“Okay then.” He slaps Cassie on the shoulder, the gesture almost hard enough to stagger her. “Let’s go find Fuse. He’s probably holding court in the mess.”
The mess hall is utilitarian—metal tables, plastic chairs, a kitchen that’s seen decades of use.
The smell hits us first. Coffee and bacon and something that might be eggs, mixed with the industrial-cleaner undertone that permeates every military facility I’ve ever entered. It’s not appetizing, exactly, but it’s familiar. Comforting in a way that has nothing to do with quality.
Fuse is exactly where Brass said he’d be.
He’s hunched over a plate piled high with food—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, a mound of hash browns that could feed a family of four. He eats with the focused intensity of someone who learned long ago that you refuel when you can because you never know when the next meal is coming.
He looks up when we enter. Grins.
“Well, well.” He sets down his fork, leaning back in his chair. Fuse—Jonah Jackson to the IRS, though I doubt he’s filed taxes in a decade—is a wall of muscle built to endure the apocalypse. Dark hair, a face defined by sharp, angular features, and a permanent shadow of stubble that does nothing to hide the roadmap of scars on his skin. Burns. Shrapnel. Knife wounds.
He feels like a live wire in the quiet room, a grenade with the pin halfway pulled. Even sitting down, he radiates a volatile, kinetic energy that makes the air feel heavy.
“Look who finally woke up,” he announces, his green eyes flashing with gold flecks. “Morning, sunshine. Morning, Halo.”
“Fuse.” I guide Cassie to the seat opposite him. “Try not to corrupt her before coffee.”
“Corrupt her?” Fuse makes a show of looking offended. “I’m the picture of innocence. Ask anyone.”
“You set a man on fire last month,” Brass observes, sliding into a seat across from him.
“He was already on fire. I just—encouraged it.” Fuse winks at Cassie. “Don’t believe anything they tell you about me. Except the heroic parts. Those are all true.”
Cassie shakes his hand without flinching. “Diego said you handle demolitions.”
“Among other things. I blow stuff up, I shoot stuff, I occasionally engage in hand-to-hand combat with people who made poor life choices.” He gestures at the empty seats. “Sit. Eat. Thorne’s over at the supply counter, stockpiling enough ammo to invade a small country.”
Thorne is there, methodically loading magazines with the precise, efficient movements of a machine. He catches my eye, nods once, and goes back to work.
“He fits right in,” Fuse notes, buttering a piece of toast with unnecessary force. “Quiet. Scary efficiency. Likes knives. We’re going to get along just fine.”
We settle around the table—Brass and Fuse on one side, Cassie and me on the other. It feels domestic in a way that surprises me. Five people preparing for war, trading barbs, existing in comfortable proximity. Thorne joins us at the edge of the table, methodically loading magazines, his presence a quiet anchor.
“So,” Fuse speaks around a mouthful of eggs. “Seattle. Nice drive?”
“Long. Quiet.”
“Quiet is good. Quiet usually means nobody’s shooting at you.” He points his fork at Cassie. “You survive the boredom?”
“I slept most of it,” Cassie admits.
“Smart.” Fuse grins. “Halo’s playlist is mostly silence and brooding.”
“It is not.”
“It is.” Ghost doesn’t turn from the coffee machine. “I’ve ridden with you. It’s like a funeral procession on wheels.”
“I like the quiet.” Thorne doesn’t look up from his magazines.
Fuse points the fork at him. “See? He gets it.”
Cassie laughs, the sound bright and unexpected in the room. It draws eyes. Brass pauses midway through wiping down a table. Ghost turns, leaning against the counter.
“We missed you, rookie.” Fuse’s tone softens. “Place wasn’t the same without the drama.”
“I bring the drama?”
