Quinn snorts. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.”
The teasing continues, good-natured and relentless. They comment on my hair, on the jacket I’m wearing, and the fact that I apparently clean up well when forced to exist in public.
“You should see him in a suit,” Ava says. “It’s criminal.”
I have no idea where she saw me in a suit. Probably went digging into the photo albums.
Zane groans. “Can we not compliment him? He’s already smug enough.”
I glance at my reflection in the glass. If this is smug, I’d hate to see the alternative.
Eventually, the noise settles, and one by one, voices fade until it’s just Beck and me again, the background hum of Iron Stallion still audible but distant.
“You ever think about coming back?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. I watch a family pass by—parents herding kids toward a gate, arms full, faces flushed with purpose.
Then I turn back to Beck. “I wouldn’t know how to fit. I’ve been gone too long.”
He exhales. “That’s not how home works.”
I don’t argue, but I don’t agree either.
“I’m serious. If you ever change your mind… there’s a place for you.Always.”
“I know.”
It’s the closest thing to acceptance he’s going to get. We end the call after another chorus of goodbyes.
I pocket my phone and push off the column, scanning the space around me again. The world resumes its motion, Christmas lights blurring into color as I move.
The call with Beck lingers longer than it should.Home.The word means something different to me than it does to them.
I didn’t leave because I stopped loving them. I left because I know what follows me. Because I’ve watched enough good men bleed out on bad intel to understand that proximity is a liability. Because being absent is the cleanest way I know to protect the people I didn’t choose to lose.
Iron Stallion is full of life now. Kids running through hallways, women laughing in kitchens, dogs barking without fear because no one there expects the night to turn violent without warning. It’s a place built on continuity. I don’t bring continuity with me; I bring aftermath.
The thought settles deep as I board my flight, slipping into a window seat I selected for the view and the control. I stow my bag, sit back, and let the hum of the aircraft seep into my bones. Outside, snow dusts the tarmac, lights reflecting off ice in a way that’s almost beautiful if you’re the kind of person who pauses to appreciate it.
I’m not.
As more people keep boarding, the phone in my pocket vibrates. It’s my handler, so I answer without wasting a second.
“New mission?”
“No. Courtesy call. You have a minute?”
“You already called.”
He exhales softly. “Somalia’s come back around.”
That gets my attention. “Definecome back around.”
“The son,” he replies. “Yusuf Aden Barre’s.”
The name lands heavy, familiar in the way unfinished business always is.
“He’s hell-bent on revenge and making a point.”
