Page 34 of Danger Close
Chapter Seven
The truck groaned itsway up the mountain road like it resented every second of the climb.
Ricky lay curled near the back on a pile of worn-out tarps, the smell of diesel and rust thick in his nose.The engine shuddered beneath him, a low, mechanical growl that reminded him of old firefights and extraction zones that didn’t go according to plan.He kept one hand tucked under his head, the other loosely curled around his duffel strap.Hood drawn low.Eyes mostly closed.
Pretending to sleep was easy.Actually doing it?Impossible.
He ran the mission over and over in his mind, each beat drilled into him like a mantra.
Get inside.Blend in.Get eyes on the target.Confirm ID.Tag the mark.Prepare for extraction.Evacuation window opens at 0600.Dust-off by 0630.No heroics.No improvisation.No loose ends.
He’d been on ops like this before—covert insertions, low-profile work, tight turnarounds.But this one buzzed under his skin in a different way.Not because of the danger.Not because of the stakes.
Because of her.
Sophia.
Van’s kid.The little girl who no doubt had fire in her blood and a price on her name.The mission wasn’t just about clearing a ledger anymore.It was personal.And Ricky had never been good at keeping personal things clean.
Around him, the other men in the freight crew shifted silently in their seats.Albanian.Tired.No eye contact.Just six guys doing a job, pretending none of this was more than it seemed.Ricky fit in seamlessly—the rough exterior, the sharp eyes dulled to steel, the easy posture of a man who’d carried too many secrets too far.
The guy he’d replaced?Off-grid.One-way nap courtesy of a blow to the skull and a good bit of sedation.Marsh had handled it.Quietly.Efficiently.The kind of ghostwork that made these ops possible.
No one here knew Ricky didn’t belong.
And that’s how he’d survive.
The truck hit a pothole, bouncing him hard enough to jolt his spine.He didn’t react.Instead, he let his thoughts slip sideways—to warmth, to breath, to the feel of Ezra’s body beneath his hands.
The night before they left the states.
God.That morning after.
Ezra had stayed.Ricky had woken up to sunlight cutting through the blinds and Ezra sprawled half on top of him, all heat and tangled limbs and sleep-rough murmurs.
He remembered the way Ezra blinked awake and smiled—smiled—like nothing in the world could touch them there.Like maybe, just maybe, they’d finally found a pocket of safety to exist in.
“You smell like burnt toast,” Ezra had mumbled, nose buried in Ricky’s neck.
“That’s because you tried to make toast at 3:00 this morning and nearly set the kitchen on fire.”
Ezra harrumphed, “You distracted me.”
“I was the only one wearing clothes,” Ricky reminded.
“Details.”
Ricky had laughed—really laughed.The kind that started deep in the chest and climbed until it shook his shoulders.Ezra had grinned and kissed him.
And then, just before he left for this op, Ezra had pressed Van’s bent dog tag into Ricky’s palm and said, “Bring her home.But bring you back in one piece, too.That’s just as important to me.”
Now, inside the jostling metal coffin of a truck, Ricky reached up and tapped his earpiece, grounding himself with the faint crackle of open comms.
Static.
