Then she pulls out her notebook. Writes. Shows me.
Are we really safe here?
The question she’s asked before. But this time there's something different underneath. Not just asking if the location is secure. Asking if I'm capable of keeping her safe.
"Yeah," I tell her. "We're safe. And if that changes, I'll know before they get close."
She studies my face. Looking for the lie. Whatever she finds must be sufficient because she finally gets out of the truck.
Inside, she doesn't go straight to the window. She pulls out her notebook, sits at the kitchen table.
Writes something. Slides it across to me.
Thank you for coming when they called you. I know you didn't have to.
I read it twice. The gratitude cuts deeper than it should.
"You're family," I tell her. "End of story."
A failed mission was the reason I walked away from Delta Force. I walked away to learn how to be something other than a weapon. And now I'm remembering exactly how effective that weapon can be when properly motivated.
She doesn't write anything else. Just sits there while I make lunch. And when I put a sandwich in front of her, she actually eats the whole thing.
Progress continues.
She disappears into her book. Outside, the perimeter is clear for now.
For now.
The network's out there asking questions. Mapping buildings. Running reconnaissance in broad daylight.
Let them come. They think they're hunting a traumatized kid with one washed-up operative standing in their way.
They have no idea what's waiting.
