I lean back in the seat. The tension in my shoulders begins to unspool, inch by inch.
I look at Diego. He’s scanning the mirrors again, but his posture has relaxed slightly. The minivan doesn’t demand the same aggressive handling as the truck. He looks absurd in this driver’s seat—a lethal weapon surrounded by cup holders and wet wipes.
“You realize I was right,” I say.
“About what?”
“The van. Social camouflage.”
He glances at me. “It was a valid tactical assessment.”
“You can just say ‘you were right.’”
“I just did. In my language.”
I smile. It feels strange on my face. Tight. “Your language is exhausting.”
“It keeps you alive.”
“Does it?” I turn in the seat to face him. “Or does it just keep everyone else out?”
His jaw tightens. The wall goes up. The Ghost.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Do, what?”
“Disappear. You’re sitting right next to me. Don’t go back to being a stat sheet.”
“I’m focusing on the road.”
“You’re focusing on the distance.”
I reach out. I don’t touch him—I know better than to startle him while he’s driving—but I rest my hand on the center console, close to his.
“Tell me about Cerberus.”
He keeps his eyes forward. “Private military contractor. Specialized threat negation.”
“That’s the brochure. Who are they? The people you work with.”
“They’re my team.”
“They’re your family.”
He flinches. Micro-movement. But I see it.
“We don’t use that word.”
“Why? Because it implies you have something to lose?”
“Because families die. Teams operate.”
“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He sighs. A long, ragged exhale.
“Ghost is the leader,” he says finally. Reluctantly. “He recruited me in Colombia. Pulled me out of a hole I dug for myself.”
