Buddy leaned back. “For you? Depends. You planning to pass out again? Because I’m not lifting you.”
Trent snorted and stepped inside. “No promises.” He lowered himself into one of the chairs with a wince he tried to hide. “I, uh… wanted to say thank you.”
“For what? You’re the one who got shot.”
“So did you.” Trent waved his hand toward Buddy’s leg. “I wanted to thank you for saving my mom.” Trent’s voice cracked the tiniest bit—just enough to betray how close he’d come to losing her. “For saving Fallon. For—hell—everything. You didn’t have to do any of it, but you did.”
Buddy swallowed, looked away for half a beat. Accepting compliments wasn’t his strong suit. “She’s family,” he said simply. “Both of you are. That’s the job.”
Trent huffed a laugh. “Funny. Thought it was your former job.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
A beat of silence stretched between them—comfortable, honest. Then Trent cleared his throat and sat forward, bracing his hands on his knees like a man about to deliver news no one asked for.
“One more thing,” Trent said. “If you ever hurt Fallon—emotionally, physically, accidentally, intentionally, spiritually, telepathically, in a dream or otherwise—I’ll kick your ass.”
Buddy blinked. “Telepathically?”
“Don’t test me, man. I’m creative when I’m pissed.”
A genuine laugh escaped Buddy—deep, unexpected, cutting through the last of the tension lodged under his ribs. “Duly noted.”
Trent stood, nodded , then gripped the doorframe for balance before limping out into the hall. Buddy watched him go, a quiet swell of relief settling under his sternum. Linda was still recovering, but she was safe. Still dying of cancer, but safe. And she would have those last moments with her son—on her terms. No one else's. That was something.
Trent was mending, and even though he could be a pain in the ass, he was one hell of a good man—the best. Buddy would hire him in a nanosecond.
Fallon… God, Fallon had survived the kind of night that carved scars into bone.
And she was still smiling.
He’d take the stitches, the bruises, the nightmares—every last piece of it.
A knock tapped twice against the door.
Buddy sighed. “If this is someone else threatening bodily harm, take a number.”
“It’s worse,” a familiar voice drawled. “It’s the federal government.”
Flagler stepped inside like the office owed him dinner—suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, and an expression like he hadn’t slept in ten years.
Buddy gestured toward a chair. “If you’re here to write me up, get in line. Dawson already tried.”
“I’m not here to write you up.” Flagler dropped a thick folder on the desk. “I’m here to tell you what the last seven days of federal chaos looks like on paper.”
“Right. Because I’ve never done that before.”
Flagler flipped open the folder. “The tanker was locked down. Miami PD, DHS, Harbor Patrol, and two pissed-off Coast Guard captains converged on the port. We recovered all thirty girls. Alive.” His voice softened for half a second. “Some are in rough shape, but alive.”
Buddy exhaled, tension loosening from his muscles.
“We also raided three warehouses owned by Quinn Porter,” Flagler continued. “Found evidence of long-term trafficking routes, international buyers, and encrypted manifests. The works. The entire pipeline collapsed in under two days.” He leaned back. “Biggest takedown I’ve seen in a decade. Bigger than yours.”
Buddy rubbed his jaw. “Good.”
“Good?” Flagler repeated, incredulous. “Ballard, this should be the part where you ask about commendations or promotions or at least enjoy the fact you took down one of the largest trafficking networks on the eastern seaboard.”
Buddy shrugged. “I’m not a fed anymore. And I didn’t do it alone.”
