ONE
SIN
The sun hangs low over the horizon like a bloodshot eye, casting long shadows across the cracked tarmac of this godforsaken private airstrip just outside El Paso. The desert wind howls in fits and starts, whipping up dust devils that twist and dance like drunken spirits before collapsing into nothing. I lean against the side of the blacked-out Tahoe, arms crossed tight over my chest, trying to ignore the grit settling into every crease of my tactical pants. I’ve been in worse spots—sandstorms in the Middle East, monsoon floods in Southeast Asia—but this? This feels like a special kind of hell. A family reunion disguised as a mission, or maybe the other way around. Either way, I’m already regretting every damn life choice that landed me here.
My brothers are scattered around like pieces on a chessboard, each one moving with that Hawthorne precision we’ve all honed over years of chaos. Nash, the eldest, is at the center of it, barking orders like he’s still in command of some black-ops unit. “Banks, get that satellite feed up— I want eyes on the approach roads before we roll out.” His voice cuts through the wind, steady and unyielding, the way it’s been since we were kids and he stepped up after Dad vanished.
Banks nods without looking up, his fingers flying over the laptop perched on the hood of the Jeep. “On it. Signal’s spotty out here—desert interference—but I’ll patch it through the booster.” He’s the tech wizard, always has been, turning code and circuits into weapons sharper than any blade.
Crewe’s off to the side, binoculars pressed to his eyes as he scans the perimeter. He’s the strategist, the one who sees three moves ahead. “Clear on the north ridge. No heat signatures. But that wash to the east could hide a sniper if the light drops fast.”
Jace and Colt are unloading duffels from the back of the second vehicle, trading barbs like it’s a sport. “You packed enough C4 to level a mountain, or you planning on building one?” Jace grunts, heaving a heavy bag to the ground.
Colt smirks, slinging his own gear over his shoulder. “Better than your lightweight bullshit. What, you bring hair gel instead of ammo?” They’re the youngest, the muscle twins, built like tanks and twice as unbreakable. Watching them, you’d think this was just another op, not the hunt for the ghost that’s haunted us all since Mack was fifteen and the rest of us were scrambling to fill the void Dad left.
And then there’s Mack. He’s standing a little apart from the group, staring at his phone like it’s a live grenade. He’s been off since he touched down—distracted, quieter than usual. I know why. Indigo. The supermodel who turned our stoic brother into a lovesick fool in under a week. Good for him. Love looks solid on the guy. But right now, with his jaw clenched and his thumb hovering over the screen, it looks like it’s tearing him up inside.
I push off the Tahoe, boots crunching on the gravel as I walk over. “She text back yet?”
He glances up, eyes shadowed. “Yeah. Just... saying goodbye again. Hates that I’m out here.”
“Smart woman.” I clap his shoulder. “But we finish this, you go home to her. Simple.”
He nods, but there’s a flicker in his gaze—doubt, maybe. Or something heavier. Mom’s words from that airport showdown still hang over us all like a bad omen.Don’t go. Let him stay dead.I shove the thought down deep, where it joins the pile of crap I don’t let surface. Feelings are liabilities. They cloud judgment, slow reflexes. I’ve learned that the hard way—one too many close calls overseas, watching buddies bleed out because someone got emotional on the trigger.
Nash finally folds the map, looking up from the hood. “Alright, listen up. Lead’s solid—mining camp two hours north, near the border. Intel says a guy matching Dad’s description was spotted there six months back. Tall, scarred cheek, limp he picked up... somewhere. Could be a drifter. Could be him. We go in quiet—recon only tonight. No contact unless it’s confirmed. Sin, you’re riding point on the approach. Eyes sharp.”
I nod once, already mentally mapping the terrain. “Copy. I’ll take the ridge line, flank east. If there’s movement, you’ll know.”
He studies me a second too long, that big-brother radar pinging. “You’ve been quiet, Sin.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter than usual. Something eating you?”
I shrug it off. “Jet lag. And Mom’s text last night didn’t help.”
The group stills a bit at that. Crewe lowers the binos. “What’d she say?”
“Same as what she told Mack. Don’t chase him. Let him stay dead.” I spit the words out like they taste bad, because they do. Mom’s always been the rock—raising seven of us after the “accident” that took Dad. But this? This feels like a crack in the foundation.
Jace whistles low. “Think she knows something?”
“If she does, she’s not saying.” Colt crosses his arms. “But we’re too close to stop now.”
Nash rubs his jaw. “Agreed. We push on. But eyes open for anything off.”
I’m about to climb into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, ready to lead the convoy, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number. I almost ignore it—burner phones swap hands like currency in our world, and surprises are rarely good. But that prickle on the back of my neck, the one that’s saved my ass more times than I can count, makes me swipe accept.
I hit answer, stepping away from the group. “Hawthorne.”
The voice on the other end is crisp, authoritative, laced with that upper-crust edge that screams old money. “Sinclair. This is Elena Sands.”
I pause, leaning against the vehicle again. “Hi, Ms. Sands.” Everyone’s heard of the woman that is Elena Sands. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you stateside. Immediately. My daughter, Rowan, is in Tidehaven. She’s become… inconveniently visible to the wrong people.”
I glance back at my brothers—they’re watching now, sensing the tension rolling off me like heat waves. “I’m in the middle of something. Family business.”
