Page 84 of The Scout

“Where are we?” I asked.

Charlie looked up from the map, running a hand through his short hair. “We’ve got multiple angles, but none are good. The pier is exposed. They chose it for a reason.”

Of course, they did. The location forced us into open ground, made us visible. If we tried to control the environment, we’d have nowhere to maneuver.

Noah exhaled sharply. “We’ll have men on the water and land, but even with a multiple-team approach, this could go sideways fast. We’re missing something.”

“We always are,” I muttered, moving to the table, scanning the plans. “We plug every hole we can, prepare for the worst, and assume they’ve thought ten steps ahead.”

I traced a path along the map with my finger, running through every scenario in my head, every possible move they could make. We were going in blind.

I fucking hated going in blind.

Hours passed. Plans were made and remade, tactics refined, men prepped. We worked through every contingency we could think of, tried to anticipate every possible move.

But no matter how we spun it, the truth was the same.

Hostage and ransom situations never ended clean.

I’d been in enough of them to know that.

They always turned into a world of shit.

That’s why I had to get this right.

For Will.

For Isabel.

For myself.

Isabel was up early.I was in the bathroom.

I heard her moving before I even opened my eyes, the quiet rustling of sheets, the soft shuffle of her bare feet against the hardwood floor. She stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the gray morning light like she could will the day into slowing down.

But time didn’t slow.

Not for us.

Not for what was coming.

I stayed in the doorway for a moment longer, watching her. The tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened against her arms—it was clear she hadn’t slept well. Neither had I. Sleep didn’t come easy when you knew what lay ahead.

She turned, eyes meeting mine, but she didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say.

Downstairs, Dominion Hall was already awake, filled with the low hum of men moving, talking, making final preparations. Some sat around the large kitchen table, eating in silence, while others stood near the coffee maker, nursing cups of caffeine and exhaustion.

Isabel sat at the counter, a plate of eggs and toast in front of her, untouched. Her fingers traced the rim of a coffee mug, eyes distant. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and placed it next to her plate.

“Eat,” I said.

She blinked up at me, then glanced down at the food. “I’m not hungry.”

I pulled out a chair, twisting the cap off my water bottle. “I don’t care. Eat anyway.”

She sighed, but after a moment, she picked up the fork and took a small bite of eggs, chewing slowly. I watched her, making sure she didn’t stop. I didn’t give a damn if she wanted to eat or not—she needed to.

I didn’t eat.

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