22 - Fresh Meat

22 - Fresh Meat

The second knock was firmer.

Thompson’s mind raced through possibilities. An attack? A setup? Or just another goddamn problem stacking on top of an already unbearable morning?

Shane moved first, stepping quietly toward the door, pressing his back against the wall. Aaron followed suit, standing off to the side, just out of view. Hera remained near the window, her posture tense but composed.

Thompson exhaled, forcing his pulse to slow. Then he opened the door.

A woman stood in the dim hallway, hands clasped in front of her apron.

Alberta.

The motel receptionist.

She gave them all a polite, albeit nervous, smile. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

Thompson didn’t relax. “What is it?”

Alberta hesitated, shifting her weight. “Well, I just wanted to let you folks know we’ve got an extra room available now. If you still want it.”

Silence.

For a second, no one spoke. Then Shane snorted, shaking his head as he moved away from the wall. “Christ, lady.”

Alberta blinked. “Pardon?”

Thompson ignored him. “Appreciate the offer,” he said, measured. “But we’re fine.”

“Oh,” Alberta said, nodding, “alright then.” She lingered for a moment before her eyes drifted past Thompson’s shoulder, scanning the room. If she noticed their tension, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she brightened. “You sure? I just thought I’d offer, since my son’s coming in this evening.”

Thompson frowned. “Your son?”

Alberta grinned. “Yep! Bringing in fresh meat. The kind that makes the best damn steak you’ll ever taste.” She chuckled, nudging a stray curl behind her ear. “Figured you folks might want to stick around for that.”

Another beat of silence.

Thompson could feel the weight of Aaron’s and Hera’s stares behind him. He forced a tight smile. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

Alberta beamed. “Perfect! Well, if you change your mind, you just let me know.” She gave them one last cheery nod before turning and strolling back down the hall.

The moment she was out of earshot, Shane let out a slow breath. “Jesus. Thought she was about to pull a gun.”

Aaron glanced toward the door before turning to Thompson. “You want me to keep digging into the red eye?”

Thompson nodded. “Yeah. And we all stay alert. If that SUV is still parked there, someone’s watching us.”

No one argued.

As the tension lingered, Thompson turned back toward his room. His mind was still tangled in the call from Jerome, the video, the Watchman’s mark. Too many moving pieces. Too many open wounds.

As he made his way to his room, he couldn't help the flurry of thoughts that surrounded his mind. They still had a job to do in Alaska. They're here to rescue the diplomats, not get caught in whatever is going on right now.

He walked into his room, feeling a wave of nausea sink into him.

He needed a second to think.

But his phone buzzed again.

Jerome.

Thompson shut the door to his room and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Tom, you at your laptop?” Jerome’s voice was sharp, direct.

Thompson moved across the room, flipped open the device, and clicked into his inbox. A new email from Jerome sat at the top. No subject line, just an attachment. His stomach twisted.

“Got it,” Thompson said.

“Watch.”

Thompson clicked on the file, and a grainy video filled his screen. The timestamp was from that day. The day before everything went to hell. The footage had been recorded inside his house—inside his living room.

His breath slowed.

The video was shaky, the camera angle tilted, as if whoever had been filming was hiding behind something. A few seconds in, it focused on two figures sitting on the couch.

Alex. His wife.

Ashley. His daughter.

Thompson’s throat tightened.

Alex sat beside Ashley, holding a tablet in her hands. The screen illuminated their faces in the dim room. Ashley had her legs tucked under her, leaning slightly toward her mother.

Then he heard the audio.

Alex’s voice. Soft, affectionate. “See? There he is.”

Then his own voice played through the speakers—his own goddamn voice.

A memory slammed into him like a freight train.

That call. The FaceTime with Alex and Ashley the morning before he left. He’d been on the plane, talking to them about how he couldn't wait to see them.

The same conversation was playing now, but from inside his house.

He could hear his voice through the static of the video. He could hear Alex's voice.

"You've always been the kind of guy who lingers in disbelief. I'm afraid this isn't a dream. You're coming home.”

“Five years was practically eternity. I'm never doing this again.”

Thompson remained frozen, watching the video, as if reliving a terrible memory.

“You were serving your country. I'm sure there's a medal of honor waiting for you back home.”

“Trust me, as long as I can see you and Ash, I couldn't care less about any medal.”

“You're on your way home, aren't you? I don't think anything is going to stop you from seeing us.”

“I've missed way too much.I can't wait to catch up with everything again.”

He gripped the edge of his desk, his stomach turning ice-cold.

Jerome’s voice cut through. “You see it?”

Thompson couldn’t speak.

Because he did see it.

The realization crawled up his spine like a slow-moving blade. Whoever had taken Ashley and killed Alex—whoever had done this—had been inside the house, hiding, watching, the entire time.

While he had been on the phone.

While he had been talking to them.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him as the screen cut to black.

Thompson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

“Tom,” Jerome said, voice lower now. “Talk to me.”

Thompson swallowed back the storm inside him. “Where did you get this?”

“Came in the package. Whoever sent it wanted you to see it.”

Thompson’s pulse pounded in his ears. Someone had filmed his family. Someone had known exactly where and when to strike.

And now, they were toying with him.

Jerome’s voice was gruff. “What do you want to do?”

Thompson stared at the black screen. His reflection ghosted back at him in the laptop’s glare.

“We find them,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “And we end it.”

Thompson sat motionless for a long time, his thoughts spiraling into places he didn’t want to go.

Then he closed his laptop, stood, and grabbed his jacket.

He needed air.

Stepping outside, the motel parking lot was nearly empty. The sky was overcast, thick gray clouds stretching endlessly. The cold bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. Anything to clear his mind.

He caught movement near the side of the building. Aaron was standing there, scanning the perimeter. The kid was alert, as usual. Good.

Thompson approached, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Anything?”

Aaron shook his head. “SUV’s gone. But that doesn’t mean much.”

Thompson nodded. “Stay sharp. Whoever that was, they’re not done.”

He remained still, watching everyone get to work, unable to talk to them about anything. They had serious work to do.

He couldn't tell them now that whoever had killed his wife was already in the house when he was on the phone with her.

The enlightening info he just received did less to nothing to calm his nerves. Instead it just made him even angrier.

Whoever killed Alex was already in the house when he called them.

And he couldn't see it. He couldn't save them. A calm determination slowly rose in him. He could fell himself say the words, even if under his breath.

"You're going to pay. You son of a bitch."