Mac studied him. “And you already knew about the other thing too.”
Marcus held his gaze. “I knew you were holding something. I didn’t need details.”
That hit harder than the magic.
“You don’t survive as a wolf in uniform unless you’re disciplined,” Marcus said. “You don’t hold that leash unless you care about your pack.”
Mac exhaled. “Guess I’m not as hard to read as I thought.”
“Only if someone’s paying attention,” Marcus said.
They sat in the generator’s uneven hum, and for the first time Mac didn’t feel alone in what he carried.
At the flap, Marcus paused. “If any other supernaturals give you trouble, don’t implode. The council hates paperwork.”
They’d laughed.
***
Back in the TOC, Mac slipped the card away. Marcus had recognized him and chosen restraint. Recognition wasn’t danger. Recklessness was. He rose and returned to the patrol schedule.
Most days were briefings, checkpoints, and convoy runs. The same routine every day. It kept people steady.
Morning came harsh and unasked. Diesel fumes and burnt coffee curled through the air as troops gathered in formation. Mac took his place on the line. Last night’s siren hadn’t rattled them. It had sharpened them.
Melvin stood near the front, calm and composed. Hall cracked a joke about dream quality. Reynolds muttered something about morale duty. A few laughs broke tension, and Mac let it.
The day moved through its grind. Patrol updates. Radio checks. Paperwork. Mac watched Melvin move among the soldiers, quiet and observant. He didn’t posture. He listened first. They worked well together. Too well. Conversations cut off because duty intervened, not because words failed. Glances lasted a fraction longer than they should. Mac kept his tone professional. The desert stripped weakness fast.
By afternoon, the next convoy staged at the motor pool. Hall’s team climbed into the Humvees for Checkpoint Bravo. Mac double-checked the manifest. Routes confirmed. No anomalies. Routine.
“Keep your head on a swivel,” he said.
“Always do, sir,” Hall answered. The convoy rolled out in a tail of dust. Mac watched until the gate shut. Routine held the world together.
He turned back toward the TOC, lights buzzing overhead, the monitor casting a pale glow. Out beyond the wire, something waited. Not routine.
Chapter 5 - Melvin
The sky was punishingly bright, glare hammering the desert until everyone squinted. Gravel flashed with mica, heat rising in visible waves. Another afternoon patrol. Supposed to feel routine. Nothing here ever really did.
Melvin stood at the TOC’s sandbagged threshold, adjusting the radio straps across his chest. Sweat ran down his spine, cooling and vanishing in the heat. His nerves thrummed, not fear. Readiness.
Then voices cut through, urgent and clipped. No siren. Just raw human sound.
“Bravo checkpoint. IED. Three injured. One KIA.”
The words hit hard. Reynolds tore past him, face ashen, boots scattering gravel toward the comms room.
“Reynolds, what happened?” Melvin called.
“It’s Hall’s team,” Reynolds shot back. “They were hit.”
Everything inside Melvin stilled. That morning Hall had been joking about Melvin’s careful Arabic notes, filling empty space with noise. Now that space yawned hollow.
Melvin pushed into the TOC. Radios barked updates. Keys clattered. Boots scuffed concrete. Baxter stood rigid at the ops table. Beside him, Carter was motionless, but something in him had folded inward, coiled tight.
“What’s the situation?” Melvin asked.
