I head toward the operations center where Kane is coordinating the strike plan. Focus on what I can control—taking down Kessler before he gets to Rachel and Lucas.
12
STRYKER
Three hours later, when Rachel appears at the gym asking if I'll teach her basic self-defense, the soft stuff forces its way back to the surface.
The gym is empty at this hour. Most of the team is in briefings or handling gear maintenance. Just Rachel and me and the weight of proximity.
"I'm not asking you to turn me into an operator," she says before I can voice any of the dozen objections rising in my throat. "I'm asking you to teach me enough that I'm not helpless. That if something happens and you're not there, I have options."
"Nothing's going to happen."
"You can't promise that. None of you can." She moves to the center of the mat, standing in what might be a fighting stance if she had any training. "So teach me. Give me something I can use if everything goes wrong."
I should refuse. Should maintain professional distance and tactical objectivity. Should not put my hands on her in any context that isn't pure protection detail.
But the determination in her eyes kills every reasonable objection before it can form.
"Fine," I say. "Basic self-defense. Escapes and strikes, nothing fancy. You're never going to out-fight a trained operator, so we focus on creating space and running."
"Agreed."
I move behind her, adjusting her stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, hands up but not tense. Her body is warm under my touch, muscles taut with nervous energy.
"Relax," I tell her. "Tension makes you slow. Breathe and stay loose."
She exhales, tries to loosen up. I can feel the effort it takes, the way her shoulders drop incrementally, the slight shift in her weight distribution.
"Show me what to do if someone grabs me from behind," she says.
I demonstrate the grip, wrapping my arm around her waist from behind in a way that's both textbook restraint and intimate contact. Rachel goes rigid in my hold, and for a second I think she's going to panic, going to flash back to Mateo or the cartel or any of the hundred reasons she has to fear being restrained.
But she breathes through it. Forces herself to stay present, to focus on the technique instead of the trauma.
"Step one," I say against her ear. "Drop your weight. Make yourself heavier, harder to lift. Most people try to pull away, but that plays into the attacker's strength."
Rachel drops her weight. I feel the shift, the way gravity becomes her ally instead of her enemy.
"Good. Step two, strike back. Elbow to the ribs, heel to instep, headbutt if you can reach. Create pain, create space."
She practices the movements slowly, learning the mechanics without real force. Each strike is controlled, careful, building muscle memory without injury. I walk her through it multiple times, adjusting her form, praising what works, correcting what doesn't.
"Again," I say after the sixth repetition. "Faster this time. Don't think, just react."
She resets. I grab her from behind, and this time her response is immediate. Weight drops, elbow drives back toward my ribs with enough force that I actually feel it through my shirt. Her heel stamps down toward my instep, and if I weren't already shifting my weight, she'd have connected hard enough to matter.
"Better," I tell her, stepping back. "Much better."
Rachel turns to face me, breathing hard, eyes bright with something that looks like triumph. "What else?"
"Front grab. Someone gets hold of your wrists." I demonstrate, gripping both her wrists firmly but not painfully. "What do you do?"
"Pull away?"
"That's what they expect. Watch." I show her the proper technique—rotating her wrists against my thumbs, the weakest point in my grip, then driving up and out. "Your turn."
She mimics the movement. Gets it wrong the first time, pulling straight back instead of rotating. I adjust her angle, guide her wrists through the proper motion. Her skin is warm beneath my hands, pulse visible in the hollow of her throat.
