He shook the thought away and bent back to the papers.
“Sir.” Clinton reappeared, phone in hand. “The Secretary of Defense is on the line.”
Calls kept stacking like a card tower, always on the edge of toppling.
Dave spoke with William Caldwell for several minutes about one of their other specialty teams—Genesis.
By the time the call ended, he had approved one application and denied four, sending them back to Savage. He signed the last document from Clinton’s stack.
Coffee cooling, Dave stood and crossed to the bar. Santa Barbara might be his refuge, but the world always found its way in. And beneath the noise of duty was a quieter truth: the cost of his work wasn’t measured in missions. It was measured in the people he never let get close.
He reached for the coffee pot.
“Sir?” Clinton rapped on the partially open door again. “Your nine o’clock meeting starts in five minutes.”
Dave released the pot before he could even refill his cup and followed Clinton out of the study.
As they walked, Clinton’s assistant, Taylor, updated him on the upcoming trip to Washington. Taylor handed over a thick file just as he opened the meeting room door.
Inside, several members of Aries, another of his specialty teams, stood as he entered. Dave moved to the head of the table.
“Please, sit,” he said, settling into his chair.
Two hours later, the meeting adjourned. Dave left with King and Nash at his side.
“I’ll keep you informed about the Charleston issue,” King said.
“Here are those orders you wanted,” Nash added, handing him a yellow file.
“Thank you.”
They parted at the front doors. Dave returned down the hall alone, back toward his study.
He opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it harder than intended. The muffled echo rolled through the room. He tugged at his tie, the silk suddenly too tight, and crossed the space with heavy steps.
A faint coolness lingered at the windows, held back by the low crackle of the fire the staff had lit earlier. It wasn’t cold enough to need one, but he liked the ritual and had them lit as early as October.
“Boston? Freedom?” Dave called.
Silence greeted him. Normally, he’d find the teenagers curled up between the shelves with a book.
He moved toward his chair but stopped, gazing out at the tranquil garden beyond the window.
Then the world tilted.
He stumbled, bracing himself against the wingback.
A sharp pain stabbed beneath his sternum. His knee struck the side table, knocking coasters to the floor. His breath hitched—too shallow, too fast.
The room spun. Shelves blurred, photographs bent out of shape.
“What the hell,” he muttered, jaw clenched.
The pain deepened, knees buckling. He collapsed into the chair, dragging in air until, at last, the sharp edge dulled, retreating to a heavy throb.
He sat for several minutes, breathing deeply, calming down.
That was when the knock sounded—sharp and efficient—on the hidden passage door.
