He tapped his earpiece. “We were close enough to pick up your comms chatter when Jensen called in shots fired to Logan. We’ve been listening on approach.”
Julia’s eyes slid to me. “You called for backup?”
“I called my team,” I said. “He called the President.”
Her mouth almost curved. Almost.
Aaron nodded toward the door. “Let’s move this inside. Dawn’s a few hours off. I want a working board up before the sun even thinks about rising.”
I stepped back, letting them file in. Julia paused next to me on the threshold, looking up into my face.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said quietly.
I raised a brow. “Delta Five? The President? The fact that someone just tried to kill you again?”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the kiss,” she said, cheeks flushing faintly. “What happened in the truck. It doesn’t change the job.”
For a second, the noise inside faded. It was just her, damp hair curling around her face, bandage stark against her skin, eyes holding mine like she was daring me to argue.
“It changes everything,” I said softly. “But we can pretend it doesn’t. For now.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “We get through this first.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We get through this first.”
She stepped past me into the cabin, into the chaos of maps and files and men who’d seen too many wars.
I stayed on the porch a moment longer, watching the dark line of trees, listening to the distant rumble of thunder rolling away.
Copper Cove was no longer just home.
It was a battlefield.
And this time, the fight went all the way to Washington.
10
Julia
Iwoke to the sound of voices and the low hum of computers. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then the scent of coffee and damp pine brought it back—the cabin, Hawk’s team, Delta Five.
A blanket had been thrown over me sometime in the night. It smelled faintly like cedar and Hawk. His jacket, I realized. Of course.
I pushed it aside and sat up on the couch. The living room looked nothing like it had last night. What used to be a quiet space full of my memories of Hawk’s dad's cabin—old fishing trophies, faded curtains—was now an operations hub.
Cables ran across the floor. Laptops, comms gear, and a full tactical map pinned to the wall. The air crackled with quiet urgency.
Aaron Cole stood by the table, sleeves rolled up, pointing at red-marked satellite images. Miles Thorn was on a laptop, headset on, while Jace Dalton leaned against the doorframe, sipping coffee like this was just another day in paradise.
And Hawk—he was standing near the window, eyesscanning the woods like he expected them to move. When he turned and saw me awake, his shoulders eased just a little.
“Morning, Detective,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
“Define okay,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Last thing I remember was you arguing with Boone about radio frequencies.”
“Boone lost,” he said, deadpan.
Boone, from across the room, grunted. “Debatable.”
