Cruz sat across from me, both elbows on the table, his attention split between the map and the tablet that held the security footage from the eastern camera.
He’d barely spoken since Rawley arrived—had just nodded at appropriate intervals and made the grunting sounds that meant he was listening without needing to confirm it.
Sterling’s voice crackled through the speakerphone in the center of the table, the connection dropping every third word in the pattern that meant he was running satellite instead of the ranch’s dedicated line.
“—confirmed four in the first wave, six in the—“ The connection dropped, then came back. “—three of them have military ID cards. All with—“ Drop. “—Peterson logo on the—“ Drop.
“Crystal clear,” Rawley muttered, leaning closer to the speaker. “Say again that last part.”
“I said they all have the Peterson logo tattooed on their left shoulder,” Sterling repeated, his voice coming through more clearly now. “Not the corporate logo—the older one, from when he was still running guns in Colombia. Looks like they’re old guard, not the new contractors he’s been hiring.”
I took a sip of coffee—too cold now, the bitterness that came from grounds that had steeped too long. “So they’re loyalists,” I said. “Not just contractors. That explains why they hit the house directly instead of going for the ranch.”
“They’re looking for something,” Cruz said, still focused on the tablet. “Or someone. This isn’t just retaliation for the intel we pulled in Istanbul.”
Rawley nodded once, slow. “They came in too organized for that,” he said. “Four armed men.. That’s not a revenge play—that’s a planned extraction.”
The conversation continued in the clipped rhythm of operational talk—casualty count, camera positions, what the second wave had looked like versus the first.
I let it move around me without fully engaging, my brain running the calculations that came with a confirmed attack—the logistics of securing the house, the tactical considerations of whether to stay or relocate, the problem of a four-month pregnancy in a combat situation.
Then Morales’s voice cut in over the radio on Rawley’s belt, breaking the rhythm we’d established. “Vehicle approaching the main drive,” he said, the words coming through with military precision. “Arizona plates. Blue four-door sedan. Moving slow.”
I went completely still, coffee cup halfway to my mouth, the situation going sideways suddenly.
“How many occupants?” I asked, already knowing the answer before Morales gave it, already running the math on arrival time and sightlines and whether the front room had enough chairs.
“Three,” Morales said.
I set the cup down with careful attention, making sure it was exactly where I wanted it, then tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling. “This,” I said to no one in particular, “is going to make the morning look like child’s play.”
Cruz looked up from the tablet, his expression giving away nothing. “You expecting company?” he asked, his voice flat and even, the tone that meant he was already three steps ahead.
“No,” I said, pushing back my chair with careful attention. “But my parents came anyway.”
Rawley’s eyebrows went up. “Your parents,” he repeated, not quite a question.
“My parents,” I confirmed. “No call, no text, no warning. They just showed up at the farmhouse I bought with my own money, on the land I pay taxes on, like this is 1982 and I’m still in high school.”
From the speakerphone came the thick silence that meant Sterling was deciding how much of this was his business. Then: “We should probably secure the perimeter before—“
“I’ve got it,” Rawley said, already reaching for his radio. “Morales, you copy? Vehicle with three occupants approaching the main house. Civilian family members. Stand down, but stay in position.”
The radio clicked twice in response.
I was already pushing back from the table, my brain running through the calculations that came with my parents’ unannounced arrival.
My father would park exactly where he shouldn’t—too close to the greenhouse, probably, or directly blocking the driveway where the ranch truck would need to get through.
My mother would have brought food—something with too many ingredients and too much salt, the kind that required hours of preparation and was always delivered with the fake smile that meant she was doing me a favor by noticing I was still alive.
And there would be questions. About the farmhouse. About the greenhouses. About the way I was standing now—one hand resting on the curve of my stomach without having decided toput it there, four months of pregnancy suddenly impossible to hide.
About the fact that I was an omega, not an alpha, and had been for the entire thirty years my father had been building his warped story about who and what I was.
“Jackson,” Cruz said, his voice level. “You want to tell me what the play is here?”
I looked at him across the table—the careful way he was watching my face, which meant he was reading more than I was saying. “No play,” I said. “They showed up. We’ll deal with it.”
