"Amen," came from multiple screens, and from the small woman standing beside her.
Sarah added her own quiet "Amen," but noticed Griff remained silent, his hands clenched on the table. His eyes were open, staring at something beyond the screen. She recognized that look—the struggle of someone who oncebelieved but couldn't anymore, who wanted to pray but found the words stuck behind walls of grief and anger.
"Bring our brother Ghost back to us safely," Deke continued, and Sarah saw Griff flinch slightly. "And thank You for sending Sarah to help us find the truth. We trust Your plan, even when we don't understand it. In Jesus' name, Amen."
"Amen," Sarah said more firmly this time, watching Griff's profile. His lips moved slightly, as if forming the word, but no sound came out.
Griff cleared his throat. "We should go. Long drive ahead."
"Stay safe," Ronan said. "All of you."
"Ghost," Deke added, his tone knowing, "Tank's faith was big enough to carry us all. Still is."
Something flickered across Griff's face—pain, longing, loss.
"Together," he managed.
"Together," the team echoed.
The screens went dark one by one.
Sarah watched Griff slump back, exhaustion and something else—spiritual exhaustion, maybe—written across his face. His team was coming. His family of faith and warriors, walking into a trap with their eyes open and, for some of them at least, with God's protection sought.
"That was beautiful," Sarah said softly. "Deke's prayer."
"Tank and Deke," Griff said roughly. "The team's conscience. Always praying, even when—" He stopped, unable to finish.
"Even when you thought God wasn't listening?" Sarah supplied gently.
He nodded once, sharp.
"He's still listening," she said. "Even when we can't pray. Even when we're too angry or hurt to believe. He's still there."
Griff stood abruptly. "We need to go."
Doc appeared with car keys, having given them a moment. "Ready?"
"Ready," Griff said, but Sarah heard what he didn't say—ready for the mission, maybe, but not ready to confront the faith he'd lost along with Tank.
Sarah touched her cross pendant, sending up her own silent prayer for the man beside her who'd forgotten how to pray but whose lips still tried to form "Amen."
Time to drive toward danger. Time to spring a trap on those who thought they were the hunters.
Time for justice—and maybe, Lord willing, time for healing too.
22
Griff stoodin Doc's guest bathroom, staring at his reflection in the antique mirror. The man looking back at him bore little resemblance to the operator who'd vanished six months ago. Hollow cheeks, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, stubble that couldn't hide the gauntness. The chemical burns around his eyes had faded to angry pink patches. About the only thing with his face going right, at this point.
His team had been kind about it. Professional. But he'd seen the looks they'd exchanged when they thought he wasn't watching the screen. Concern. Worry. The unspoken question:Is Ghost still solid?
He splashed cold water on his face, wincing as it hit the tender skin. Six months of hunting shadows, of carrying Tank's death alone, had carved pieces out of him he wasn't sure he could get back. The team had moved on—married, engaged, building lives. He'd stood still in a world of ghosts and vengeance.
Prove you're solid.
That's what Charleston would be about. Not merelystopping Buckley and Stillwater, but proving to his team that Griffin Hawkins was still someone they could count on.
A soft knock interrupted his spiral. "Griff? Doc wants to show me something. She says you should see this too."
