Chapter Six
Thomas
We’d transferred Stella to sleep next to Olive, her small body curled. Moving her was risky, but unavoidable. We’d debated it in low voices until logic won over comfort. If she woke, she woke. But with both of her parents leaving the Longhouse, Olive’s bunk was the safest place for her.
Bodhi slept above them; one hairy leg wedged through the railing and hanging off the side. His gold basketball shorts had ridden up enough to expose black boxer briefs patterned with red lipstick prints. I frowned.
Liis followed my line of sight and stifled a laugh. “He’s too much like your brothers,” she whispered. “That’s his only crime in your eyes, which is… ironic.”
I shook my head and repacked my toiletries, shutting down the image of Olive with someone like one of my brothers.
They were good men—solid, loyal husbands—but the single versions of them?
Of me? That was a different animal. I had to fight the urge to launch Bodhi over the compound gates and remind myself how we treated the women we loved.
If there was one thing I knew about Bodhi, it was that he loved Olive with the same ferocity that was embedded in every Maddox brother.
Liis and I moved through the Longhouse in silence, careful with every step, easing the squeaky door open a fraction at a time. The air outside smelled faintly of dust, old wood, coffee gone cold, and gun oil—in case we’d forgotten we were on the outer rim of a desert militia compound.
“Good morning, agents,” Ibarra said. She stood under a bare bulb caged in wire over the door, the harsh light throwing hard shadows across her face.
“Good morning, Staff Sergeant,” I replied.
We’d expected Ibarra. We hadn’t expected the woman standing next to her in desert fatigues. Corporal, if I had to guess. No visible insignia beyond the basics.
“This is Specialist Gabriella Novak,” Ibarra said quietly but firm. “She’ll be posted at the door while you’re gone.”
Novak was young, maybe mid-twenties. Dark blonde hair pulled back tight into a low bun, freckles across her nose, with a face you’d trust with your dog—or your kid.
Her forearms, visible below the fold of her sleeves, told a different story.
Thick. Defined. Someone who spent a lot of time under a barbell and didn’t complain about it.
Novak stepped forward, hand out, her expression unexpectedly open and polite.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she offered, her tone genuine.
“Thomas Maddox,” I said, shaking her hand. She had a solid grip. No hesitation.
“Liis Lindy Maddox,” Liis added, wary.
“I have six nieces and nephews that I spend time with often. I have extensive experience negotiating with toddlers, but I won’t enter the Longhouse unless necessary.”
Liis nodded, though still unsure leaving a stranger with our most precious possession.
Ibarra noticed. “Novak was handpicked by Commander Lund, for peace of mind while you’re with the General.
I know your daughter’s with the nanny and the boyfriend, but with a compound full of irregulars, we figured you’d feel better with an armed guard—one who’s been known to snap tibias when her male counterparts don’t tap out fast enough. ”
“It’s appreciated,” Liis said, and she meant it.
Irregulars wasn’t the term we feds used. We called them cosplayers. Or, when we wanted to be particularly derogatory, Gravy Seals. Easy jokes from a safe distance. But on site, seeing how tight this operation was, how disciplined, I knew I’d never use those words again.
Ibarra turned and started off without ceremony, and we followed, leaving Novak standing at the door of the Longhouse.
“Naomi would only assign the best. I trust her,” I whispered into Liis’s ear.
She threaded her fingers through mine—a rare bid for affection and reassurance—and I squeezed. “They’ll be fine,” she said, more to herself than to me.
“They won’t even notice we’re gone, love,” I said, leaning to peck a quick kiss against her hair as we walked. “I promise.”
Liis squeezed back and then let go, her version of public affection always delivered in quick, controlled moments.
The walk to the main complex took longer than I thought it would.
The compound was larger than it appeared from the Longhouse—layered paths, reinforced structures, low-profile buildings arranged with tactical intention rather than aesthetics.
Gravel crunched underfoot, each step snapping the quiet as the cold air bit at my lungs, sharp with dust and the faint tang of metal.
Security lighting along the path flicked on automatically as we passed, illuminating insignia carved into stone, flags hanging motionless, cameras mounted discreetly into corners that recorded our every step.
