Dark roast, strong enough to strip paint, brewing in the industrial machine in the corner of the war room. The smell of normal. Or as close to normal as men like us ever get.
I lean against the doorframe, watching the room.
My arm is out of the sling, though the deep fascia sutures still pull tight in the muscle belly when I move too fast. The bruising across my left side has faded into a sickly yellow-green map of violence across my torso. I move stiffly, every breath a dull, heavy ache rather than sharp agony. I hurt, but it’s a good hurt. The ache of recovery, not the sharp sting of survival.
I scan the room.
The pack is all here.
Bronco sits on the edge of the conference table, dissecting a breakfast burrito the size of a small child. He argues with Rook about the aerodynamics of a drone prototype.
Wraith occupies the corner, cleaning his rifle. The repetitivesnick-snickof the bolt carrier group runs a rhythmic metronome under the conversation. He doesn’t talk much, but he smiles. A small, scar-twisting quirk of the lips. Contentment.
Cipher spins in his chair, vibrating with caffeine and frenetic energy, typing with one hand while gesturing wildly with the other.
But I skip over them.
I find the woman standing at the main console next to Hutch.
Iris.
She wears jeans and a black tactical pullover two sizes too big. Mine. Her hair sits pulled back in a messy knot, a pencil stuck through it. She looks tired. Those dark circles under her eyes match mine.
But she looks right.
She isn’t shrinking away from Hutch. She points at the screen, taps a file, and translates a medical coding discrepancy to the Chief of the Shadow Division with clean, practiced authority.
“The ICD-10 codes don’t match the pathology.” She traces a line of text on the monitor. “They list these transfers as ‘acute respiratory distress,’ but the pharmacy logs show they ordered heavy sedatives. Ketamine. Midazolam. You don’t give Midazolam for asthma. You give it to keep a patient quiet.”
Hutch nods.
“So they drug them for transport.”
“Exactly.” She meets his gaze. “It keeps them compliant. It stops them from asking for help in customs.”
Pride detonates inside me.
She didn’t just survive the fire. She walked out of it carrying the torch.
Bronco looks up. He spots me in the doorway.
“Look who finally dragged his ass out of bed.”
The room turns.
“Morning, sunshine.” Rook leans back against the table. “We were taking bets on whether you’d sleep till noon.”
“I was resting my eyes.” I walk into the room.
“You were unconscious.” Bronco points his burrito at me. “Iris threatened you with a catheter to get you to drink water yesterday.”
“I don’t recall that.”
“Convenient amnesia.” Cipher doesn’t look away from his screens. “Classic symptom of being whipped.”
“Watch it, Cipher.” I walk past his chair and flick the back of his head.
“Ow. Abuse. Workplace harassment.” Cipher rubs his scalp.
