Chapter 28

Operation 1

The next thirty-six hours stretch and blur.

I don't talk much. Not that anyone's talking to me anyway. I spend most of the first afternoon in the gym. Treadmill. Weights. Boxing drills against a sandbag. Anything that keeps my hands too busy to shake. I work until my arms tremble and my lungs sting. The burn silences my mind. It makes me feel like I'm in control of something, even if it's just my breath.

The dorm is full of unfamiliar faces—clean uniforms, tired eyes. A few nod when I walk in. Once, one actually acknowledged me. Hale, I think her name is, says something about the weather. I nod, and mumble something back. It doesn't go any further.

At night, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, thoughts running wild.

And then, it's the night before deployment. We're informed it's a 5AM start tomorrow. Some groan. It doesn't bother me. I won't be sleeping much anyways.

__________

By morning, I'm dressed before anyone else. Boots tight. Holster secure. No hesitation.

The team assembles in the briefing room at 0500 sharp. I look around and notice not everyone is here. Not everyone attends every operation apparently.

There are five of us stound round the table in the briefing room. The only familiar faces are Jefferies and Hale. The other three, I don't recognise. One is tall and built like a tank, while another has sharp features and a twitchy energy.

Styles walks in last, making us a group of six. He stands at the head of the table, and we turn to face him.

"All right," he says, dropping a folder on the table. "You've been briefed by Ward. You know what we're walking into. We've had eyes on this house for six weeks. Minimal activity. It's being used as a civilian front for Southside movement—logistics, weaponry, and small group planning. The male occupant is a confirmed associate of their inner circle. We believe he's storing weaponry and intel on site."

He flips the folder open and slides a more recent image across the table. It's the same house—only this time, the image is infrared. There are multiple bodies inside, some smaller heat signatures.

"Wife. Possibly children. There has been no sign of the target male in a few days. We enter, confirm presence of contraband or paper trail evidence, and take what we can. If there are people at the property, we detain and take them to custody for interview. This is recon, not warfare. I don't want this to get bloody unless necessary. That means no engagement unless ordered, save that for the interrogators. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," comes the chorus.

Styles looks around the room, lingering on each of us for a beat. His gaze lands on me last. He doesn't say anything. Just taps the table.

"Obviously I'm heading up this one. Sergeant River is my second in command. If there's any decisions to be made, they come by me first. But, if there's a call to be made and my comms are down, you go through her. Got it? Now, we've also got fresh meat with us today. River, Hale, McKenzie—this is Private Jefferies and Private Holton. They've transferred in as civilian conscripts."

With Styles delivering that news, we're met with a few disgruntled sighs.

Nevertheless, he continues, tone sharp but unapologetic. "I know it's not ideal. But they were trained by me, so their standards are high. Help me show them how we do things here."

"Yes, sir," the chorus repeats.

He reaches beneath the table and drags up a metal crate, dropping it with a solid thud onto the surface.

"Standard issue for this op," he says, flipping the lid. "Each of you take one set of zip cuffs, one comm unit, and a secondary—either a combat knife or a flash grenade, your choice. Don't fuck me off by asking for both."

We line up, one by one. Hale moves first, grabbing her kit with practiced ease. Jefferies goes next. Then it's my turn. I step forward, keeping my movements sharp and efficient, even though my stomach's tightening. Styles doesn't say anything, but he watches me the entire time. His eyes scan every twitch of my hands as I clip on the comm unit and slide the cuffs into my belt.

When I hesitate for half a second over the knife—just a breath, barely noticeable—his voice cuts through the air, low and deliberate. "Stick with the flash, Holton."

It's not a suggestion. I nod once and place the knife back. I don't see me using the flash either, but I feel more comfortable with that than the knife. Less lethal.

I meet his gaze, just for a moment. And then I fall back into line.

Styles nods once. "Let's go."

We move out.

___________

We travel by jeep to the location. Styles drives.

The drive is quiet. No chatter, no jokes. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional static crackle from the comms. My gear feels heavier with every mile. Like my vest, my boots, even my bones know what we're heading into.

