But okay.
A knot unspooled in his chest, warm and fierce and full of faith restored.
Norah lifted her face, smiling through tears. “Told you he’d find a way.”
Marshall looked up at the sky, at the unwavering scatter of stars, and felt peace settle—real, steady, God-given.
Marshall wasn’t afraid anymore.
Not of the waiting. Not of the unknown. Not of the future. He wasn’t in control, and he was okay with that.
He felt God’s peace settling over him like a warm breath.
He typed a message back.Where are you? You can trust me.
But the message went nowhere.
“Come home soon, little brother,” he whispered. He had no intention of waiting very long to make Norah his wife. But he desperately wanted his brother to be standing next to him when he did.
BONUS EPILOGUE
JACKSON KELLEY
OFF THE COAST OF MIAMI
The boat pitched gentlyunder him, the steady thrum of the engine carrying it over the chop. Every small jolt knifed through his ribs, a pulse of pain he couldn’t outrun. Jackson wiped a streak of dried blood from his forearm with the back of his hand, muttering when the movement pulled at the gash along his side. He wasn’t sure whether he’d cracked a rib or just bruised it, but it didn’t matter. Pain was background noise now. A companion who never abandoned him.
He kept the running lights dim—just enough for a few fishermen in the distance to mistake him for another night cruiser, not enough for anyone with a thermal scope to mark him as something worth investigating.
Miami glowed brightly on the horizon. Warm and alive with the vibrant colors of this city.
He hadn’t planned on coming this close.
Of course, he hadn’t planned on a lot of things. Like getting framed for an assassination attempt and a missile spoof that almost caused a nuclear holocaust.
Jackson leaned against the railing, breathing through the tightness in his chest as he stared toward the shortest building in the cluster of lights—the one with temporary construction scaffolding still clinging to its bones.
Black Tower’s new office on Brickell Key.
Marshall’s new command.
He had to believe that Marshalldidn’tbelieve what they were saying about him. The thought was one of the few that kept him going.
He’d told himself he only needed to get within signal range. To send one clean, untraceable burst. Just enough to let his brother know he was still breathing. Still fighting.
But when he’d gotten close—when he’d watched through his binoculars, debating what message to send—he’d seen the two figures on the roof.
Marshall and Norah.
He’d typed his message into the close-range encrypted push relay.
I need your help. You owe me for that thing in Denver with the bull.
And then Marshall had dropped to one knee. And Jackson had forced himself to delete it.
Forced himself not to imagine climbing the emergency stairwell and stepping onto that roof, not to imagine Marshall turning and seeing him standing there, alive.
He couldn’t do that to them. Not while a target was still painted on his back.
