Griff didn't startle—he'd heard Ronan approach. His team leader stood beside him, watching Sarah demonstrate something on her laptop that had Zara actually looking impressed.
"She’s collateral damage. Or would have been."
Ronan snorted. "Been there. Keep telling yourself that, cowboy." He paused. "Tank would have liked her."
The name hung between them, finally spoken.
"Yeah," Griff agreed quietly. "He would have."
"He wouldn't want you carrying this guilt."
"I know."
"But you're going to anyway."
"Yeah."
Ronan clasped his shoulder—the good one. "We all are. That's why we're here. To finish what he started."
Through the window, Charleston's skyline looked peaceful. Somewhere out there, Buckley was preparing his trap. In twenty-four hours, the summit would begin.
Griff looked at his team—his family—preparing for war. At Sarah, finding her place among them. At Doc, somehow corralling elite operators as easily as if they were errant children.
He'd brought them all into danger. Again.
But watching them work together, watching Sarah explainher discoveries while his team built plans around them, Griff sensed something he hadn't felt in months.
Not hope exactly. He'd learned better than hope.
But maybe something close to it.
Purpose. And the possibility that they might all survive this.
Tank had believed in impossible odds. Maybe it was time Griff remembered how to believe too.
"Alright, children," Doc called from the kitchen. "Breakfast first, war planning second. And someone needs to move that motorcycle with the 'Student Driver' magnet. It's visible from the street."
"That's Finn's," everyone said in unison.
"I'm still learning," Finn protested, already heading for the garage. "Motorcycles are different from dirt bikes!"
The team exchanged glances, and for the first time in three months, Griff found himself almost smiling.
They were idiots. But they were his idiots.
And tomorrow, they'd walk into hell together.
26
An hour later,fed and showered, Sarah sat cross-legged in the corner of the living room, laptops open around her like a digital fortress. Across the room, Knight Tactical had transformed the space into a tactical operations center. Weapons laid out. Ammunition counted and recounted. Body armor checked for the tenth time.
Kenji was bent over Griff’s bare shoulder, rebandaging his wound. “Simple scratch,” he announced. “You’re good to go.”
Griff grunted and slipped his black tee back on. “For that you went to med school?”
The slender man winked at Sarah. “I went to med school to learn how to handle jokers like you.”
Alex laughed. “You should ask for your money back, Kenj.”
