Cooper
BROTHERS IN ARMS
The ceilingabove me is warm, honey-colored wood—exposed beams that speak of craftsmanship. My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat—steady but manageable, and wrapped in enough gauze to stop a freight train. The other wound pulls differently in my abdomen—deeper, with surgical tape and drainage tubes that I don’t remember earning.
Must have taken another hit during the tunnel chase.
Adrenaline masks a lot of damage in the moment, but the body keeps score. The IV in my left arm pulls slightly when I shift, clear fluid dripping from a bag suspended above my head. Morphine, probably. Enough to dull the edge but not enough to compromise my awareness.
Still alive. That’s something.
This isn’t what I expected to wake up to. No institutional green walls or fluorescent lighting humming its eternal electric song. Instead, floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of snow-capped peaks that stretch beyond the horizon. The bed beneath me feels like it belongs in a five-star resort—memory foam and Egyptian cotton instead of military-issue linens. The room smellsof cedar and fresh mountain air filtering through what must be a high-end ventilation system.
Where the hell am I?
My mental inventory runs automatically: my shoulder is immobilized but functional, my ribs are sore but not broken, my legs are responding to commands, and my fingers are flexing around phantom weapons. The body armor saved me from worse damage, but the blood loss nearly finished what Phoenix started.
Eliza.
Did she make it out? Yes—I remember watching her climb that telescoping ladder, the way Guardian operatives hauled her up into the van with swift, coordinated movements.
She is safe.
The extraction comes back in fragments—my own climb up that ladder, how my arms shook with each rung, the way everything hurt by the time I reached the top. Then the van’s red interior lighting, medical equipment that belonged in an emergency room spread throughout what looked like a converted ambulance, only bigger. Everything after the tunnel firefight blurs into pain and darkness.
The door opens with a soft click of quality hardware. Ghost enters first, his imposing frame filling the doorway, followed by the familiar bulk of Halo, who trails behind. Both men move with the confidence of operators in their own territory, but I catch tension around Ghost’s eyes—the kind that means debriefings and damage assessments are waiting.
“About time you rejoined the living,” Halo says, settling into the chair beside my bed with a grin that doesn’t quite hide his relief. “Had us worried there for a minute.”
“Takes more than a couple of bullets to put me down.” My voice comes out rougher than expected, throat dry from whatever they used to keep me under during surgery. “Eliza?”
“Safe,” Ghost answers immediately, understanding the priority. “Guardian HRS extracted both of you clean. Phoenix lost the trail.”
The tension in my chest eases for the first time since I regained consciousness. She made it. The mission parameters were satisfied—principal extracted alive.
Threat neutralized.
Objective completed.
So why does relief feel incomplete?
“Package secure?” I ask, falling back on operational terminology because it’s easier than admitting personal investment.
Ghost’s expression shifts slightly—not disapproval, but recognition. He’s been reading people long enough to know when tactical concern crosses into something more personal.
“Package is more than secure,” he says, pulling up a second chair. “She’s been working with Guardian HRS’s technical team for the past eighteen hours. What she decoded …” He pauses, choosing words carefully. “Changes everything.”
Halo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Your professor cracked something big. Bigger than we thought when we sent you in.”
The door opens again, admitting Jackson and the rest of the team. Fuse looks like he hasn’t slept—dark circles under his eyes, tactical vest still in place like he came straight from another operation. The concerned expressions around the room tell me more about my condition than any medical chart.
“Jesus, Whisper,” Fuse says, taking in the bandages and IV setup. “You look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder.”
“Should see the other guys.” The old joke falls flat, but it’s what they expect—proof that whatever happened didn’t break anything essential.
“What’s the count?” Ghost asks, settling into command mode.
“Nine confirmed down during the safe house breach. Three more in the tunnel system during extraction.” The numbers come easily, muscle memory cataloging threats eliminated versus ammunition expended. “Phoenix tactical teams. Professional work, but they underestimated urban warfare complications.”
