"For now. Between us. I don't need everyone weighing in on whether this is a good idea."
"It's probably not a good idea," Quinn said. "But I'll set you up anyway."
"Thanks."
Quinn left and Winter immediately rounded on her. "You're really going to do this? Start something with a Delta operator?"
"I'm not starting anything. I'm just going to thank him for responding. Maybe exchange a few texts. That's it." Even as Mara said it, she knew it wasn't true. Knew that getting Logan's number was opening a door she'd been trying to keep closed. But the pull was too strong. The need to hear from him, to know he was okay, to continue whatever had started in that compound in Mosul.
"Right," Winter said. "Just a few texts. Sure."
"Don't you have an equipment inventory to run?"
"I do. But this is way more fun." Winter headed for the door, still grinning. "For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. Life's too short to not take risks on the things that matter."
She left before Mara could respond. Mara stood there in the training facility, towel in hand, heart still doing that complicated thing in her chest. She was really going to do this. Going to reach out to a man she barely knew but couldn't stop thinking about. A man who operated in a completely different world but who'd looked at her like he understood exactly who she was.
Two hours later, Quinn sent her a text with a phone number. No explanation. Just ten digits and a simple message: "Secure. Untraceable. Have fun."
Mara stared at the number for ten minutes before she finally typed out a message.
"Heard you owe me a beer."
She hit send before she could overthink it. Then immediately regretted it. Too casual. Too flippant. She should have said something else. Something more meaningful or less obvious or?—
Her phone buzzed.
"Planning on collecting?"
Mara smiled despite herself."Maybe. Depends on if you're good for it."
"I'm a man of my word. Ask anyone on my team."
"Your team thinks I'm a ghost. Pretty sure they wouldn't tell me anything useful."
"Fair point. Guess you'll have to trust me."
"Trust is earned."
"Then let me earn it."
And just like that, they were talking. Not about the mission or the rescue or the complicated situation they'd found themselves in. Just talking like two people who wanted to know each other better.
Over the next six weeks, the texts became a routine. But it wasn't balanced. Logan had all the time in the world. Recovery meant physical therapy sessions and mandatory rest and hours with nothing to do but think and text. Mara had a job. Had operations. Had women and children depending on her to stay focused.
The mornings were his. He'd text her at 0600 his time, 0500 hers."Good morning"messages that had become a ritual. Sometimes just a greeting. Sometimes a photo of terrible hospital food or his PT progress. Sometimes a joke or a random thought that had kept him up the night before.
Mara would respond when she could. Between morning briefings and tactical planning sessions. While waiting for intel from Quinn. During the rare quiet moments when she had five minutes to herself. But there were days when operations demanded everything and she couldn't respond for hours. Days when she'd finally check her phone at 2200 and find a dozen messages from Logan, each one a reminder that he was thinking about her while she was thinking about staying alive.
Logan told her about physical therapy, about the frustration of healing slower than he wanted, about his team giving him grief for being glued to his phone."Bulldog says I'm worse than a teenager,"he texted one afternoon."Risk threatened to confiscate my phone if I don't focus during PT. Pretty sure he's serious."
Mara responded three hours later, between the Miami debrief and the new target analysis for Atlanta."Tell Risk I said you need the distraction. Recovery is boring."
"You sound like you know from experience."
"I've had my share of injuries. Occupational hazard."
"Want to talk about it?"
