She stepped closer and handed him the paper. He didn’t unfold it immediately. He just searched her face for fear… hesitation… or regret.
He found none. Only after that did he open the orders. His gaze moved line by line. When he reached the assignment location, he inhaled once. Deep. Controlled. “Niger.”
She nodded. “FOB Anaba.”
He kept staring at the paper. “Well. They didn’t waste time.”
Shannon chuckled. “Hunt said the same thing.”
Finally, he set the orders on the table and stepped in front of her. Not imposing, not looming, but as her father, trying to read all the pieces he couldn’t ask out loud. “You ready?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be if I hadn’t come here.”
Mike’s throat bobbed. “You’re not afraid?”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” she said. “But I know what fear feels like now. I know how to fly through it.”
That startled a small, tight smile out of him. He brushed a thumb along her cheek, the gesture light, reverent, barely there. “Your mother would be proud. And, Shan, I couldn’t be prouder. I watched you fight like I’ve never seen.”
The pressure behind her eyes prickled. She leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her, strongly and steadily. He didn’t speak for a long moment. When he finally did, his voice was low and rough. “You come back to me, Shannon.”
“I will,” she whispered.
“You come back whole.”
“I’ll fight to.”
“And you call me every damn day you can.”
She smiled into his shirt. “Of course I will.”
He kissed the top of her head like she was still eight years old and holding on to his hand at an air show. When they finally stepped apart, Mike cleared his throat and nodded toward the hallway. “Call your brother. He’ll be furious if he hears it from anyone else.”
Shannon ducked outside,the warm Louisiana air hitting her in a soft wave. She sat on the low stone wall near the courtyard fountain and dialed.
Sam Johnson picked up halfway through the first ring. “Shan? Everything okay?” His voice was steady and older now, but he was still her brother.
Something squeezed tight in her chest. “I got orders.”
Silence. Then sharper: “Where?”
“Niger.”
A long exhale.
She could practically see him running a hand over his short West Point regulation haircut. “When do you leave?”
“Ten days.”
“Are you ready for that?”
“Yes,” she said. “Really.”
“You sure you’re not saying that just to keep me from flipping a table?”
She laughed softly. “Not this time.”
