Page 34 of Crossfire Creek Siege

Rena covered his six while Cal swept the perimeter with the scanner. Garrett moved to the hangar’s main doors, massive, steel-plated, with a keypad lock mounted beside it.

“Digital,” Garrett said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll have Isla crack it.”

He snapped a quick photo, sent it off. Seconds later, his phone buzzed with a reply. Garrett entered the code Isla had sent back, and the light on the keypad flicked from red to green with a soft beep.

“Door’s live,” he said.

Garrett scanned the doorway, slow and methodical. “No explosives, at least none my gear’s picking up.”

That didn’t mean he relaxed. Gage motioned for Rena to cover him, then eased the heavy door open. The hinges groaned, and a rush of stale, chemical-scented air spilled out.

Inside, the hangar was empty. Too empty. No crates, no tools, no signs of anyone around. Just a cavernous stretch of concrete that gleamed faintly under the slanting light from a row of grimy windows.

And the smell—strong enough to sting.

“Bleach,” Rena said, wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah,” Gage answered grimly, scanning the corners. “Someone power-washed this place clean. Down to the bones.”

Cal crouched, touching a faint puddle near the drain in the floor. “Still wet. They just finished.”

Gage’s jaw clenched. “Means they knew we’d come looking.”

He raised his weapon again, every sense on high alert. Whatever had gone down here, they’d buried it. Literally washed it away.

The low rumble of an engine cut through the silence.

Gage froze, head tilting toward the sound. It was somewhere beyond the hangar, too deliberate to be wind. Garrett signaled the others—hands up, guns ready—and they slipped back toward the open doorway.

A black pickup appeared at the end of the trail, dust pluming behind it. It slowed, then stopped a few yards from the hangar. The driver’s door opened, and a tall man stepped out. Broad shoulders, dark hair gone silver at the temples, tanned skin that spoke of too many years under a hard sun.

Brady Halden.

Hell. One of their suspects, standing right in front of them.

He looked better put-together than Gage expected. Clean jeans, tactical boots, a weathered field jacket. A man used to action, not hiding. His eyes, though, those were sharp and assessing, the eyes of someone who never stopped calculating.

Gage kept his weapon low but ready. “You want to tell me why you’re here, Halden?”

Brady raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Relax, soldier. I’m not here to start a fight. I’m here because I heard what happened at the Crossfire compound.” He nodded toward the hangar. “This place belongs to Rhett Danner. Not in name, of course. The deed’s buried under about six shell companies. But trust me, it’s his.”

“And how do you know that?” Rena asked as she stepped closer.

“Because I checked with people who know that sort of thing,” Brady snapped. “I know Noah suspects me. I figured I’d get ahead of it before Rhett Danner decided to make me his fall guy.”

Gage didn’t lower his gun. “So you just happened to show up at the exact same facility tied to the attack?”

A muscle ticked in Brady’s jaw. “I’m not stupid enough to think coincidence buys me much. But I want to make sure Rhett hasn’t done anything that puts me deeper in the fire.”

Gage studied him a long moment. The guy’s story could be true. Or it could be a neat little cover in case his DNA or prints turned up once Isla’s team swept the place. Come back later, pretend to be innocent, claim he was investigating.

Rena moved beside Gage, and like the rest of them, she kept her attention pinned to Brady. “Aren’t you supposed to be in an interview with Sheriff Chase right now?”

Brady glanced at his watch and gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “In about an hour,” he said easily. “Plenty of time for a scenic detour.” His gaze flicked between them. “So tell me, who’s the sheriff leaning on? Rhett? Corrine? Or am I the lucky frontrunner?”

Neither Gage nor Rena answered. Gage just stared him down, silent, letting the tension do the talking.

Brady exhaled, shrugged. “Yeah, thought so. Tight lips.” He took a step closer, unbothered by the guns still in play. “Look, I know every detail of my life’s being combed through right now. My accounts, my travel, my comms, hell, probably the brand of toothpaste I use. But I didn’t have anything to do with that attack. You can believe me or not, but I’m not your guy.”