Fallon stands beside me, quiet and supportive, letting me find the words.
"I blamed myself for years. Thought if I'd been faster, stronger, better, I could have saved him." I turn to look at her. "But you taught me something. That I can miss him and still move forward. That living isn't betraying him."
My hand finds hers, threading our fingers together. "I think he'd like you. Would've appreciated the grumpy marine biologist who doesn't let me get away with anything."
She leans against me, arm wrapping around my waist. "Tell me about him. Not how he died. Who he was."
So I do. Stories about training, deployments, the stupid jokes Wade used to tell that never landed but always made us laugh anyway. His obsession with terrible action movies. The way he'd call his sister every week without fail, never missing a conversation no matter where we were deployed.
Fallon listens, occasionally asking questions, understanding without me having to explain.
"Thank you," I tell Wade's marker before we leave. "For being my brother. For teaching me what loyalty means. I've got this now."
And I do. Finally, genuinely, completely.
The drive back to base is quiet. Fallon doesn't ask if I'm okay, doesn't try to fill the silence with reassurance I don't need. She just holds my hand while I navigate familiar roads, understanding that some moments need space to settle.
The base command center buzzes with activity when we arrive. Personnel moving with purpose, preparing for the briefing Commander Hartwell called. I leave Fallon at her temporary office with a kiss and a promise to fill her in later, then head to the secure conference room.
Commander Hartwell stands at the front, surrounded by screens displaying information I can't quite make out from the doorway. Other personnel file in—faces I don't recognize, specialists from different bases, all pulled together for something significant.
One person catches my attention immediately. Dr. Gwen Abernathy, the trauma surgeon who treated Fallon at the base hospital. She's in civilian clothes today, dark hair pulled back in a professional ponytail, reviewing a tablet with the same focused intensity I remember from when she was checking Fallon's injuries. Someone bumps her chair and she looks up with an expression sharp enough to cut.
Thatcher walks in and stops dead. His eyes lock on Gwen. She notices, one eyebrow raising in challenge. He looks away but not before I see genuine interest flash across his face.
Interesting. Thatcher doesn't do interest. Too married to the mission, too dedicated to the work.
Griff slides into the seat next to me. "Dr. Abernathy's joining the task force," he murmurs, nodding toward her. "Medical liaison. Makes sense—she's got extensive experience with combat trauma patterns."
"Thatcher's already interested."
"Can't say I blame him. Woman looks like she could handle anything thrown at her."
I watch as Thatcher makes his way toward Gwen, introducing himself with uncharacteristic awkwardness. She responds with professional courtesy that doesn't quite hide amusement at his obvious interest. When he stumbles over explaining his role, she cuts him off with a direct question about operational protocols that catches him off guard.
"She's going to eat him alive," Griff predicts gleefully.
"Might be good for him."
Commander Hartwell calls the meeting to order. The screens light up with images—multiple military bases, incident reports, patterns that make my jaw tighten. Naval Station Norfolk. Camp Pendleton. Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Installations across the country, all reporting similar incidents over the past year.
"Rexford wasn't working alone," Commander Hartwell says without preamble. "He was part of a coordinated network targeting military infrastructure. We've identified cells operating at installations nationwide, all following similar playbooks. Gain access through legitimate contracts, identify vulnerabilities, sell data to foreign buyers."
She clicks through images. Contractors with base access. Equipment sabotage. Stolen research. Data breaches. The scope is staggering.
"We're forming a special task force," Commander Hartwell continues. "Multi-base, cross-functional, focused on identifying and neutralizing these cells before they can cause damage.Commander Lange, you'll be heading the maritime security portion. Captain Caine, you'll handle ground-based operations."
Thatcher nods acknowledgment. His attention keeps drifting to where Gwen sits, taking notes with focused intensity.
"Dr. Abernathy will serve as medical liaison," Commander Hartwell adds. "Her experience with combat trauma patterns may help identify personnel at risk of recruitment or compromise."
Gwen doesn't look up from her notes, but I catch the slight stiffening of her shoulders. She knows Thatcher's watching her.
The briefing continues with operational details. Timelines. Jurisdictional considerations. Coordination protocols. Hours of planning for work that will take months to execute. My mind catalogues information while part of me calculates what this means for Fallon, for the life we're building.
When we finally break, I head straight to Fallon's office. She's surrounded by charts and data, deep in analysis, but looks up immediately when I enter.
"Hey. How was the briefing?"
