12. Better Brother
12
BETTER brOTHER
Knight Tactical’s compound came into view as they crested the mountain pass, anchoring one end of Hope Landing’s small commercial airport. The facility looked like something from a military recruitment video—four modern buildings arranged in tactical formation around a central courtyard. High-tech security systems were subtly integrated into the architecture, and two Sikorsky helicopters sat in precise alignment near the main structure. Everything about the operation screamed success, legitimacy, and the kind of operational excellence Ronan had once lived for.
Perfect. Just perfect.
He caught Maya studying him and forced his expression neutral. She was already dealing with enough without watching him process meeting his biological brother for the first time. A brother whose career he’d followed through news clips and mission citations, each achievement a reminder of what the only legitimate Murphy son could accomplish.
“Welcome to Hope Landing,” Austin called from the cockpit as they began their descent. The helicopter touched down smoothly on the pad, rotors slowing to a stop in the bright afternoon sun. “Christian and the team will meet up with you inside.”
Of course they would. Ronan had memorized enough about Christian Murphy to know he never did anything without precise tactical consideration. Including, apparently, meeting his stranger of a brother.
Once the engines had fully shut down, Jack released his harness. “I’ll take point,” he said easily, but Ronan caught the careful assessment in his gaze. “Agent Chen, if you’ll follow me. Quinn, Austin will?—”
“I’ve got him,” a new voice cut in.
Ronan turned to find a stunning woman in tactical gear approaching the helicopter. Her bearing screamed special operations, but her smile was genuine.
“Angie Michaelson,” she said.
Her handshake was firm, professional. No hint of curiosity about meeting her teammate’s long-lost brother. These people had discipline.
Maya stiffened beside him. “The CIA’s already involved?”
Angie shook her head. “I am with the Company, but I consult with Knight Tactical on the side. I’m not here in an official capacity. Just more brainpower if you need me.”
Ronan shot Maya a look. How would she know Angela Michaelson was CIA?
“I read their files. What I could find, anyway.” She shrugged. “Guess you didn’t.”
Wrong. He read everything he could find on Christian Murphy. And Knight Tactical. He just wasn’t going to admit it.
“This way.” Angie gestured toward the main building. “Team’s gathering in the conference room. Christian’s finishing up a call with the DOD.”
Of course he was. According to every file Ronan had quietly acquired over the years, Christian Murphy and his friends had more connections in the Pentagon than most generals. The medals alone ...
The massive hangar door stood open, releasing a wave of familiar scents—aviation fuel, gun oil, fresh coffee. It hit something deep in Ronan’s muscle memory, a visceral reminder of everything he’d lost. The space could have housed a small airline. Instead, it held a collection of aircraft that made Ronan’s chest tight with envy. A sleek Pilatus PC-24 dominated the center, its pristine paint job probably worth more than everything Ronan owned. He couldn’t even afford a single prop for that beauty. Or one tire.
The far corner had been transformed into what looked like a professional training facility—weight stations, climbing walls, and equipment Ronan recognized from his Special Forces days. Plus some he didn’t.
“No way,” Axel breathed, staring at the workout area. “Is that a hypoxic chamber? And look at that obstacle course setup ...” He trailed off, practically drooling.
“Quite an operation,” Maya said quietly beside Ronan. He caught the unspoken question in her tone.
“Knight Tactical specializes in high-risk private security and extraction,” Austin explained as they walked. “Best in the business.”
The pride in his voice was genuine. Ronan cataloged details as they moved through the facility—cutting-edge equipment, veteran operators moving with purpose, everything running like clockwork. The kind of setup he’d once dreamed of building. Back when he still wore a uniform.
They passed through the hangar area and up the metal stairs to the third floor. Angie squared her shoulders slightly—a tell that gave away more than she probably intended.
“Ready?” she asked.
No. But Ronan nodded anyway.
The command center could have been lifted straight from any top-tier military installation. Gleaming screens covered one wall, and cutting-edge tactical displays another. But someone had put thought into making it feel less sterile—comfortable leather chairs, custom wood desks, even some tasteful art on the walls. Everything spoke of unlimited resources applied with tactical precision.
And at the center ...
Christian Murphy turned from a communication console. The air whooshed out of Ronan’s lungs. The room’s carefully controlled temperature suddenly felt too cold against his skin, raising gooseflesh along his arms. Even the recycled air seemed to carry his brother’s expensive cologne—something subtle and refined that made Ronan intensely aware of his own sweat-dried clothes and the lingering gunpowder residue clinging to his skin. It was like looking in a mirror with the settings slightly altered. Same build, same features, but refined where Ronan was rough. There was government money in top-of-the line tech wear. Pentagon polish in that posture.
Their eyes met. Ronan caught the microscopic flinch before Christian’s expression went professionally neutral.
