But this time someone lived.
Maggie lived.
And in an hour, she'll disappear into witness protection, and I'll never see her again, and that was always how this was going to end.
I just didn't expect it to feel like losing something I never actually had.
Maggie emerges from the ranch house, weapon slung, moving with that same controlled competence that's defined every interaction since I cut her loose. One of our medics approaches, starts checking her over, and she submits to the exam with professional patience.
Her eyes find mine across the distance.
Even from here, I can see the question in them.What happens now?
I don't have an answer that doesn't involve watching her walk away.
CJ claps a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's debrief. And Frost? Whatever you're feeling right now? Lock it down. She's a witness, you're an operator, and this is over."
But it doesn't feel over.
It feels like it's just beginning.
EIGHT
MAGGIE
The Guardianmedic is efficient and impersonal, checking my pupils with a penlight that makes my head throb worse.
"Concussion is mild," he says, fingers probing the wound on my temple. "You're lucky. Another inch and that pistol-whip could have fractured your skull."
Lucky. Right.
I'm standing in the pre-dawn darkness watching my brother get loaded into an SUV with a gunshot wound I gave him, while the man who saved my life gets dressed down by his team leader fifty yards away, and in an hour I'll disappear into witness protection with a new name and a new life and no way back to any of this.
Tyler’s eyes find mine across the distance. Even bleeding, even beaten, there’s no remorse in them. Just resentment.
"You always thought you were better than me," he says, loud enough to carry.
I wait for the grief to hit. The sisterly love. The hope he’ll apologize.
Nothing comes.
"I am better than you," I say quietly, not caring if he hears me. "Because I would never have sold you."
The medic continues his exam.
"Any nausea? Dizziness? Vision problems?" The medic is going through the checklist like I'm not actively dissociating.
"No. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're in shock." He wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm. "Elevated heart rate. Shallow breathing. Pupils dilated. When's the last time you ate?"
I try to remember. The warehouse. Three days ago. They gave me water but no food. Said I needed to stay alert to sign the papers.
To sign away my life.
"Three days," I hear myself say.
The medic swears under his breath. "We need to get fluids and glucose into you. You're running on adrenaline and spite."
