“Yes, Commander,” Burke said, the military terminology landing with the formality of an inside joke, and he did not look even slightly deterred.
I stared at the porch boards between my feet, trying to calculate what, exactly, I had pulled these people into. Gerald had money and connections and the absolute conviction that I was his. And now these men—these strangers who had taken me in without conditions—were talking about nuclear options and burial duties.
Decker’s hand came down on my knee, just briefly—not a gesture, just a point of contact. His eyes stayed on Burke’s face, the conversation continuing above my head, but the feel of his hand was real and present and exactly where I needed it to be.
“Now?” Burke asked, looking at Rawley with the eagerness of a man who’d found exactly what he was looking for.
“Now,” Rawley said, the single word carrying a weight that settled across my shoulders like a physical thing.
I sat on the porch steps, Decker’s shoulder nearly touching mine, and tried to make sense of what I’d become: not just a problem for these people to solve, but a situation serious enough to warrant the shorthand they’d dropped into, the loaded exchanges that happened above my head.
Whatever came next—whatever “nuclear option” meant in the context of men who’d served together and now lived on the same ranch—I had brought it here. I had been the thing that needed handling, the situation that required measures I didn’t fully understand.
Decker’s hand came down on my knee again, more deliberately this time—not a gesture, just a presence. “It’ll be okay,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear it. “Whatever happens next, you’re not facing it alone.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and tried to believe him.
Burke pulled out his phone with the confidence of a man who’d done this before and found it entertaining. He dialed a number, let it ring twice, then hung up without speaking.
The whole thing took less than ten seconds—dial, ring, ring, end—and then he set the phone on the porch railing and stepped back, hands in his pockets, watching it like it might do something interesting at any moment.
I stared at the phone, trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. No message. No voicemail. No conversation. Just a call that wasn’t a call, a connection that wasn’t a connection.
“Who did you—“ I started, but the question died when the phone rang, the sound so sudden and unexpected that I flinched hard enough that Decker’s hand came down briefly on my knee.
Burke picked it up without looking at the screen, swiped to answer, and put it on speaker with the casual confidence of a man who’d done this a thousand times before. “You’re on speaker,” he said. “I’ve got Steele, O’Reilly, Callahan, Reyes, and the package.”
The phone was quiet for a moment. Then a voice came through, calm and unhurried, with no greeting, just presence: “Go.”
Burke launched straight into it—the full account of my situation, delivered in the shorthand I’d been watching them use all evening. “Package is male omega, neonatal nurse, twenty-nine. Formerly at Omaha General until six months ago when the job disappeared. Subject—Gerald Hughs, Omaha-based—has fixated. Made multiple approaches, sent men when direct contact failed. Package relocated to grandfather’s property in Nebraska, subject followed. Package moved to Black Butte Ranch with Reynolds as escort. Subject located package today, made direct approach on property, was turned back. Currently operating on private charter out of Billings with at least two former military personnel as security. Package has expressed desire for permanent relocation and protection.”
I sat very still as my life was laid out for a stranger—the job loss, Nebraska, the men Gerald sent, the ranch, the timeline—all of it stripped down to its barest facts, presented in the clinical terms of a situation that needed handling.
Rawley filled in where Burke skipped over details: “Subject has connections that don’t show up in public records. Hospital board, police response times, at least two prior incidents with omegas settled with non-disclosure agreements.”
“Military background?” the voice—Sterling—asked.
“Only subject’s security detail,” Decker said. “Security consultant after discharge. Specializes in executive protection.”
The humiliation of the moment was physical—a weight across my shoulders, a tightness in my throat. I was a problem other people had to solve. A situation that required handling. A package that needed protection.
I stared at my hands in my lap and tried not to look at anyone, not wanting to see the expression on their faces—the careful neutrality that would mean they’d noticed how thoroughly I was falling apart.
Sterling’s response came without pause: “I can bring trainees along for field experience. HALO insertion, recon, extraction—“
“No,” Rawley cut in before the sentence was finished. “This isn’t a teaching moment. We need a solution, not a training exercise.”
The line was quiet for a beat—the silence of someone recalculating. “Fine,” Sterling said, the single syllable carrying enough weight to make it clear he wasn’t happy about the adjustment. “HALO drop, recon only, if we find the subject, we break his kneecaps, twenty-four-hour turnaround, done.”
Rawley groaned—a full, exhausted sound—and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Twenty-four hours,” he said. “Recon only. No contact unless the package is directly threatened. Then minimum force.”
“Understood,” Sterling said. “Bunks for seven. Twelve-hour ETA. Call if anything changes.”
The line went dead before anyone could respond, the finality of a man who said exactly what he needed to and nothing more.
The porch held a beat of complete silence. Rawley turned to Burke, his expression carrying a weight that made the air between them feel charged.
“Never,” he said, each word precise, “suggest this again. Not for this. Not for anything. Do you understand me?”
