Anders ignored him. "There are no charges pending. No investigations. What happened in that warehouse stays buried. No cameras. No witnesses. And no one wants to ask questions they don't want the answers to."
He paused.
"But stay sharp. Just because the threat is neutralized doesn't mean the danger's gone. Someone always tries to fill a power vacuum."
Bear shifted his weight near the back. "You'll call us if they do."
Anders nodded once. "You'll be my first call."
Ghost turned, the team falling in behind him as they walked out. Their boots echoed through the corridor in uneven rhythm.
Outside, the sun hit them full force. The base was already moving around them, MPs crossing the lot with purpose, helicopters prepping for extraction runs, the morning heat building.
Rachel stood beside Ghost at the edge of the lot, her face tilted toward the breeze, looking out toward the horizon.
"We did it," she said softly.
Ghost looked down at her. "Yeah. We did." He paused. "Let's go home, beautiful."
Rachel nodded, and they turned together. She tucked into his side without hesitation, his arm coming around her shoulders, hers wrapping around his waist. They walked back toward his truck like that, quiet, connected, and unshaken.
61
Rachel walked barefoot down the narrow path behind Ghost's house, her hand tucked into his. The trail cut through wind-swept brush, the salt air growing heavier with each step. The distant sound of surf grew louder. Sand clung to her toes, still warm from the day's sun.
Ghost stayed close beside her, silent. His hand wrapped around hers, thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin. He hadn't said much when they left the house, just held the door open, laced his fingers through hers, and nodded toward the path.
Now, as the dunes fell away and the ocean stretched wide before them, the chaos of the last few weeks felt distant.
The sun was low over the horizon, painting the water in gold and rose. Waves rolled in slow, rhythmic pulses.
Rachel exhaled slowly.
It had been weeks since the exposé dropped. Weeks since the warehouse. The headlines hadn't stopped. Neither had the calls, the threats, or the sideways praise wrapped in political spin. She'd expected the fallout. What she hadn't expected was how exposed it would leave her, how stripped bare she'd feel once the adrenaline faded and the spotlight refused to move on.
When they reached the shoreline, she let go of his hand just long enough to step into the wet sand, cool and firm beneath her feet. The tide slid in, touched her ankles, and pulled back again.
Logan stood just behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder, gave him a small, tired smile. "Walk with me?"
He didn't answer. Just stepped up beside her and matched her pace.
They moved in silence, their footprints trailing behind them in the sand. The hush of the surf was constant, soothing, repetitive.
Finally, Rachel spoke, her voice low. "I made a decision."
His fingers brushed against hers. A silent encouragement.
"Yeah?" he asked.
Rachel exhaled. The words stuck in her throat before she forced them free.
"I can't go back to war zones," she said quietly. "I won't."
There was no sharp breath, no objection. Logan simply watched her.
"I'm still a journalist," she continued, turning to face him fully. "That part of me doesn't change. I still want the truth. Still want to expose what's broken. But I have to do it differently. Smarter. Safer." Her voice wavered slightly. "For now... I'm taking a break."
