Whisper nods at me without speaking. Then, quietly: “Your methodology on the Vanguard case was elegant, Ms. Brennan. I’ve been adjusting our protocols based on your approach.”
“You’re welcome. I think.”
Movement draws my attention to the left side of the room. A man is leaning against the table rather than sitting—a deliberate posture that I recognize immediately. He’s favoring his right side, his weight shifted to compensate for something wrong with his hip or leg. He’s a wall of muscle, built to endure the apocalypse, with dark hair and a face defined by sharp, angular features. His forearms are a roadmap of scars that he doesn’t bother to hide. He looks better than someone recently injured, but not fully recovered. Not 100%.
“Fuse,” Diego says, and there’s warmth in his voice. Relief. “You’re up.”
“Barely.” Fuse grins, but it doesn’t quite hide the tightness around his eyes. “Doc says another week of light duty. Ghost says Phoenix isn’t going to wait a week.” He shifts his weight, wincing slightly. “So here I am. Walking disaster, reporting for duty.”
Diego clasps his shoulder, careful but firm. “You’re looking better than when I last saw you.”
“You should see the other guys.” Fuse grins, a lopsided expression that doesn’t quite hide the volatility underneath. “Oh, wait, you can’t. Because I vaporized them.”
Despite myself, I smile. There’s something infectious about his energy—a refusal to let pain or fear dictate the terms.
Another man steps forward from a cluster of monitors. He’s built like a fighter pilot—compact, precise, with the kind of restless energy that suggests he’d rather be in the air than on the ground. His eyes are sharp, assessing, but there’s humor lurking in the corners.
“Torque.” He offers his hand. “Whisper and I just landed from Ramstein about two hours ago. Still got jet lag and bad coffee in my system, but I’m functional.” He glances at Diego. “Heard you had a hell of a week, Halo.”
“You could say that.”
“I could say a lot of things. Most of them would make Brass blush.” Torque winks. “Welcome to the circus, Counselor. Fair warning—I’m the only normal one here.”
“That’s categorically untrue.” Brass crosses his arms over his chest. “You once flew a helicopter through a sandstorm because you werebored.”
The others laugh—a shared, easy sound that speaks of long history. Torque grins, unrepentant, soaking up the attention like sunlight.
“That was one time.”
“It was three times. I have the incident reports.”
The banter washes over me—warm, familial, the easy rhythm of people who’ve bled together and survived together. But there’s one more person in the room.
I turn toward the back wall.
He’s watching the reunion with flat, unreadable eyes. The outsider. The man who saved our lives but doesn’t know if he belongs here.
Ghost steps away from the table. He walks over to Thorne, extending his hand. A gesture of respect from one professional to another.
“Ghost.” Thorne takes the hand. “I delivered the package.”
“You did more than that.” Ghost doesn’t let go immediately. He turns to the room. “This is Thorne. He’s the reason Halo and Brennan are standing here instead of dead in a ditch in West Virginia.”
Diego nods, his expression serious. “He’s solid. Handled the extraction, kept us off the grid. We wouldn’t have made it without him.”
Thorne looks uncomfortable with the praise, his jaw tightening. “No problem. Live to serve, serve to live.”
“Well, now you’re here too.” Ghost releases him. “Welcome to the party. It’s a mess, but the company isn’t bad.”
Thorne hesitates, then nods once, short and sharp. “Heard a lot about you guys. Eager to jump in and do whatever I can to help.”
Ghost accepts this with a small nod. Then he turns back to everyone.
“Now that we’re all here—Halo, Cassie. Walk us through it. Everything you found. Everything you learned.”
Diego and I share a look. Then he begins.
“It started with the financials.” Diego pulls up a file on the main screen.
