Darrow held the stare for another beat, then gave a short, sharp nod that was anything but respectful. He turned and walked out, his departure leaving a void that felt cleaner than his presence had.
The spell was broken. People began to move again, the low murmur of conversation returning. But Breakneck had already made his decision. The debrief was over. The mission was done.
He pushed off the wall and started toward her, his path direct and unerring. He didn’t care about the protocols or the remaining onlookers. He saw the slight tremor in her hand as she gathered her notes, the deep, bone-weary exhaustion that was finally winning the war against her iron will.
He reached her just as she was turning, his presence a solid, unwavering force in front of her. He didn't say a word. He simply reached out, his fingers gently brushing her arm, a question and an answer all at once.
Her composure finally cracked. Her shoulders slumped, just for a second, and she leaned into his touch, a silent admission of weariness that she would show to no one else. "Jet," she whispered, her voice raspy. "I need to see him."
"I know," he said, his voice low and steady. "Let's go."
He stayed by her side as they navigated the lingering crowd, his hand a warm, protective presence at the small of her back. He was her shield now, allowing her to drop the armor that had gotten them through the day. They walked out of the sterile confines of the TOC and into the cool night air, leaving the ghosts of the operation, and the pettiness of men like Darrow, behind them.
The air in the barn was thick with the scent of hay, manure, and the coppery tang of blood that still clung to them. It was quiet here, a sanctuary from the sterile, buzzing tension of the TOC. Jet stood in his stall, his big head lowered, his breathing quiet and steady as he dozed.
Breakneck reached for a nearby feed bucket. “He’s had his ration,” Blair said, her voice soft but firm.
“I think he deserves another,” Breakneck countered, a small smile playing on his lips.
At the rustle of the bucket, Jet’s head lifted, his fatigue still visible, but his interest keen. Breakneck smiled, walked over like it was no big deal, and rubbed his forehead. Jet leaned into the touch and grunted softly.
Blair just stared at him with a fond exasperation. “You really are an amazing man.”
That hit him hard and he opened his mouth.
“Don’t even,” she said, walking over to him, her timing impeccable as always. “No humor deflection. No charming, aw, shucks. Just take it on the chin like the man you are.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Well, when you put it like that. I’d be a wuss to disobey.”
“Are we going to have another discussion about those cuffs?” she asked, her hand sliding along his jaw, her touch like a balm to his system.
“Are we?” he asked, reaching out and capturing a strand of her hair, rubbing the silky texture against the pads of his fingertips. “I hope so.”
Her eyes danced for a few moments, her caress tender. “Incorrigible.”
Jet snorted, and Breakneck looked over at him. “Sorry, hogging her attention.”
“I think it might be the oats he’s gotten his tail in a twist about.”
“Oh, right.” He looked at Jet, dead serious. “Blame her. She’s distracting me.”
The horse snorted again, as if to reiterate what Blair had just called him. Incorrigible.
Breakneck chuckled and filled the bucket, walking over to slide the contents into Jet’s feed bag. The horse dug in with a soft nicker. The vet had cleaned the long, deep cut on his shoulder, a wicked slice from the bodyguard’s knife, and bandaged it tightly. The horse was mostly just overworked, but a low thrum of pain radiated from him, a palpable thing in the small space.
Blair stood beside the stall door, her hand resting on the smooth wood, her body so still she looked carved from stone, watching Jet eat. The mask of the commander was gone, stripped away by the quiet of the barn, leaving only the woman who had sent her equine partner into danger and Beef’s beloved mount into surgery. Breakneck watched her, his heart aching with a need so profound it was a physical pain.
“We have them secured here. In individual holding cells, evidence logged, wounds cleaned, meals distributed. El Rey Del Norte—the King of the North—Hector Torres, the man who ran the pipeline; El Rey Del Camino—the Road King—Joaquín Montoya, the man behind Hell’s Eight muscle; and El Rey De Sombras—the Shadow King—Arturo Calderón, the man in charge of corruption, political influence, and bribes. Valdivia… the Money King… didn’t survive the pursuit.” She held his gaze. “Three of The Eightfold Kings in custody, and the cherry on top, Carlos Ramos, the North’s lieutenant. The man who ordered your torture and interrogation, ordered the attack on WILD HQ, killed four border guards, kidnapped Jacques Marques, and targeted Leo Tremblay and his family.” She met his gaze. “We’re going to interrogate them, find out how to get to the other Kings, and dismantle the whole thing.”
Breakneck nodded.
“The cost…two constables and one of our experienced mounts.” Blair released a shuddering breath. “The cost was too high.”
Then, the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor shattered the peace.
“Of course, you’re with the golden boy. At least he’s got clothes on this time.”
Darrow’s voice was a shard of glass in the soft quiet. He stopped a few feet away, his posture rigid, his face a mottled red in the dim light.
