They'd come here to gear up. To handle the threat. Because that's what they did—what they'd always done.
But the next generation hadn't waited for them. Hadn't needed them. The kids had mobilized faster, moved smoother, fallen into roles like they'd been doing this their whole lives.
Because they had. Because Finn and Zac and Gabe and Dorian had trained them for exactly this.
The old guard, watching the new guard take point.
Beside him, Zac let out a long breath. Gabe made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had any humor in it.
“Well,” Dorian said quietly. “Fuck.”
Nobody disagreed.
They weren’t the tip of the spear anymore. They were backup now. Second string.
This was the goal. This was the whole point of every lesson, every drill, every hard conversation about what it meant to protect the people you loved. Finn just hadn't expected it to feel like this. Like watching a door close on a version of himself he hadn't realized he'd miss.
The older men drifted into the room but stayed near the walls. Out of the way. Observing.
Theo reached for a specific rifle from the rack. Finn watched him check the chamber, the magazine, the sight.
“Good choice,” Zac murmured, low enough that only they could hear.
Gabe nodded. “Theo always did have good instincts with long guns.”
“Gets it from Dorian.” Finn kept his voice equally quiet. “Remember that op in Egypt with Boy Riley?—”
“I remember.” Dorian’s mouth twitched. “I also remember you complaining about my choice for three days afterward.”
“Because you were wrong.”
“I was efficient.”
“You were showing off.”
Bear selected a vest with integrated comms, then grabbed a sidearm from the secondary rack. Finn watched his son’s hands move with practiced ease—check, load, holster. The same hands that had fumbled with toy guns as a toddler. The same hands Finn had guided through his first real shooting lesson at the age of eight.
“He’s going for the Glock 19,” Gabe observed.
“Solid choice.” Zac crossed his arms. “I’d have gone with the SIG.”
“You always go with the SIG. It’s a character flaw.”
“It’s called consistency.”
“It’s called being set in your ways.”
“Says the man who hasn’t changed his carry weapon since 1998.”
Finn ignored them. His attention had shifted to Scarlett, who was running a final check on her own gear with the kind of focused efficiency that made her look ten years older than she was.
Gabe had gone quiet beside him. Watching his daughter.
“She’s good,” Finn said.
“She’s better than good.” Gabe’s voice was rough with something Finn recognized—pride so fierce it was almost pain. “She’s every bit the warrior any of us ever were. Better, maybe. She’s got all our training and none of our baggage.”
Scarlett caught her father’s eye across the room. Something passed between them—not words, just acknowledgment. Then she turned back to Theo, ready for orders.
