Washed in the faint gray that came before dawn, the kitchen was already busy, though they hadn’t slept much.
His team rarely slept past daylight.
Memphis stood at the range, sleeves pushed up, frying pan in one hand, spatula in the other. Bacon from a grocery run sizzled loudly in the small room, the grease popping like static.
Phoenix lounged beside the counter, shoulder against a cabinet, watching the pan with a grin. “You sure that’s edible?” he asked.
Memphis didn’t look up. “Define edible.” He flipped the bacon, the motion quick, practiced.
“Something I can feed you in gratitude,” Phoenix said, tone all charm.
“Try that, and I’ll feed you the pan.”
He laughed, low and lazy. “See? Breakfast and entertainment.”
Memphis only shook his head, reached for another pan, and cracked two eggs one-handed. The smell of salt and smoke thickened the air.
Viper stepped into the doorway. The sound of boots on tile shut them both up. Phoenix straightened, grin still there butsmaller. Memphis flicked the burner off and wiped his hands on a towel.
“Morning, Colonel,” Memphis said. “Coffee’s fresh. Sort of.”
Viper poured himself a mug, scanning the blinds while he spoke. “It’ll do.”
Phoenix recovered fast. “He cooks like he fights—lots of smoke, minimal survivors.”
“Keep talking, and you’ll be one of them,” Memphis muttered.
Viper took a slow sip. Beyond the slats, the desert stretched pale and still—nothing moving. Nothing safe.
Viper left his mug on the counter and stepped outside. The door clicked shut behind him, muting the noise from the kitchen.
Out here, the world felt stripped to bone—sand, wind, and a horizon drawn in dust.
The air carried the chill that came before heat settled in. Light climbed over the ridge, thin and colorless. He adjusted his earpiece, eyes scanning the perimeter. The cul-de-sac ended in scrub and open sand, no traffic, no sound, no threats.
He moved in a slow circuit around the house—methodical, silent, every footfall measured. Habit more than thought.
Discipline check.
Containment.
A dog barked once in the distance, the sound carrying thin through the morning air. Beyond that—quiet.
When he circled back toward the kitchen windows, movement caught his eye. Inside, Titus sat at the table, back to the wall, coffee mug near his elbow. The man had stripped and cleaned his sidearm—parts lined up like pieces of armor.
He hesitated and lingered—a second too long, watching Titus reassemble the weapon—fast hands, clean motion.
Efficient. Titus handled the weapon like he’d never stopped training.
Viper had tried pulling his service record once—ACCESS DENIED past the enlistment date. Army. Ghost-level clearance. Figures.
Watching Titus now, a memory came quick—the jolt of impact, the hollow thud of the fridge behind Titus, heat caught between them—broken by the interruption before it could form.
Viper turned away, jaw set, forcing his focus back to the sweep.
Law’s voice drifted from the side gate. “All clear down this stretch.”
“It’s been pretty quiet,” Viper said, a faint grin flickering across. “Guess we live another hour.”