Six minutes in, the sky had begun to thin at the edges. Not light yet. Just less dark. Ibarra gestured to our destination. It rose ahead, angular and concrete. No windows at ground level, reinforced doors. A name etched into steel beside the entrance: Strategic Command Hall.
Two guards offered a wordless greeting at the entrance before pulling the double doors open in a smooth, practiced sweep.
The doorway spilled us into warmth, the bite of the desert air falling away as the low crackle of a fire carried from deeper inside.
We stepped through an entryway lined with medals and framed photographs, then passed through another doorway where the space opened wide—high ceilings, polished concrete floors broken up by long runners that guided the line of sight inward.
Near the center sat a large table draped in a crisp white cloth, an intentional contrast to the room’s harder edges, its place settings arranged with the efficiency of someone who completed the task often.
General Victor Marcel stood beside the table.
He was tall, built like someone who treated rank as no excuse to stop training.
His salt and pepper hair was worn short, beard trimmed, eyes dark.
His Hispanic features had been sharpened by years of sun and grit.
He wore his uniform like a second skin, sleeves rolled.
“Agent Maddox. Agent Lindy,” he greeted, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Welcome.”
His grip was firm, unyielding, asserting control the second his hand closed around mine.
“General,” I said. “Thank you for receiving us.”
Liis received the same handshake, the same respect.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the chairs. “Sit.”
Along the wall, a console table held covered trays and warming dishes. Two teenagers stood beside it, both in uniforms that echoed military discipline without the weight of authority. Not soldiers… not yet.
The boy looked about fifteen, slender, dark hair high and tight. His name tag read K. Tanaka. The girl was older—sixteen, maybe—with chestnut hair pulled back into a tight French braid. Her name tag, A. Kohler.
They moved in sync, practiced and quiet.
“Coffee?” Ava asked, already lifting the carafe.
“Black,” I said.
“Cream, no sugar,” Liis added.
They prepared it quickly, setting the mugs down before moving to the food.
Breakfast was simple but elevated. Scrambled eggs flecked with herbs. Thick-cut, pepper-crusted bacon. Roasted potatoes with peppers and onions. Fresh fruit sliced clean and bright against the muted room. Toast stacked neatly, butter already softened.
General Marcel bowed his head. The movement was small but it rippled outward. The soldiers along the walls followed. Even the teenagers who had served us lowered their heads, hands stilling where they stood.
I hadn’t expected a prayer inside a command hall, surrounded by armed soldiers and active-duty rotations, but sitting there among them in that quiet act of faith, the assumption fell apart. It matched the discipline, the restraint, the quiet control that defined the entire compound.
Liis went still beside me. I caught the briefest flicker of her eyes before we both followed suit, heads dipping in quiet respect.
“Our Heavenly Father, thank You for this provision,” Marcel said, voice low and steady. “For the hands who prepared it and the ones gathered here. Keep us sharp, keep us steady, and bring us through what’s ahead. Amen.”
A quiet chorus of amens moved through the room. I lifted my head, a sense of clarity and peace settling in my chest I hadn’t anticipated.
Marcel waited until we’d been served before speaking again.
“Welcome to the compound,” he said. “I’m glad I can finally thank you in person for ensuring Naomi and Zeke arrived home safely.”
“My brothers worked with Naomi on a few occasions. She saved their lives once,” I said. “I was happy to help.”
“In that case, it appears we were already even and our hospitality isn’t necessary,” Marcel said, straight-faced. After a few awkward moments, he chuckled.
Liis’s smile was unmistakenly tinged with relief, and I laughed along with him. “All the more reason to be grateful to you,” I said, relieved not to be immediately booted.
We ate as we talked, the conversation folding neatly into the mechanics of breakfast. That alone told me what I needed to know about General Marcel.
He didn’t pause for ceremony or let conversation interfere with function.
The fork kept moving, the questions came, and breakfast progressed whether we spoke or not.
Marcel folded his napkin once, precise, and rested it beside his plate. “I don’t need the story,” he said calmly. “I need to know who might come knocking on my gate looking for you.”
I chewed and swallowed. “The Bureau won’t,” I said. “At least not officially. They understand the necessity of us being here.”
“And unofficially?” Marcel prodded.