“Nice one!” Shamrock shouted with a wide grin.
After another round, Bear called them in. They dropped to the sand, breathing hard, the sun cutting through the early fog. Shamrock handed them bottles of water.
“Not bad,” Bear said. “Next time, use the tide to pull you, not fight it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Than muttered, wiping saltwater from his face. “I’m a flopping idiot fish to this guy’s sleek control.” He nudged Fly with his shoulder.
Fly laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, but I’ve been doing this my whole life. You’ll catch up, landlubber.”
“Yeah,” Shamrock said. “He reminds me of Bolt, and probably has gills just like him.”
Fly’s grin faded a little. “Most of my life, being good at something just made people look at me different,” he said, voice quieter now. “With you guys…it feels like I’m where I’m supposed to be.”
Than’s grin eased into something softer. “My grandfather calls that Wolakota.”
Fly blinked. “What’s that mean?”
“Balance. Harmony. Living right with the people who walk beside you.” Than shrugged, eyes on the surf. “Guess you found it.”
The beach went quiet for a second, only the low boom of waves filling the space.
Shamrock tipped his coffee cup. “Well, hell, Gallagher. Don’t get all misty on us.”
Than grinned. “He’s saying he loves us, Sham.”
“Too bad,” Shamrock said, deadpan. “I don’t like redheads.”
Their laughter rolled out, easy and loud. Bear felt it settle under his ribs, the sound, the word, the meaning. Fly hadn’t been the only one who needed to hear it.
Bear shook his head. “You two talk too much. Back to work.”
Than slung an arm around Fly’s shoulder. “Let me introduce you to surf torture, Lakota style.”
“This I gotta see, mate,” Fly said, punching Than in the ribs with a light tap before tripping him into the sand and sprinting for the water. “Keep up if you can, sugar cookie!”
Than was up in an instant. He caught Fly, locked him in a wrestling hold, and drove him into the surf.
Shamrock’s laugh carried down the beach, and Bear let the sound stay with him a moment longer before turning toward his gear. The word still lingered.
His phone buzzed inside the dry bag. Once. Then again. Bear pulled it out, checked the screen. Zorro? The guys!
Bear stepped a few feet down the beach where the surf could cover his voice. “Yeah.” He was braced for hearing that someone was down or worse.
Zorro’s voice came rough and tired. “Bear, I’ve got some news about Bailee, and you’re not going to like it, amigo.”
His stomach went cold. “Bailee?” Not the name he expected, and his grip on the phone tightened. “What’s going on with her?”
A pause. The kind that told him this wasn’t a scrape or a near miss. “Bailee went down in a helo crash. Two CIA support, both KIA. Pilots too.”
Everything inside him stopped. The tide still moved, the gulls still called, but the sound tunneled away. “Is she alive?” His voice came out low, crushed.
“Dios Mio, I should have led with that. Yes, she’s alive. Got a Mayday out. Minor injuries, all things considered. We got to her as quickly as possible. She was medevacked out. Balboa kept her a bit, then sent her home. Helen stayed three days to help.”
Bear’s jaw locked until it ached. “When did this happen?”
“Two weeks ago. Give or take,” Zorro said quietly. Static hissed between them. “If I hadn’t been downrange, you’d have known sooner. I’m sorry.” A breath. “Listen, she fought like hell. Left a trail of bodies behind her with one arm out of commission and the other wrecked. She…” His voice softened. “When she went under, she called for you. More than once. It’s been killing me that I couldn’t reach you.”
Bear turned toward the water. The horizon blurred, the salt in his throat sharper than it should have been. He wasn’t sure he could hold himself together.
