The archaeologist was pregnant with Rivera’s child? And she’d written him a letter about it? Had she shown up tonight not because of her cameras—it had seemed like a far-fetched excuse—but because she wanted to slip Rivera the letter? Had she interrupted a military op so she could pass him a note like she was in middle school?

And why was their captor so damn happy about this turn of events?

The man spoke again. “This changes things. I need them both alive. Bring me the woman, and I’ll pay double what I promised for Rivera.” He lowered his voice, but still, it carried in the quiet room. “I will cut her while her lover listens to her screams.”

Chapter Thirteen

Chris let out a birdcall, even knowing it wouldn’t carry far over the tapping of the rain. The never-ending downpour cloaked them from the tangos in the forest, but it also made it difficult to find the other Fire Teams.

Four hundred hours and they were in the rendezvous area. All four teams should be here. He was certain the others had come across signs of trouble as his team had. They hadn’t taken the lodge. They hadn’t reached a single objective as it had been laid out for them on Whidbey Island.

Where was Rivera? Where were Cohen and the other trainers? Were they all in the lodge—real hostages and not the fake ones they’d been promised yesterday?

Surely someone was free if the guy with the snapped neck was any indication. The body had no weapons, which meant the trainer who’d taken the guy down had a gun that fired real bullets.

Good for him. It meant the platoon had an armed ally. Now they all just needed to find each other.

Chris made the call again. He waited several minutes, then tried again. When that failed, they changed positions and repeated the process. Finally, after thirty minutes, an answering call came.

Ten minutes after that, a third team checked in.

Three Fire Teams gathered deep in the woods. With no small amount of relief, Chris counted twelve uninjured men, including himself.

They just needed the fourth Fire Team to show up.

As the minutes ticked by, they shared the intel they’d gathered. Chris and his men learned of downed trees blocking the road—something that was strictly forbidden as part of this training. The trees here were old growth, the forest protected by state and federal law.

More disturbing was the news of another body, this one an older man with a Vietnam vet tattoo on his forearm. He’d been found by the back door of a yurt. The man had his throat cut wide—leaving his head barely attached.