My first war experience. How did I end up here. When did the world accept this as normal?

We pull up two blocks from the target—an unassuming semi-detached with cracked brick and a weedy garden. Ordinary, if you didn't know better. The jeep is parked out of sight, in the shadows.

Styles turns around to address us from the front seat.

"Standard entry protocol," he says, voice barely above a murmur. "Hale and I will enter first. We will sweep the property and clear it as safe for us to enter - no visible threats, no movement. Sergeant McKenzie partner with Jefferies - once we green-light, you both take the basement. It's likely where they're storing anything worth hiding."

He turns slightly. "Sergeant Rivers, you have Holton. You two take the upper floor. Bedrooms. Wardrobes. Drawers. Anything that looks out of place, you call it in."

His eyes flick to mine again, just for a second.

"Keep your comms open. If something feels off, trust it. No engagement unless authorised."

Styles checks his watch, then looks to Hale. "Let's move."

There's a tense minute where we hear nothing at all. Then a low crackle from comms.

"Property is clear. Signs of recent activity, but currently unoccupied. Proceed."

That's our cue.

Jefferies and McKenzie head down into the basement, rifles drawn, moving in sync.

Rivers nudges me forward, and we take the stairs one at a time, each creak underfoot sounding like a gunshot in the stillness. The hallway upstairs is cramped and dusty. Doorways lead off left and right.

We split—me taking the far end, her circling back toward the front of the house.

I try to step lightly, but the house groans under the weight of my presence. It's too quiet. The kind of silence that settles into your ears and makes your breath sound too loud.

This isn't just a house. People lived here. Ate dinner at the table. Laughed, maybe. Hid things. Planned things. The kind of things that get people killed.

I pass a child's room. I can tell because of the faded wallpaper—blue stars peeling at the edges. The bed's unmade. A stuffed rabbit lies face down on the floor. I freeze, staring at it longer than I should.

What the hell am I doing here?

I move on.

The next door is a bathroom. Empty, except for a toothbrush. I reach my hand out and touch the bristles gently. But my hand snaps back quickly. They're damp.

Someone has been here recently.

Or someone, is still here.

The hallway seems to stretch with every step. My rifle feels heavier in my grip. My breath tightens in my chest, shallow and uneven. Every doorway I pass, every shadow I glance into, I brace myself for something—someone—to jump out. But nothing happens. Just stillness. Dust.

Then, I hear it.

A sound I can't quite place. Faint. Above me. Not behind a door. Not from another room.

Above.

My gaze lifts. There it is. A square panel in the ceiling, half-concealed by the poor lighting. The loft. My stomach twists.

My finger hovers over my comms unit. But I don't press the button.

I hesitate for a moment, then I press a finger to my comm again.

"Rivers—"

I stop myself. What am I going to say? I think I heard a bump in the ceiling like a bad horror film?

It could've been the pipes. Old houses creak. I'm jumpy, that's all.

I glance back down the hall. Rivers is nowhere in sight—probably checking the master at the front. The comms are still quiet. I look back up at the panel.

I should call it in. I know I should. But what if it's nothing? What if I make a fuss, and it's a mouse, or a draft, or some ductwork shifting? My hands are sweating. My heart is hammering.

And still, I reach up.

There's a fold-out stick to reach the latch just inside the airing cupboard. I pull it out. The hatch gives with a groan and drops open. A dusty ladder unfolds, rickety and narrow. Every instinct tells me to wait. But something else—something sharper—cuts through the fear.

I want to prove I can do this.

I want to prove it to him.

Rifle secure, I step up the first rung.

Each creak of the ladder vibrates straight through my chest. The air grows colder the higher I climb, and dust hangs thick in the shaft, catching in my throat.

At the top, I push the hatch the rest of the way open and hoist myself up.

It's dark. No windows, just the faintest sliver of grey light filtering through a broken roof tile. The beam from my rifle-mounted torch cuts through the black, sweeping across insulation, old boxes, a mattress rolled up in the corner.

