"That sounds amazing, Rosebud." Evie squats down to the little girl’s level.
Rosie's attention shifts to me. She studies me with the intense scrutiny only a six-year-old can manage.
"Is the gunman really your boyfriend?"
The question catches me completely off guard. Behind Rosie, Mitzy is grinning like this is the best entertainment she's had all week.
"I—what makes you ask that?" Evie looks flustered.
"You keep looking at each other." Rosie's tone suggests this is obvious. "And he held your hand on the helicopter. Mommy says when boys hold your hand and look at you like that, it means they like you."
"Your mom sounds pretty smart."
"She is." Rosie nods solemnly. "So is he?"
“I think so.” Evie laughs.
Rosie considers this. Then she nods, apparently satisfied with the uncertainty. "If he is, he should bring you flowers. That's what Mommy says boyfriends do."
"I'll let him know."
"Can you teach me to climb rocks like you?"
"Rosie." Sera's voice comes from down the hall, fond and exasperated. "We talked about this. One life-threatening skill at a time."
"But Mom?—"
"Dinner first. Then we'll discuss." Sera appears behind her daughter, looking cleaner and calmer than she did an hour ago. Someone found her fresh clothes. "Evie, there's food in the common room. You should eat."
"Coming." Evie lets Sera lead her down the hallway, Rosie chattering about bunk beds and dinosaur nuggets and whether the gun man would be a good boyfriend. She glances back once, just before turning the corner, and mouths ‘later’ to me.
I turn and head to my temporary quarters, but CJ catches me in the hallway before I reach my door.
"Riot. A word."
He's waiting in the shadows—a habit from his field days, I think. Never stand in the light if you can help it.
"Boss."
"Good work tonight." His voice carries the weight of someone who's seen enough operations to know how badly this one couldhave gone. "Frost says you held off eight hostiles for nearly ten minutes before backup arrived."
"Twelve minutes." But who's counting.
"Twelve." He nods. "That's impressive, even for you."
"I was motivated."
His eyes sharpen. Whatever he's looking for, he finds it, because his expression shifts—not quite a smile, but close.
"Harmon's going down." He changes the subject with characteristic abruptness. "The evidence is airtight. Between the license plate, the FBI corruption, Moreau's death—he's done. Six months, maybe less."
"And the agents?" I ask.
"Derek’s in a secure wing at Mercy General under twenty-four-hour guard. Between the gunshot wounds you gave him and the federal indictment, he’s never seeing the sun again as a free man. Travis is already in Yates's custody at a black site. He’s singing like a canary, trading Harmon’s head for a life in a high-security witness unit instead of a shallow grave. They're both finished."
"And the cartel?"
"The ones who attacked tonight are dead or scattered. The organization will regroup. They lost their political cover. We've cut the head off the snake." He pauses. "For now."
