Chapter 1
The hum of the engines pressed against Christian “Brawler” Beckett’s skull like static. The cabin held heat and shadows, straps securing gear the way obligations secured him. Beast’s steady weight on his thigh was comfort, loyalty given and returned in a bond that never let him stray far.
This was his world, anchored, depended on, defined by the hands he kept steady when others shook. He was the glue that held everything together.
Beneath the weight and warmth, a restlessness prowled. A need for contact that wasn’t duty. For skin against skin without history or expectation. The kind of touch that asked nothing, so he could stop giving for one goddamn minute and just breathe.
Dimmed lights cast long shadows across the belly of the beast, broken only by the faint red glow over the egress panel.
His teammates sprawled in various stages of exhaustion, boots off, mouths open, heads tipped against bulkheads.
Gear rattled quietly in its straps. The air was thick with sweat, gun oil, and heat-dampened camo.
His gaze landed first on their leader, Lieutenant Michael “Tex” Penn, who was wound tight as a steel cable, all sharp edges and coiled leadership.
Tex ruled with an iron fist and a heart of gold.
When he spoke, the battlefield shifted. Calculations lived behind every blink, every move.
But Brawler could feel the thread under the armor.
Nora and their daughter. The ache of it.
The grounding. It was the only time Tex’s tension eased, like a wire going slack.
Senior Chief Angelo “Bondo” Zane sat two rows over, a wall of muscle and resolve.
Bondo backed Tex without question, smoothing the edges of command.
There’d been a time he nearly gave in to solitude when he lost his first wife and newborn daughter, shutting himself off from the world.
It would have been a waste of a man so fiercely giving.
His wife, Cameron, bold and unflinching, had pulled him back, and they now also shared a daughter.
Across the aisle, Shane “Twister” Reeves tipped his chin toward them, his medic’s eyes scanning Beast, then Brawler. Always assessing.
“He doing okay?”
“Yeah,” Brawler said. “He could use another dose of painkiller.”
Twister rose, driven by the care and vigilance that lived in his bones.
He checked Beast’s nose, inspected the bandage.
Brawler had let him patch the wound but had double-checked it later when Twister wasn’t looking.
The medic drew up the shot, administered it, then studied Brawler in that same sharp way until satisfied.
Twister was noise and chaos wrapped around a heart too big for the job.
Haiti had nearly taken him, blood loss so bad they’d had to fight their way from the embassy to the airport to medevac him out, and afterward, the darkness had lingered.
Sadie, his wife, was his anchor. Sunshine and roses in a world of mud and smoke.
“You should get some rest,” he said.
“He doesn’t sleep when Beast’s hurting,” Matthew “Easy” Hitchcock called from a few seats away.
Dark curls matted with dirt, face streaked, eyes bright.
Easy was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, calm until the moment he wasn’t.
Most things rolled off him, but not the mission that killed Kade “Dagger” Hollis’s brother.
Not the hostage rescue that had brought Astrea “Jack” Devers, now his wife, into his life.
Easy’s gift was knowing when to hold on and when to let go, and that gift kept them alive.
Speaking of Dagger: he was stone . Pure and unmoving until he cracked. The strain beneath his silence had been building for years, until it split wide open for his sister-in-law Quinn. He’d carried bodies. Secrets. Guilt. Now, with a wedding in sight, the war inside him had quieted.
The dog’s head rested on his lap, bandaged leg stretched across the webbed seating.
The Belgian Malinois was all red-gold muscle and precision, a black mask cutting down his face to that broad, barrel chest. Built for speed, built for impact.
Every line of him radiated coiled power, but the danger was in his mind.
He could read Brawler’s breath, his posture, the shift of a single muscle, and move with him like they shared a spine.
Trained, yes, but their rhythm came from time and trust, the kind that could only be earned in the dark, in the dirt, where mistakes cost more than blood.
Brawler’s fingers moved absently through Beast’s fur, rubbing behind one ear in slow, mechanical strokes, over and over. He hadn’t stopped touching him since wheels-up, as if letting go might loosen more than his grip on the dog. Holding steady was second nature. It was what he did. Who he was.
“I want him to see the vet when we get back. I’ll take him for you. I know you must want to get home to your brother.”
“Isn’t Sadie expecting you?”
“She’s on a deployment,” he said.
“Where’s that?” Bondo asked.
“Ecuador…classified.”
“But you miss her like hell,” Brawler offered.
Twister gave him a faint smile. “Like hell.”
