Page 7 of Crossfire Creek Siege

Outside, something metallic scraped against the hangar wall. Slow, deliberate. And Gage knew with absolute certainty that whatever had come in on those choppers wasn’t done yet.

Gage’s gaze swept the hangar, cataloging what they had. And what they didn’t. Hell. No real weapons. The racks were empty. Even the training weapons had been swapped out for laser-tag gear, the safeties and bolts locked away to keep the teenagers safe. He didn’t need to ask who’d made that call. It was standard procedure for civilian events.

Standard. Safe.

And right now, completely useless.

He checked his belt. His Glock was still there, thank God for habit. Beside him, Rena had hers too, the metal catching the light from the still-flickering birthday candles. Across the room, Noah and Owen followed suit, each weapon coming up smooth and steady, practiced motions even in the dark.

“Ruby, come in,” Owen said into his comm. Static crackled back, sharp and empty. He tried again, louder. “Ruby, do you read?”

Nothing.

The silence felt thick, the kind that crawled under the skin.

Rena glanced at Gage, her mouth a tense line. “Comms are still jammed.”

“Yeah.” Gage scanned the walls again, every sense on alert. The kids huddled near the training barricades, whispering now, their earlier laughter gone.

Noah moved toward them. “Everyone, stay calm,” he said, his voice even. “We’ll get you out of here.”

Gage wanted to believe that.

He tightened his grip on the Glock, its familiar weight grounding him. Outside, the choppers had gone silent, but he could feel the vibration still, like thunder rolling closer under his skin.

A sound cut through the heavy silence. Metal flexing, the low groan of pressure on steel. Gage spun toward the hangar doors, gun up, and his breath stilled.

Then came voices. Men’s voices. Muffled through the wall but close. The cadence was crisp, purposeful. The kind that came from people used to giving orders and carrying them out under fire.

Movement followed. Boots. The rasp of gear. The dull, heavy clang of something being set against the door.

Gage’s stomach dropped. “Someone’s trying to get in,” he said.

Rena’s reaction was instant. “We need to hide the kids.”

Noah’s head snapped up. “Do it. Now.”

They broke into motion, training taking over where panic wanted to. Owen grabbed the nearest cluster—four kids frozen beside the mock obstacle course—and steered them toward the far side of the hangar.

“In there,” Owen ordered, pointing toward a concrete culvert used for low-crawl drills. It was half buried under a tarp and equipment crates, big enough for them to squeeze inside. “Stay low, stay quiet.”

The kids scrambled in, the sound of their quick breathing echoing inside the narrow tunnel.

Noah had Lily by the shoulder now, her face pale and frightened but holding it together better than most. He motioned for four more to follow him toward the old storage alcove near the utility corridor. It was lined with tool chests and spare gear. It wasn’t much, but it offered cover.

“Keep your heads down,” Noah told them. “Don’t move unless I come for you.”

That left two, one boy and one girl, who panicked before anyone could reach them. They bolted in opposite directions, sneakers squealing on the concrete.

“Wait—” Rena started, but they were already gone, vanishing behind the stacked cargo pallets and training barriers.

The noise at the hangar door intensified. Metal grinding, something heavy snapping under strain.

Gage’s pulse kicked hard. He ducked behind a steel beam, checked the Glock’s chamber, and he met Rena’s eyes across the dim light.

The noise at the hangar doors built into a deep, mechanical roar. Metal screeched, bolts gave way, and Gage could feel the tremor through the floor. The kids were huddled where they’d been hidden, eyes wide, hands clamped over their mouths to keep from sobbing.

“Quiet,” Noah said, voice low but steady, the kind of command that cut through panic. “Everyone, stay down and stay quiet.”