I pause. Listen.

Silence.

I take a step forward. Another.

Then I hear it again.

A breath. Soft. Shaky. Not mine.

I swing my torch to the left—and freeze.

A woman. Curled in the corner, half-hidden behind a stack of broken furniture. Arms wrapped tight around a boy. A child. Couldn't be more than six. She's shielding him with her body. Pale, wide-eyed. Terrified. Neither of them moves.

We stare at each other.

My voice gets caught somewhere between my throat and the barrel of my gun. I don't know what I expected—but it wasn't this.

"Please," she whispers. "Don't hurt him."

My grip tightens on the rifle. But I lower it—slowly.

Styles' words race through my mind. No engagement unless authorised. But then I look at them again. And this time, all I can think about is my own mother. What if that was her?

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. "You just need to come out. We're not here to kill anyone."

The boy clutches at her jacket. His eyes flicker between me and the weapon in my hands. The woman flinches when I step closer.

"I'm not who you're looking for," she says. "Please. I didn't do anything."

My training says to hold my ground. Stay silent. Let Styles make the call. But her voice keeps going. Quiet. Urgent.

"You're too young for this," she whispers. "You don't know what they're really doing, do you?"

My stomach flips. I tighten my grip on the Glock. No engagement unless authorised.

"Ma'am, please don't speak," I say, but it's weak. Unconvincing.

Her gaze locks onto mine. "You think we're the enemy? My husband—we don't have a choice."

I glance back towards the hatch, heart hammering.

"What do you mean?" I ask before I can stop myself. The words hang there. Heavy. Stupid.

"Southside, it's not what you-" she begins.

"Holton."

I freeze.

Styles is at the top of the ladder, silhouette sharp and unreadable. His voice isn't raised, but it slices through the air like a blade. His weapon is still slung over his shoulder, but his eyes are locked on the woman and child.

The woman shrinks further into the corner, trembling.

He climbs up, movements precise and steady. Each step deliberate. Controlled. He doesn't look at me, not yet.

He stops beside me and speaks quietly, so only I can hear. "What the fuck are you doing?"

I lower it properly this time. Hands shaky.

He walks past me, slow. Controlled. Drops to a crouch in front of the woman, his posture deceptively relaxed. But there's something in his voice now—an edge, sharp enough to draw blood.

"You were instructed to evacuate this zone two days ago," he says to her, quiet but firm. "There were checkpoints. Warnings. Leaflets. Patrols. You chose to stay."

Her lips part like she wants to speak, to argue, but he cuts her off before the words form.

"Don't bother. Save the breath for walking. You're lucky she found you first." His head tilts slightly toward me without looking at me. The woman clutches her son tighter. The boy hides his face in her jacket.

Styles doesn't flinch. "Grab your things. You need to come with us."

She hesitates—too long.

He straightens to full height, eyes hard. "Now."

It's not a shout. But it's enough. She scrambles to her feet, murmuring to the boy, her hands shaking as she gathers a small bag from behind the boxes. He gestures the woman and boy toward the hatch, his hand guiding them, not unkind but firm. They move slowly, the boy's legs awkward on the ladder.

As the woman lowers herself down, Styles says it under his breath—just loud enough for me to hear, his voice low and cutting.

"I actually can't begin to think about how many protocols you just broke. You're lucky it was me who is in charge on this. You're lucky you ran into someone vulnerable and with a conscious. Orders exist for a reason. Next time, don't be so fucking stupid."

My cheeks burn. I nod, barely able to meet his eyes. It hits harder than if he'd shouted.

He doesn't wait for a response. Just turns and descends the ladder after them, leaving me frozen in the silence of the attic.

And maybe it's the cold settling back in my chest, or the dust making my eyes sting, but it takes me longer than it should to follow.

Authors Note:

Hi! I hope you are enjoying the story so far. The drama is really going to start ramping up now she's in active service.

Thanks so much for all the reads so far. If you're enjoying the story, please like and comment. It's what gets me to keep writing. Thanks!

Love, Blaire. x