Bale “Shark” Maddox crouched down and smiled.
“He’s going to be okay, man.” He then looked up at Brawler.
“He’s always there when we need him. Just like you.
” Shark had struggled when Easy nearly drowned on deployment, with tensions high between him and Twister until Tex set them straight.
Marriage to Maddie had steadied him, but he’d earned every scar in that calm.
Then came the shift.
Jae “Flash” Shaw dropped into the seat beside him, uncharacteristically quiet. No joke. No quip. Just a slow drag of breath. Beast thumped his tail once and didn’t lift his head. He knew.
Brawler didn’t look over, but he felt the difference. Flash vibrated with his usual edginess, but underneath he was fractured . Faint tremor in the leg. Fingers tapping the seat arm, then stopping, like it hurt to keep going.
He reached out slowly and laid a hand on Beast’s ribs. The dog didn’t flinch. Just let out a soft breath and blinked one eye open, then closed it again. Peace, granted.
Brawler didn’t look up. “You okay?” he asked.
Flash didn’t answer right away. His hand stayed on Beast as if he was drawing heat from him. Maybe he was. Brawler didn’t look at Flash when he spoke. His voice was low, a rumble just beneath the ambient drone of the aircraft.
“You haven’t slept.”
Flash didn’t answer. Beast’s tail gave a soft thump against the seat between them.
Brawler kept his gaze ahead. “Not from the mission. Not from Beast getting grazed.” He paused, fingers still moving through his dog’s fur. “You’re waiting for her.”
That landed like shrapnel. Flash went still, every muscle subtle but rigid. The kind of stillness Brawler had seen in the past, right before a man admitted something heavy on his mind for months.
“You don’t miss a fucking thing, do you?” Flash muttered. His voice was dry, but the sarcasm was absent.
Brawler finally turned his head. His eyes moved, and nothing else, reading the small shifts, a knee that bounced once before freezing, the quiet tension in the jaw.
This was how it worked for him. Not guessing.
Feeling. Pressure in his ribs. Static in his skin.
A buzz in his teeth that had nothing to do with the altitude.
There, threaded through Flash’s restlessness, was her. Killa Saqra Rumi, callsign: Lechuza. She was a CIA Shadowguard the team had crossed paths with, who had been hunting Miguel “ El Lobo ” Herrera. In the end, she got her man.
Brawler had met her twice. First, during her rescue, naked, battered, standing without flinching while the team cleared the last of Herrera’s men.
That steel was bone deep. Later, after the jungle burned and the killing was done, he’d seen her again, eyes like burnished gold, carrying herself like someone who straddled two worlds.
Brave as hell, but not all here. She felt elusive, and that unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.
He had to wonder if Flash was setting himself up for heartache.
Brawler’s teammate felt like tension without release. Like grief locked to hope. Like connection, absent and echoing.
“Lechuza,” Brawler said quietly.
Flash gave a small, defeated nod. Then looked down at Beast, his hand resting on the dog’s side like it might ground him. His fingers stilled.
“He took the shot meant for me,” he said. The words were stripped of bravado. They came out clean. Honest. “He’s a hero.”
Brawler just held the silence, sturdy and unshaken, the way you do when you know the words aren’t what matter. It was just the brotherhood at work
Finally, softly, Brawler asked, “You okay not being the one who got hit?”
Flash turned to him, startled. Pain flickered in his expression, yes. But there was recognition.
“Fuck you,” he said, a choked laugh behind the words.
But it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t armor. It was thank you, in the only language they’d ever needed.
They let the silence stretch again. Beast shifted between them, letting out a low, warm breath, then nosed Flash’s knee. The moment that followed was small, nearly imperceptible, a ripple of softness in Flash’s chest, like a breath he hadn’t allowed himself in weeks.
“You haven’t heard from her?” Brawler murmured. “That has to hurt.”
Flash’s jaw flexed. He blinked once, slow.
“It’s twisted me up like a pretzel, Chris,” he said quietly. “I’m flying by the seat of my pants right now. Going to the basics. Eating, sleeping, working out. Team, brotherhood, mission. Humor when it gets too hard.”
Brawler understood. Of course he did.
Silence, for men like them, didn’t mean peace.
It meant you were floating, untethered, unmoored, waiting for a transmission that might never come.
“I dream about her,” Flash whispered finally, eyes locked on the bulkhead across the cabin.
Brawler went still.
“But she’s this…white, ghostly owl. Every time I get near her, she’s somewhere else.”