“It’s not enough, is it?” he blurted. “I thought you’d need calories after—” He jerked his chin at our mud-streaked jeans, then flinched like he’d said something out of line.
I gripped his hips until he looked at me. “It’s perfect, Jojo.”
Behind me, Macon surveyed the spread with a veteran’s skepticism. “You catering a wedding, kid?”
Jojo flinched again, but before he could answer, Burke clapped his hands and said, “This is the best meal I’ve seen outside of Naples, and Steele once made us eat rat stew for a week.”
Jojo’s eyes flicked up, uncertain, until he clocked the smile on Burke’s face. Then he actually managed to breathe.
We washed up, sat at the table, and fell into the ritual. Macon ate with his left hand and kept his right close to the knife, old habits dying hard. Burke used a fork like a weapon, stabbing every bite with full intent. Jojo just watched us, curious and a little awestruck, like he couldn’t believe we all used napkins.
Burke started the stories—PG-13 versions, nothing about friendly fire or the time we had to improvise a tourniquet with a necktie. He told the one about the goat that survived three IEDs and became our unofficial mascot, and the one about the munitions officer who accidentally blew up his own latrine. Jojo laughed so hard he almost choked on a dinner roll.
Even Macon cracked a smile, and when Jojo reached for seconds, Macon actually nudged the dish closer without being asked.
I watched Jojo absorb it all, watched his nerves settle into something soft and trusting. He wasn’t just tolerated; he was part of the team, even if he didn’t know the code words. It hit me in the gut, the way a flashbang does—bright, then hollow, then suddenly you can’t imagine a world where he isn’t there.
After the plates were cleared, Jojo excused himself to set up the chicks in the laundry room. I offered to help, but he waved me off, claiming “the brooder takes a delicate touch.” I let him go, but I listened to the steady thump of his feet and the muted “peep-peep-peep” that followed him down the hall.
The three of us moved to the porch. It was black outside, the kind of rural dark that sucks up starlight and spits out fear. Therain hadn’t started, but the thunder had grown teeth, rumbling every few minutes as if to remind us it was coming.
Burke produced a bottle of whiskey, the good stuff, and poured three shots into mismatched mugs.
“To the Black Butte Ranch,” he said, raising his. “And to surviving one more day.”
We drank. The first swallow burned; the second just smoothed the edges.
Macon set his cup down with a thunk. “You know this isn’t just about the land, right?”
I nodded. “Water rights. Hargrove’s desperate.”
“Not just that,” Burke said, swirling the amber in his mug. “He’s escalating. The break-in, the dead animals, sending muscle to your front door. Next time won’t be chickens.”
Macon nodded. “You’ve got a pregnant omega to protect, Commander. And Hargrove knows it.”
The old title sat heavy between us. I could feel the weight of it, the way it used to mean “invincible,” and now just meant “responsible for everything.”
“We defend what’s ours,” I said. “But we do it smart. No collateral.”
Macon raised a brow. “You sure about that? Last time you said that, you blew a hole in a tanker and we spent two weeks in Turkish prison.”
I shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?”
Burke smirked. “Just saying—if you want backup, I can call Decker, Hooper, even Jackson. They’re all bored and semi-unemployed.”
I thought about it. Jackson would drink us out of house and home. Decker was good with dogs, which might be useful. Hooper was nuts, but the kind of nuts you want on your side in a gunfight.
“Let’s wait and see what the next move is,” I said. “Don’t want to turn the ranch into a base camp unless we have to.”
Macon was quiet for a long time. Then: “What about Sterling?”
The name hit like a sucker punch. I hadn’t spoken to him since the last op, since the shit in Aleppo. “Haven’t heard from him,” I said.
“He made it out,” Burke said quietly. “But that last job broke something in him.”
We let the silence stretch. Macon lit a cigarette, Burke poured another round, and I stared into the night, wondering how many people out there hated me enough to bleed for it.
Inside, the kitchen light cast a soft halo, and for a moment I saw Jojo through the glass, bent over the brooder box, his whole body curved around those stupid chicks. I wondered if he could sense us, the way animals do before a storm.
