I dry my face on my shirt. Take three more box breaths. Check my pupils in the mirror—equal and reactive, no worse than earlier. The cut on my temple is still clean, no signs of infection despite the circumstances.
I'm okay.
Not fine. Not healed. Probably won't be fine for a long time.
But okay enough to survive the next few hours.
Okay enough to fight.
I open the bathroom door.
Frost is sitting just outside, weapon in hand but lowered, positioned where he can cover both the door and the window. He doesn't ask if I'm okay—smart man, knows that's a stupid question.
Instead: "The cartel's coming. I can feel it. We need to get ready."
"Then let's get ready." My voice is steady. Steadier than I expected. "Because I'm not dying in this desert for Tyler's gambling debts."
Something shifts in Frost's expression. Not pity—respect, maybe. Understanding.
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
I move past him to the table where the weapons arelaid out. Pick up the AR-15. Check the magazine, chamber a round, and verify the safety.
Muscle memory. Familiar. Comforting.
This I understand. This I can control.
I can't control that my brother betrayed me. Can't control that I loved someone who saw me as nothing more than collateral.
But I can control this weapon. Can control my breathing, my aim, and my trigger discipline.
Can control whether I survive what comes next.
Outside, thunder rolls. The storm is getting closer.
So is the cartel.
And I'm ready for both.
FOUR
FROST
I watchher shatter in real time, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I've seen this before. Delivered this kind of news before. Watched people's entire realities rewrite themselves when they learn someone they love isn't who they thought.
It never gets easier.
"He's the only family I have," she manages finally.
"Had." I correct her, and the past tense lands like a killing blow.
She flinches. Actual physical recoil like I hit her. Then she's pacing, to the window and back. Caged animal energy, nowhere to go, nothing to fight.
I stay seated. Give her space. Let her process.
She makes it to the wall, turns, and paces back. Her boots scuff the floor, rhythmically and harshly. "Explain it to me. All of it. How this works. How my brother—" She can't finish the sentence.
