awaiting the signal.
