By the time I’m back on the floor, suppression crews have made progress in the building. The smoke is still thick, but it’s lifting in torn strips instead of banking lower.
Weston is kneeling in front of T.J., hands on the boy’s shoulders, checking him over with an intense care that makes my throat tighten. Elena is kneeling beside them, holding her son’s hand, and Buck is right there, his arm wrapped around her shoulder.
Mae Whitaker approaches, stopping at a distance close enough to see that T.J.’s okay, but far enough to give the family privacy. Her coat is buttoned wrong, and her hair is a mess, but she’s alive and standing, glaring at the gym like she’d like to have words with it. Ed is beside her, a hand braced on her back.
Mae catches my eye and gives one short, sharp nod, and something in my chest gives way. I followed Buck to this town because the place I used to call home no longer felt like it. I didn’t particularly care where I lived when I got here, but the quiet isolation of Moon Ridge fit my state of mind.
Now, seeing Mae and Ed, and all the other people who are still here, doing whatever they can to help their neighbors, I realize this place is my home.
The loss of Tyler and our other teammates three years ago has sat inside me like an ember buried under ash, flaring with guilt, fury, and failurewhenever it got enough air. I figured I’d carry that heat forever, and maybe I always will, but not like before.
Not now.
Kozlov is dead. Elena is alive. T.J. is standing. Buck and Weston are here.
The family we built in the middle of all this ruin held strong.
Kozlov came here to burn down the future. Instead, he proved exactly how hard we’ll fight to keep it.
CHAPTER 45
ELENA
The house is quiet, and I still find myself listening for any creak or scratch or out-of-the-ordinary sound that might signal danger, even though we’ve been assured the threat has been fully eliminated.
The men’s federal contacts confirmed that Anton Kozlov had paid the extra men who fought with him. They weren’t loyalists. They weren’t out for revenge like he was. No one else is coming for us.
Nevertheless, it will probably be a while before I can enjoy a peaceful afternoon without part of me being on alert. Unless my men are with me. When they’re around, my body and mind relax in that deep way you only can when you know you’re completely safe.
Right now, T.J. is with Mae, Buck’s at the station catching up on heaps of paperwork, and Weston drove Calder to the Moon Ridge clinic for a follow-up check on his lungs.
All three men came out of the attack banged up. Buck and Weston were dealing with bruises, cuts, and mild smokeirritation, while Calder took the worst of it with enough smoke inhalation to send him to the county hospital.
He spent a few hours on oxygen in the ER the night of the attack, while they did chest imaging and ran the rest of their tests. Since then, he’s been using the inhaler they prescribed, resting when he needs to, and is expected to recover fully.
Weston offered to go with Calder to the clinic today for “moral support,” but I know the real reason is that they all wanted to give me privacy to open the box that was delivered this morning.
It’s been sitting on the coffee table, holding an emotional weight disproportionate to its size.
I carry it into the den, set it on the desk, and cut the tape with a utility knife. I put in a request for these items nearly two months ago, but I’m honestly surprised they’re here so soon.
Inside, everything is packed with sterile precision, and an inventory sheet lists the replacement medals, reissued award certificates, and a couple of duplicate photographs.
My throat tightens even before I start unfolding the foam packing. For several seconds, I stand there with my fingers resting on the edge of the box and let myself breathe through it.
The room Kozlov targeted in our home has been fully repaired, but some violations leave marks that can’t be scrubbed out or covered with fresh paint.
The medals I unpack are too new. The paper certificates are crisp instead of softened at the edges.None of this belonged to Tyler, but the things they stand for did, and that’s the important part.
I have a shelf waiting for them. Even though T.J. and I may not be in this small house much longer, I want these things out in the open instead of boxed away like the originals were after we moved here, when I was too sad to unpack them.
I place the medals on the right, in a new shadow box I purchased. The certificates go on the left in simple frames. I retrieve the jewelry box from the desk drawer, carefully pick up the blackened SEAL Trident, and place it front and center.
My hands were steady at first, but they’re shaking a bit now, and it only gets worse when I unwrap the photograph that was sent.
It’s a duplicate of the team picture. Tyler with Buck, Weston, Calder, and the others, their faces bright in the sun. Younger men, all of them, wearing the kind of easy expression that makes it hurt to know what was still ahead.
I sit down in the chair with the picture in my hand and stare at it until my vision blurs.