“You all look like hell.” Christian gestured toward a bright hallway. “Rooms are ready. Get cleaned up, grab some food. Team meeting in sixty.”
The dismissal was clear, but Austin jumped in. “I hope you guys are okay with DreamBurger for lunch. My wife’s?—”
Axel groaned with pleasure. “Company. We know. And the flagship restaurant’s right here in the terminal. I am totally down with that. Any chance I can get my fries extra crispy?”
A grin transformed Austin’s craggy face. “I do have some pull. I’ll see what I can do.”
Ronan looked away. This might be his buddy’s dreamland, but it was fast becoming his nightmare. Exactly as he expected.
“We’ve got the best coffee this side of Baghdad,” Jack added.
“And actual hot water,” Angie said with a pointed look at their rumpled state.
“Sounds great.” Ronan kept his own voice even. “Appreciate the extraction.”
He and Christian faced each other, two strangers, neither sure what came next. Ronan had a couple inches on his older brother, but that was about all he could claim in the plus column. Where Ronan’s build spoke of endless ground ops and basic military gyms, Christian had the lean, precise muscle of someone with access to elite training facilities. His clothes probably cost more than Ronan’s monthly rent. Even his bearing screamed success—relaxed confidence instead of Ronan’s perpetual combat-ready tension. Looking at Christian Murphy was like seeing an optimized version of himself, one that hadn’t screwed up every opportunity that came his way.
Maya stepped forward. “Thank you all for offering your help. I know this is an unusual situation?—”
“Of course,” Christian said, his attention shifting to her with practiced diplomacy. “Knight Tactical specializes in unusual situations.” He glanced at Ronan, a dry note entering his voice. “Though my little brother seems to have dropped you in a particularly complex one. Let’s see if we can’t get you out.”
Something in his tone made Ronan look closer. There was steel under that casual manner, and genuine concern. This wasn’t just professional courtesy.
“Tehran,” Christian said suddenly, his eyes finding Ronan’s. “That extraction you ran for the Resistance. Four civilians, zero casualties, middle of a riot. That was solid work.”
The words hit Ronan like a punch to the solar plexus. Tehran.
His mouth went dry, pulse hammering in his throat. That op wasn’t even in his official record—he’d made sure of that. The details were buried under three layers of classified reports and enough redacted documents to choke an admiral. The fact that Christian knew about it, had been watching him ... Something warm and unwanted unfurled in his chest. Pride. Recognition. He crushed it immediately, angry at himself for caring what this stranger thought, brother or not.
“We keep tabs on operations in that region,” the man said simply. “That was some of the cleanest work I’ve seen. Even by SEAL standards.”
The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. How long had Christian been watching? Why hadn’t he reached out before? Ronan pushed the questions away. He wasn’t here for family reunion time.
Twenty minutes later, Ronan stood in the guest suite’s bathroom, staring at his reflection while steam filled the space. Behind him, Axel was already monopolizing the enormous shower, making obscene noises of pleasure.
“Sweet summer sunshine, this shower has sixteen jets. SIXTEEN! I’m never leaving. Tell Christian I live here now,” Axel called out, turning off the water. He emerged from the vast enclosure, wrapping a bath towel the size of New York around his hips. “It’s all yours.”
Axel cleared his throat. “Earth to Quinn. You gonna stand there doing your brooding supermodel pose all day, or are you gonna check this baby out? Because I gotta tell you, my man, you’re a little ripe for that meeting.”
Ronan didn’t answer. He’d come here prepared—or thought he had. Ready to face the successful brother, the golden boy who had everything he’d never had a chance to hold. He’d steeled himself for envy, for bitterness, for the awkward dance of strangers who shared blood but not history.
What he hadn’t prepared for was the man’s quiet competence, so reminiscent of the best commanders Ronan had served under. The respect the other Knight Tactical operatives showed him wasn’t forced—they genuinely trusted him.
Most unsettling of all were the glimpses of the brother he might have had. The dry humor. The straightforward praise about Tehran. The way he’d noticed Ronan’s tension and cleared the room without making it obvious.
The kicker wasn’t that Christian had everything Ronan didn’t—it was that he was exactly the kind of man Ronan would want to serve with. To trust. To call brother.
The realization hit harder than any resentment could.
He braced his hands on the sink, letting his head drop. He’d come here for Maya’s sake, expecting to hate asking his stranger of a brother for help. Now he was facing a truth he never expected: He didn’t just want Christian’s help with Maya’s situation.
He wanted his respect.
And that made him more vulnerable than he’d been since the day they stripped his rank.
“Seriously, dude,” Axel said softer now, catching his mood. “The water’s fine. And we’ve got work to do.”
Ronan straightened, squaring his shoulders. Right. Focus on the mission. Deal with everything else later.
If later ever came.