“Doesn’t feel temporary.”
“Never does.” He sat down beside me, close enough to grab the weapon if needed, far enough to show trust. “But you’re too valuable to waste. I need operators who understand the real cost of war. Who’ve been betrayed and survived. Who know the price of trust.”
That was three years ago. Now I calculate explosive yields and fuck strangers in bar bathrooms. Not healing, but functional.
And functional is all I need to be.
My phone buzzes. Cerberus priority alert.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the briefing room. Ghost looks exhausted. Brass and the others filter in, alert despite the hour. The wall display shows a woman’s face—angular features, dark hair pulled back, intelligent eyes that seem to see through the camera.
“Talia Singh,” Ghost announces. “Former FBI analyst. Two of her contacts are dead in twenty-four hours. Morrison was one of ours—the suicide was staged.”
“Phoenix?” Brass asks.
“Unknown, but probable. Morrison gave her our emergency contact before he died. She reached out seventeen minutes ago.” Ghost’s expression hardens. “Fuse, you’re on protection and extraction.”
He slides a tablet across the table. Her full file loads—FBI commendations, case histories, psychological profile. An analyst. Someone who provides intel. Someone who expects others to trust her assessments.
“A fucking analyst?” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Problem?” Ghost asks, but his tone says he already knows. He’s testing me.
The rest of the team exchanges glances. They know my history. Ghost sure as hell knows—he pulled my file, read every detail about Syria, about Mitchell’s betrayal. He knows exactly what putting me with an analyst means.
“No problem.” My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
But we both know better. She’s precisely the type of person I can’t afford to trust—the type who gets people killed with bad information, whether through incompetence or betrayal.
Ghost dismisses the others with a look. When we’re alone, he leans back in his chair, studying me.
“You’re wondering why I’m assigning you.” Not a question.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Because you’re the best at keeping people alive.” He pauses. “And because maybe it’s time you remember that not everyone who deals in intelligence is Mitchell.”
“That’s a dangerous assumption.”
“So is thinking you can operate forever without trusting anyone outside this team.” He slides another photo across—a crime scene in Morrison’s office. “She’s not the enemy, Jackson. She’s a witness. A victim. And right now, she’s breathing because Morrison trusted her enough to give her our number.”
“Morrison’s dead.”
“Not because of her. Because of what she knows.” Ghost’s voice hardens. “I need you functional on this. Can you handleprotection detail for someone whose job was intelligence analysis? Yes or no?”
The photo shows Morrison’s body, a staged suicide that any professional would spot as murder. He was solid. Trustworthy. One of the few outside Cerberus I could almost respect. And he died for trusting this analyst.
Or died protecting her.
“I’ll keep her alive,” I say finally. “But I’m not trusting her intel.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to keep her breathing long enough to figure out who wants her dead.” Ghost stands. “Maybe in the process, you’ll remember that betrayal isn’t the only possible outcome of trust.”
“Doubtful.”
“That’s not an order, Jackson. Just an observation from someone who recruited you out of a VA hospital with a loaded gun in your lap.” His eyes hold mine. “Sometimes the thing we resist most is exactly what we need.”
I study her photo during the flight to Chicago. Talia Singh. Brilliant analyst who sees patterns others miss. Probably thinks her assessments are gospel. Probably expects immediate trust and compliance.
