“We’re going,” I say, already checking my weapon under my jacket, fingers moving on autopilot. Safety. Magazine. Holster. “Now.”
King sighs like the universe is personally screwing him over again. “Knew it was too damn quiet.”
He wipes frosting on his thigh without blinking, turns to a stunned-looking lieutenant beside him. “Hold this. Don’t eat it.”
We’re moving before the kid can even nod.
The music fades behind us as we slip toward the trees. Light gives way to dark, laughter to wind. The sand shifts under my boots, then gives way to firmer ground as we hit the path that leads back to the vehicles. I don’t look back, not until I’m at the edge of the tree line.
Then I glance over my shoulder.
Moe’s standing there, watching us go. Caught between the dance floor and the shadows. Between a life that could be his and the war that already is.
I meet his eyes—just for a second—and give him a nod. It’s not goodbye. It’s not permission.
It’s a promise.
I’ll be back.
Chapter 2
Captain Jonathan
The air is thicker now. Oppressive. My stomach keeps folding in on itself, like at any moment the ground might split wide and drag me down with it. It’s a quiet kind of dread—no alarms blaring, no sirens howling—just that goddamn silence that seeps in before the bad hits, like the world knows what’s coming and doesn’t want to ruin the surprise. The kind of silence I’ve only ever heard before explosions, before gunfire, before someone says a name that changes everything.
No matter how many messages I’ve left for Larkin, I’ve gotten nothing back. Not even a damn thumbs up. This—this right here—is exactly why I’ve always specified that missions shouldn’t move forward unless I’m present. Unless I’m doing the briefing. Unless I have eyes on the ground and fingers on the pulse. Because when I’m not, things go sideways. They always have.
I know how the chain of command works. I’ve followed it my whole life, bled for it, enforced it. But that doesn’t change the fact that no one knows this base—my team, my people—like I do. Not even Larkin. And she’s lucky she’s one of my closest friends—aside from King—or else I’d already be in her office tearing her a new one for going around me, protocol be damned.
“Your neck’s turning red, Cap,” King mutters beside me, adjusting the fabric mask covering half his face. His fingers tug at the edge of it, smoothing it back into place. His voice is calm, dry as ever, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of my barely-contained fury. The bastard could stand in a burning building and sound like he’s reading a grocery list.
I shoot him a glare from the corner of my eye.
I know it is.
But it isn’t just Larkin’s silence, or the fact that I had to leave my son’s brother’s damn wedding mid-toast to rush back here. That sentence alone is a mouthful—and the reality’s even messier than it sounds. One minute, glasses raised and vows echoing over the water; the next, my phone vibrating like a detonator in my pocket.
No. What’s really got my blood boiling is the silence on Delilah’s end.
I’ve sent four messages. Called twice. Told her I needed her on base for this hostage debrief—one I had no intention of running without her insight. Not just because she’s got the sharpest damn instincts I’ve seen in years, but because I trust her judgment. Because when she speaks in a briefing, the room shuts up and listens. And yet… nothing.
She mentioned she’d be visiting her parents during the break, but this kind of silence? This long? That’s not her. Even when she’s mad at me, she answers. Even if it’s just to argue.
I know what this is.
She’s hiding. Still afraid of giving something away. Still terrified of disappointing her father—of letting him know that she not only enlisted in the Army he swore to keep her out of, but that she’s actively working in the same hellhole of shadowsthat nearly ruined his life. That drove him into retirement. That forced him into a protection program after they took his wife.
And here I am—his best friend—covering for his daughter. Watching over her. Letting her take on assignments he’d never forgive me for.
Sassy, sweet, loyal, smart—and so fucking infuriating it hurts. She’s a walking contradiction in combat boots and soft smiles, and every version of her is currently a ghost in my head instead of at my side where she should be.
The halls of Greenport blur around me, sterile concrete and fluorescent lights, each one identical to the last with only minor, hidden differences visible to a trained eye. Section markers. Security clearances. Quiet tells that say exactly where we are to anyone who knows what to look for. The air smells like disinfectant, cold metal, and old coffee, the familiar cocktail of every bad day I’ve ever had here.
“She’s probably blowing this out of proportion,” King offers, as if that’s going to settle the storm brewing in my gut. “It’s Lark. You know how she gets.”
I grunt, not bothering to respond. I’ve known Larkin long enough to tell the difference between a standard protocol call and something she doesn’t want to say over the comms. This isn’t theater. She sounded off. Uneasy. And if Larkin’s uneasy, it’s already too late.
I dig through my cargo pocket, fingers wrapping around the cigar I keep stashed for moments like this. I don’t light it—just need the weight of it between my teeth. Something solid. Something to bite down on before I start saying things I’ll regret. Before I start breaking things I can’t fix.
