She went home and packed for an extended stay in the United States. Six months. That was what she could claim at the border before anything official had to be decided. Nothing short of standing in front of him and telling him how she felt about him would do. Six months to see if the man who had cracked her open was the one meant to hold her steady.
If he wasn’t? She would turn the trailer north and drive home secure in the knowledge that she had done her best to make him understand that she was his.
But if he was?—
Her mouth curved.
Then Virginia would never be the same.
“Breakneck or bust,” she murmured. Then softer, with a smile. “I’m coming for you, you beautiful bastard.”
Breakneck sat on the edge of the sofa, carefully easing his weight to avoid pulling at the stitches along his side. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled into a house and took root. Sunlight cut a pale rectangle across the hardwood floor, illuminating dust motes drifting like tiny, weightless ghosts.
The air carried the faint, clean scent of fresh laundry and the distant hum of a refrigerator, small, domestic sounds that felt foreign after the sterile hush of Walter Reed.
Rose’s arms around him. Her tears. The way she’d kissed his cheek over and over, thanking him like words weren’t enough. The twins, God, the twins, barreling into his legs, loud and alive, climbing onto his lap like they belonged there. He’d almost lost it then. Almost cracked clean in half.
Ice was healing. Being discharged tomorrow. Grumbling already. Normal.
Breakneck needed that normal. Needed the return to work, to structure, to the rhythm that had always held him together. Routine. The word sat wrong in his chest. Routine was what was left when everything else was gone.
A sharp knock sounded.
He rose stiffly and went to the door and opened it.
The woman who waited on his small porch was in her mid-forties, crisp uniform, sharp eyes that missed nothing. His JAG representative since this whole thing got started, Lieutenant Gwendolyn Teasdale. He nodded. “Ma’am. Come in.”
In the living room, they sat. “I’ll get right to it,” she said. “Your case is closed.” Something in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. “The footage corroborated your account in full. Self-defense. Defense of others. Preservation of evidence. There will be no mention of you or Master Chief Snow in any public reporting. Our official statement names only Carver and Jones.”
He felt that familiar twinge at the mention of Jones. He hadn’t wanted to examine it too closely right afterward, but now he had to be honest with himself. The man’s death still hurt. Partly at the betrayal he never saw coming, but also because they had made a connection Breakneck couldn’t quite discount. He would just strip that down, realize that Jones got caught up in the promise of all that cash, and even though Breakneck couldn’t understand that kind of greed, he understood human nature.
“The DEA director is…having a bad week,” she added dryly. “There will be a DOJ investigation. None of it involves you.” She slid a folded paper across the table. “This is from the prime minister.”
Breakneck took it carefully, the paper crisp between his fingers. He scanned the words. Exemplary. Above and beyond the call of duty. Professional conduct under extreme threat. It felt strange seeing himself reflected like that, formal, distant.
“This commendation has been forwarded to the president, JSOC, and Lieutenant Commander Lindstrom for inclusion in your record,” Teasdale said. “Do you have any questions?”
He dropped his gaze, looking at the rug beneath his bare feet. Only one. How the hell am I supposed to live without Blair Brown? JAG couldn’t help him with that. “No, ma’am,” he said quietly.
She studied him for a moment, then leaned back. “Now that I’m no longer representing you, I want to say this.” He looked up. “If there had been even a sliver of doubt after I reviewed that footage,” she said evenly, “I would have moved heaven and earth to clear you.”
“Thank you for that. They gave me no choice.”
She nodded. “I know. You did what SEALs do in that instance. You assaulted, and you saved yourself and the master chief.” She stood and offered her hand.
He rose carefully and clasped it, a spark of his old self flickering. “Does this mean I can call you, Gwen?”
She smiled, quick, genuine, and shook her head. “No. Though it’s tempting.”
“How about saluting, ma’am? Do I get a pass?”
“That’s a Navy rule. Not under my purview.”
“Typical lawyer response.”
She chuckled, releasing his hand, moving toward the door. “I wish you all the best.” She paused, turned back. “Thank you, truly, Petty Officer Gatlin. It’s been a pleasure.” Then, softer, “Thank you for your service.” The door closed behind her, the click echoing in the stillness.
Breakneck stood there for a long moment, the letter still in his hand. Cleared. Commended. Protected.
