The sedan startsmoving.
I twist in my seat, keeping him in sight as long as possible. He's still standing there, still watching, still choosing me even as I disappear.
The Guardian HRS vehicles fade into the distance. The ranch house. The desert. The bodies and the blood and the violence of the night.
All of it falling away behind me.
"Where are we going?" I ask the coordinator.
"Can't tell you until we arrive. Security protocol." She glances at me in the rearview mirror. "But it's somewhere safe. Somewhere, the cartel can't find you."
Safe. Away from Tyler. Away from the cartel. Away from the life I used to have.
Away from Colt.
My hand finds the dog tags around my neck, and I hold them tight. Sofia's tags. His penance. Now mine to carry.
Two years.
I can survive two years.
I survived Tyler's betrayal. Survived the cartel. Survived learning that family means nothing when gambling debts mean everything.
I can survive missing someone I barely know.
Except I do know him. Know the way he moves in combat. Know the taste of him. Know the sound of my name on his lips—both names, Maggie and Magnolia, like they're both equally real.
Know that he chose me over protocol, over orders, over five years of guilt.
The coordinator is talking about the next steps. About the process. About what happens when we arrive at the safe house. I'm not really listening.
The coordinator reaches for my door, about to close it.
"Wait." I lean out. "Colt."
He’s still standing there, hands in pockets, watching me leave.
"Thank you," I call across the distance. Inadequate words for the man who saved my life, gave me truth, and chose me over protocol.
He doesn’t respond. Just touches his chest where Sophia’s dog tags used to be.
Where I’m wearing them now.
The door closes. We drive away.
I'm already thinking about a phone number on a blank card.
About a promise made in the pre-dawn darkness.
About two years feeling like forever and no time at all.
The sun breaks over the horizon, flooding the desert with gold and pink and the promise of a new day. A new life. A new identity that isn't Magnolia Brooks or Maggie Brooks but someone else entirely.
Someone who carries dog tags that don't belong to her.
Someone who already has a phone number burned into her brain for a lifeline.
Someone who's going to survive the next two years because at the end of them, she's going to make a call.
