Page 63 of Crossfire Creek Siege

“Targets down,” Beck reported, his voice clipped, breathing heavy. “All four stopped.”

Cal muttered, “Hell of a way to stop a convoy.”

The chaos was indeed brutal, efficient. “But it worked,” she said softly, more to herself than to the others. “Let’s hope no one else has to pay for Corrine’s war.”

Rena leaned closer to the monitor, her pulse a steady drum in her ears. The live feed from Beck’s chopper showed a streak of flashing red and blue tearing through the night. County deputies arriving fast, their sirens fracturing the quiet. The four Hummers sat crippled along the dirt road like beasts gutted mid-charge. Two were on their sides, one buried nose-first in a ditch, another stalled crosswise across the road, smoke bleeding from the hood.

Dust still churned in the rotor wash as Beck hovered low, his spotlight sweeping across the wreckage. The comms crackled with layered voices. Deputies shouting commands, operatives calling out positions, the faint metallic clatter of weapons being kicked aside.

“Hands where I can see them,” a deputy barked over the open line.

Another voice, Colt’s, cut in from Team Two. “We’re securing the perimeter now.”

Rena blew out a long breath. Relief didn’t come easy, that’s for sure. Her body stayed wound tight.

The view shifted as Beck banked, circling once before lowering the helicopter to the ground. The rotor wash whipped up the dirt again, sending the deputies ducking their heads and shielding their eyes, but it worked. Anyone still thinking of running would have to get through a wall of spinning blades and men with guns trained on them.

“No one’s going anywhere,” Beck reported.

On the screen, she could see the suspects being dragged out of the Hummers, their faces half-obscured by masks, hands bound behind their backs with zip ties. The flashing lights from the cruisers threw everything in stuttering color—red, blue, red, blue—across the twisted metal and the armed silhouettes of law enforcement.

The moment Cal pulled to a stop on the road, Rena and the rest of the team climbed out of the van. The air smelled of oil, burnt rubber, and the acrid bite of exhaust still settling.

Cal and Garrett were already moving ahead, checking IDs while Isla set up her portable console to start logging data. Rena’s gaze swept the wreckage. Four Hummers, all disabled, their heavy frames scarred by dust, bullet pocks, and the rough stop Beck’s helicopter had forced.

The men who’d been inside the Hummers were all on the ground now, wrists bound behind them, their faces slick with sweat and frustration. They looked like soldiers, but there was no unity in them. Just hired muscle.

“Their leader’s gone,” Gage said, his voice carrying enough weight for everyone nearby to hear. “Corrine Astor is dead.”

The words hung there a beat, a single, hard fact cutting through the noise of radios and sirens.

One of the mercs, a stocky man with a shaved head and a busted lip, spat into the dirt. “Figures,” he muttered. “She stiffed us on the rest of the pay.”

Another, still kneeling, laughed darkly. “Guess that means the job’s officially over.”

Rena stared at them, disgust rising like bile. No loyalty. No conviction. Just greed. Corrine had bought their violence the same way she’d tried to buy her revenge, and they’d taken the money without a second thought.

“You were willing to kill kids for a paycheck,” she said, not really expecting an answer. The stocky man looked away, jaw tight, saying nothing.

Gage’s voice hardened beside her. “You’re done. Every one of you.”

Deputies moved in then, guiding the men to their feet, cuffing them tighter, reading rights as flashlights and cameras documented everything. Isla’s drone hovered above, recording every angle, every face.

As one of the deputies led the last man away, Rena exchanged a look with Gage, tired, fierce, unspoken. They’d stopped the attack. Crossfire Ops was still standing.

“I’m heading to the hospital to check on Sheriff Chase,” Noah said through the comms. “You all finish cleanup and head in for debrief. We’ll regroup once I know more.”

The rotors of his helicopter built into a low roar overhead, the wind whipping through the scene as he lifted off and veered toward town. Rena watched until the sound thinned to nothing but the hum of engines from the remaining cruisers.

Deputies were securing the last of the prisoners, loading them into transports under Team Two’s supervision. The road was a wreck of dust and scorched gravel, but for the first time that night, the air didn’t feel like it might split open.

“Load up,” Cal called out to them, and Garrett, Gage, and she all headed to the van. She was glad to get out of there. Glad to get started on the wrap-up.

When Cal finally steered their van back toward headquarters, the silence inside said everything words couldn’t. They were exhausted. Alive. Barely running on adrenaline and grit. Isla sat with her laptop balanced on her knees, fingers still moving even though her eyes were glassy from hours of strain. Garrett stared out the window, and Rena could tell he was counting every second until they reached home base.

Crossfire Ops loomed into view like a dark fortress against the moonlight. Once they parked, everyone automatically fell into motion, back through the corridors, boots echoing on the polished floors, heading toward the briefing room to file their reports and face whatever came next.

Gage stopped just short of the door, and Rena barely had time to turn before his hand closed around her arm, pulling her into him. His vest brushed hers, and she felt the warmth of his body even through all the gear.