Smart and patient, that's how I survived Mateo's compound. Learning when to fight and when to submit. Learning when to hide my fear and when to use it. Building walls so high that nothing and no one could hurt me again.
And now Colton Stryker is back, and those walls need to be higher. Stronger. Impenetrable.
Because protecting Lucas means letting Stryker sleep on my couch and set up his security systems and do whatever tactical operator things he needs to do to keep my son safe.
But my heart stays locked away. That's the one thing the cartel couldn't break and Micah's extraction couldn't fix.
Some damage is permanent. Some walls exist for a reason. And some people don't get second chances no matter how much they might want them.
Walking down the hallway to Lucas's room requires composing my face into something calm and reassuring. Something that doesn't show the fear twisting in my gut or the anger burning in my chest or the memory of what it felt like to love Colton Stryker before he taught me that love is just another word for eventual loss.
My hand rests on Lucas's doorknob.
Time to lie to my son about the man sleeping on our couch. Time to smile and pretend everything's fine while Committee operatives hunt him through databases and security footage. Time to trust the man who walked away eight years ago with the only thing that matters.
The cartel taught me how to survive captivity.
Now Colton Stryker gets to teach me how to survive the Committee, the past, and him.
3
STRYKER
Rachel's neighborhood is too exposed.
I walk the perimeter of her property, cataloging vulnerabilities with the same methodical precision I've used in dozens of combat zones. Chain-link fence on both sides offers zero security. Low mesquite trees provide inadequate cover. Sight lines from the street give any observer a clear view of the front door, living room windows, and most of the driveway. Sitting at the end of a cul-de-sac limits escape routes to a single access road.
A tactical nightmare.
Committee operatives could set up surveillance from three different positions without Rachel ever knowing they were being watched. Could breach from the front or back simultaneously, box us in, eliminate any and all targets before neighbors even registered the sound of suppressed gunfire.
Eight years ago, I told myself walking away would keep her safe. Told myself that an operator like me attracts the kind of attention that gets civilians killed. Told myself she deserved normal, and normal meant someone who came home every night instead of disappearing for weeks on black ops missions I couldn't discuss.
Looking at this house now, at the soccer ball in the yard and the flower boxes under the windows, I realize how monumentally stupid that logic was. I didn't keep her safe. Wasn't there when she needed someone who knew how to fight the kind of evil that takes women for leverage and control.
Micah's team got her out. Micah taught her to shoot. Micah did the job I should have been doing if I hadn't been too much of a coward to admit I wanted her more than I wanted the mission.
My phone buzzes. Tommy's preliminary surveillance report loads on the encrypted app.Committee assets have been active in Tucson. Multiple operatives confirmed. They've been running standard search protocols through local databases, but nothing's pinged Rachel's address yet.
Yet.
I pocket the phone and head back inside. The security equipment in my duffel won't stop a dedicated assault team, but it'll give us warning. A few precious seconds to grab Lucas and Rachel and run for the truck parked in the driveway, already loaded with tactical gear and enough fuel to reach the safe house near the Mexican border—the emergency fallback if the Committee finds them before Tommy finishes building bulletproof new identities.
The front door opens into the living room, and I stop just inside the threshold. Really look this time instead of cataloging threats.
Photos cover every available surface. Magnetic frames on the refrigerator show Lucas at various ages—gap-toothed kindergarten smile, serious first-grade portrait, action shot of him kicking a soccer ball with his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Rachel appears in some of them, looking older than I remember but somehow more herself. Stronger.Harder. A woman who survived hell and came out the other side with a kid who still knows how to smile.
An older couple features in a few pictures—gray hair, kind faces, the man's arm around Rachel's shoulders in a way that speaks of protection and unconditional support. Parents, probably. Family I never met because I kept our relationship in a carefully controlled box labeled "temporary."
Lucas's drawings cover one entire wall. Crayon masterpieces of stick figures playing soccer, a house with a crooked chimney and flowers that are bigger than the windows, a dog that looks more like a horse. Kid art, bright and messy and full of the kind of innocence that shouldn't have to know about murders and Committee operatives with snake tattoos.
Books are stacked on the coffee table, the end tables, a small bookshelf in the corner that's overflowing onto the floor. Mystery novels mixed with parenting guides, a well-worn copy of "Misty of Chincoteague" sitting on top of what looks like a technical manual about home security systems.
Rachel built a life here. A real life with warmth and safety and all the normal things I convinced myself she needed from someone who wasn't me.
Turns out she built it without needing anyone.
"Are you a soldier?"
