“That simple?”
“That simple.” I meet her eyes. “Guns aren’t complicated. People make them complicated by hesitating, second-guessing, forgetting that the purpose of a weapon is to end a threat. You pull a gun, you’ve already made the decision. Everything else is just mechanics.”
She nods slowly. Tucks the Glock into the waistband of her borrowed tactical pants—awkward but determined.
“What else do I need to know?”
I spend the next thirty minutes walking her through the armory. Body armor and its limitations. Communications equipment and its vulnerabilities. The trauma kits that have saved my life twice—when to use them, and when to keep moving because stopping means dying.
She absorbs it all. Asks questions I don’t expect—not just how but why. Her lawyer’s mind dissecting operational reality.
By the time we leave the armory, something has shifted in her posture. Not confidence—not yet—but the beginning of competence.
The training facility is next.
It’s a converted warehouse space, high-ceilinged and industrial, with padded mats covering half the floor and a shooting range extending fifty meters into reinforced concrete. Weight stations cluster in one corner—heavy bags, kettlebells, the kind of equipment designed to build functional strength rather than aesthetic muscle.
Brass is already there.
He’s running drills with a heavy bag that’s seen better days, his fists connecting in a steady, punishing cadence. Left jab, right cross, left hook, right uppercut. The rhythm is hypnotic—violence distilled to its purest form.
“Morning, lovebirds,” he calls without breaking rhythm. Sweat gleams on his forehead, darkens the gray fabric of his workout shirt. “Sleep well?”
“Well enough.” I guide Cassie past the weight stations, toward the mats. “Where’s Ghost?”
“Communications room. Going over the insertion vectors with Torque.” Brass catches the bag on a final strike, stilling its motion. His breathing is barely elevated—the conditioning of someone who’s maintained combat readiness for decades. “They’re finalizing the flight path.”
“And Fuse?”
“He’s in the mess, eating everything that isn’t nailed down.” Brass strips off his training gloves, tosses them on a bench. His eyes find Cassie, warm with something that might be approval. “How are you holding up?”
“Still processing.” Cassie manages a smile. “Yesterday I was hiding in a car in Idaho. Today I’m in an underground military facility learning how guns work.”
“The adjustment period is brutal. I remember my first month here—I kept waking up in the middle of the night convinced the walls were closing in.” Brass crosses to us, rolling tension out of his shoulders. “Give it time. Your brain will catch up eventually.”
“How long did it take you?”
“Three months before I stopped jumping at shadows. Six before I felt like I belonged.” He glances at me. “Halo took longer. He spent his first year trying to convince everyone he didn’t need us.”
“I didn’t need you.”
“You needed someone to stop you from walking into suicide missions.” His voice is light, but his eyes are serious. “You were a one-man wrecking ball, Halo. All skill, no survival instinct. Ghost used to bet on how long before you got yourself killed.”
“He lost that bet.”
“He’s glad he did.” Brass turns back to Cassie. “Fair warning about Fuse—he’s going to flirt with you. It’s not personal. He flirts with everyone. I think it’s a coping mechanism.”
“Diego mentioned that. Something about a character flaw.”
“The man has many character flaws. The flirting is actually one of the less annoying ones.” Brass grins. “But he’s good people underneath the bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on things here while we’re gone.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Don’t appreciate it yet.” Brass’s grin fades into something more serious. “Nevada is going to be bad, Cassie. But you staying here … That helps. Knowing the intelligence is secure. Knowing we have someone on the outside analyzing what we find.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will.” Brass studies her for a long moment. Then he nods—a single, sharp gesture of respect.
