He pretends he’s just a tech guy.
Pretends he’s the weakest link on the team.
But the truth?
If I had to bet my life on one man making it through a firefight, one man finding a way out of an impossible corner, one man outsmarting and outlasting every son of a bitch hunting him—I’d bet on Halo.
Every damn time.
There’s a subtle shift in his posture, and a slight roll of his shoulders. The man’s gearing up. Pretending he’s not.
Halo’s a tech genius, but underneath the hoodie and sarcasm? He’s one of the deadliest bastards I’ve ever gone to war with.
Ghost walks up, flanked by Brass. The team leader looks from Halo to us.
“Green light,” Ghost says. “Wheels up in five, Halo. DC is waiting.”
Halo nods and salutes us—a two-finger flick off his brow. Then he boards the waiting jet. We watch him go until the taillights disappear into the rain.
“He’ll be fine,” Ghost says, though his eyes remain fixed on the jet.
“He’s going solo,” Brass mutters. “He hates solo.”
“He needs it,” Ghost says. He turns to me. “And you need to get out of my hangar.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Trying to keep you alive.” Ghost hands me a set of keys. “Your truck is out front. I had Torque bring it around. There’s a safe house in the Cascades. Fully stocked. Off the grid. No internet, no cell service.”
“Sounds like hell,” Talia says.
“Sounds like paradise,” I correct.
“Go,” Ghost orders. “Heal up. We’ll call you when the world ends, and we need you. And wewillneed you.”
I take the keys and shake Ghost’s hand, then Brass’s. Whisper gives me a nod from the shadows near the crates. Then, I take Talia’s hand, and walk out of the hangar.
My truck—a battered Ford F-150 that has seen more warzones than most tanks—sits at the curb. I toss the bag in the back.
I open the passenger door for Talia. She climbs in, settling into the worn leather seat as if she belongs there.
Which she does.
She belongs right beside me.
Partners.
I get behind the wheel. The engine rumbles, a familiar vibration that travels up my arms.
“The Cascades?” she asks as we pull away from the complex.
“Too quiet?”
“Maybe.” She pulls up the map on the console. “But I ran the probability of recovery times in high-altitude environments. Lower stress variables…” She looks at me, a smile playing on her lips. “It’s optimal.”
“You just want to see me chop wood.”
“That is a variable I’m considering.”
