We dried off, dressing in silence, but her touch lingered, grounding me as we headed to the ops room, where my brothers and Quentin were debriefing the CIA.
The ops room buzzed, screens glowing with maps and intel, Ryker’s voice sharp as he relayed the plantation raid to a CIA contact on speakerphone. Quentin, calm and precise, outlined Marshall’s death, his role as a Department 77 operative, and the safehouse’s layout, his words painting a clean narrative for the Agency.
I leaned against the wall, Sloane beside me, my mind half on the debrief, half on Mom. Could she really be alive, working with the same bastards who’d taken Sloane?
The CIA contact confirmed Department 77 had gone to ground, their remnants scattered, and the Carringtons weresafe, with Quentin heading to debrief them with our agreed-upon story. I glanced at him as he left, his steady gaze meeting mine, and knew he’d be a solid ally, his loyalty to Sloane’s family now extending to us.
The debrief wrapped, the room settling, and I braced myself, the question about Mom burning in my chest, but Sloane beat me to it, her voice clear.
“What about your mother?” she asked, cutting through the silence.
The room went still, my brothers’ eyes flicking to me, then away, the air heavy with unspoken doubt.
Sloane didn’t back down, her voice rising. “It was real. I saw her, too—a woman in a white dress, dark hair, at the tree line. It wasn’t Charlie’s imagination, and I’ll deck anyone who says it was.”
Her defiance broke the tension, and I laughed, a raw, relieved sound that spread—Marcus chuckling, Noah smirking, even Ryker cracking a grin. Sloane’s eyes sparkled, and she laughed, too, the sound bright and free, cutting through the weight of the night.
I wrapped her in a hug, pulling her close, my lips brushing her ear as I whispered, “It’s gonna be okay.”
She nodded against my chest, her warmth steadying me, and for a moment, I believed it, the ghost of Mom fading under the reality of Sloane’s fire.
Then the ops room door swung open, and Silas walked in, his presence like a storm cloud, silencing the laughter. Silas, the cagiest of us, rarely home, always off on secret missions no one questioned, his dark eyes carrying a twisted edge.
He didn’t sneak in this time, didn’t take his usual place in the back, unnoticed. He strode to the center, his gaze locking on me, something new in his expression—shock, maybe, or fear.
The room went quiet, every brother tensing, because Silas didn’t announce himself, didn’t command attention, yet here he was, holding it. He cut to the chase, his voice low and raw. “Charlie was right. It was Mom.”
The word—Mom—sounded wrong from him, discordant, like a prayer from a heretic, and he held up his phone, the screen glowing with a text that stopped my heart.
He read it aloud, his voice steady but heavy: “It’s time to talk. It’s time to put this behind us. Silas first, and then the others. I’ll be in touch soon. - Mom.”
The hush that swallowed the room was a living thing, thick and suffocating, every brother frozen, their eyes on Silas, then me, the weight of decades crashing down.
Marcus broke it, his voice half-laugh, half-prayer. “Well, Holy Mary Mother of God, she’s back from the dead.”
I stood there, Sloane’s hand in mine, my mind reeling—Mom, alive, texting Silas, after abandoning us, after everything.
Was she with Department 77, part of their game, or something else, a ghost stepping back into our lives to unravel us?
I looked at Sloane, her eyes wide but steady, and felt her strength, her belief in me, anchoring me against the storm.
Ryker cleared his throat, his voice sharp. “How do we know it’s her?”
Silas’s eyes darkened, his phone still raised. “It’s her. I know her words, her way. She’s out there, and we’re on her timeline.”
I swallowed, the ops room’s screens flickering like warnings, and pulled Sloane closer, her warmth a shield against the chaos.
Mom’s return, Department 77’s retreat, the Carringtons’ safety—it was all connected, a puzzle I couldn’t solve yet, but I’d fight for answers, for Sloane, for my brothers. The CIA was on alert, Quentin was handling the Carringtons, and Silas’s bombshell had changed everything, but I wasn’t alone. Sloane’sfire, my brothers’ strength, even Quentin’s loyalty—we’d face whatever came next, together.
I kissed Sloane’s forehead, my voice low. “We’ll figure this out.”
She nodded, her eyes fierce, and I knew we would, no matter what ghosts rose from the past. The fight wasn’t over, but with her by my side, I was ready for anything.
EPILOGUE
SLOANE
Some mornings, I woke gasping.
