Epilogue
Back in Virginia Beach, on the morning Ayla was to report to her new team, her alarm decided she was on her own. She woke up late, stressed, dressed quickly, just a protein bar for breakfast.
When she got to HQ, she looked at her watch.
She barely had enough time to make it. Damned if she'd make a bad entrance, she broke into a sprint, came around the corner, and collided spectacularly with an immovable object. She would have taken a terrible tumble if it wasn’t for the fact that this object was fast on his feet with the kind of balance that made her swallow in awe.
For a spinning moment, her world was full of a jumbled-up mess of strong arms, muscle, hard planes, and angles.
When everything came to a stop, she looked up into the kind of face that stopped time.
It was a face carved from granite and tempered by salt air, all sharp angles and rugged planes softened only by the faintest shadow of stubble along his jaw.
His steel-blue eyes, cold and piercing, like the heart of a glacier, held hers with an unnerving, unblinking intensity that made her breath catch.
They weren't just watching her. They were assessing, cataloging, a gaze that missed nothing.
His dark, slightly tousled hair framed a smooth forehead, and his lips, set in a firm, almost imperceptible line, hinted at a humor that was dry as dust and just as sharp.
He was tall, impossibly so, and the sheer, solid presence of him, the way his broad shoulders seemed to block out the rest of the hallway, made her feel suddenly small and very, very late.
He didn't flinch, didn't even seem to register the collision as anything more than a minor inconvenience. He just held her steady, his grip firm but not crushing, a silent anchor in the chaos of her own frantic morning. There was a quiet power in his stillness, a coiled energy that radiated from him even as he stood perfectly still. He was the immovable object she’d crashed into, and for a spinning moment, Ayla Locklear, intelligence analyst and tactical operator, was utterly, completely, and terrifyingly awestruck.
Then he spoke. "Where's the fire, love? Let me get in on whatever crisis you need to handle."
The voice that emerged was a velvet caress over a razor's edge.
It was a smooth, baritone rumble, the kind of voice that could order a scotch in a London club or whisper a threat in a dark alley and sound equally at home.
The accent was unmistakably British, but not the crisp, clipped Queen's English. This was richer, warmer, with the subtle, rolling cadence of a man who’d spent time in every corner of the UK, a hint of London grit softened by a worldly polish.
The endearment "love" was a dry, amused observation, delivered with a lazy, almost playful intonation that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
It was the voice of a man who was utterly, confidently in control of the situation, even when she had just collided with him.
For a moment, her immovable object just stared at her, and she felt that imperceptible spark ignite inside her with an almost flint-like sound.
It was a tiny, sharp strike deep in her gut, a friction that sent a jolt of awareness through her entire system.
A sudden, unnerving sense that this man, this stranger who held her so steady, saw past the frantic, late analyst and straight to the capable operator underneath.
The air between them crackled with an unspoken challenge, a silent question asked and answered in the span of a single heartbeat.
Her breath hitched, and the world, which had been a frantic blur of hallway and urgency, narrowed to the intense blue of his eyes and the solid, undeniable warmth of his hands on her arms. In that instant, she knew with certainty that scared the hell out of her that this collision wasn't an accident. It was a colossal problem.
“I’m late,” she managed, her voice a little breathless from the impact and the sheer force of his presence.
“That’s all?” he scoffed, a low, disbelieving rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers.
The sound a gentle chiding, as if her simple statement was the most inadequate summary of an event he’d ever witnessed.
He tilted his head just slightly, his steel-blue eyes crinkling at the corners with a wry, burgeoning amusement.
“I’m late, too. But I’d say you look like you’re worth waiting for. ”
The words were a smooth, effortless volley, delivered with a lazy confidence that was more disarming than a direct compliment.
It was an observation, stated as a simple fact of the universe.
The way his gaze held hers, the slight curve of his lips, the warmth in his voice all combined to create a moment of such potent, masculine charm that Ayla felt her carefully constructed composure threaten to crumble.
He was telling her that her frantic, chaotic entrance was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day.
“Geezus, Bash, let the girl breathe,” Reck’d said passing them. “She’s our new logistics analyst. So, hands off.”
Her new master chief was hard to miss.
He was a man carved from Montana granite and tempered by command, standing there with the quiet, unshakable presence of a mountain.
His dirty-blond hair, slightly tousled as if he’d just come in from the field, framed a face that was all sharp angles and weathered strength.
His eyes, cornflower blue, clear and piercing, held hers with an intensity that was utterly assessing, a leader’s gaze that saw through pretense.
His jaw was set, the line of it firm, and his mouth, when it moved, was a study in controlled expression.
He didn’t smile, not yet, but there was a hint of something in his eyes, a dry, almost imperceptible amusement, as he took in the scene.
He looked like an anchor, the steadiness in the chaos, and for a moment, Ayla Locklear, late and flustered, felt the weight of his quiet authority settle over her like a shield.
“Now both of you move.”
Bash. What kind of name was that?
He raised his brows. “He’s kinda bossy, yeah.
” He let her go, but slowly, releasing her body from his arms, hands, and hard places she absolutely wasn’t going to comment on.
She moved toward the ready room, her heart beating hard.
Once inside, more men filed in, some of them threw her curious glances, others assessing ones.
Tier 1 operators, and they lived up to their profession. Her new team.
Reck’d went to the front. “This is Petty Officer Ayla Locklear. She comes to us fresh from a successful mission in Canada, where she and Ice’s team kicked some serious cartel ass. She was invaluable.”
“We like ass-kickers, but can she pull our asses out of the fire when they’re on the line?” The man nodded to her before introducing himself. “Vice, sniper.” He looked like a blade, all lethal lines and cold blue focus beneath silky shoulder-length black hair.
“I’m real attached to posterior,” the broad-shouldered redhead with wicked green eyes said. “Hitch, heavy weapons.”
“Can she handle ISR?” the tall Asian American asked, voice soft but firm. “Kamikaze. K-9 Handler. This is Ghost.”
Ayla’s gaze went to the cream and sable Malinois. “ISR isn’t a problem. I know how to get it up. Do you all?” she responded.
There were a few chuckles, some smirks.
“Ooh, spunky. I like her.”
“You would, Hook,” Hitch said. “Breachers…”
“I like her, too,” a man said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Just as long as you keep my NODS working.” He smiled. “Panda, comms.”
“Performance data will tell us,” the younger operator said calmly. “Halo, medic.” This guy didn’t look old enough to be a SEAL.
“Yeah, it’s sink or die,” Vice said.
“I think sinking is the last thing on her mind,” Bash said. His dark eyes made her shiver.
“What is your role?” she asked.
He smiled. “Scope all the way, love.”
Oh, God, he was a sniper, just like Breakneck. No way in hell, not even if hell froze over would she get involved with another Tier 1 operator, certainly no one like Breakneck.
“Looks like handling cartels well isn’t her only strength, so if you’re all done razzing her, can I get to the op?”
That was her first morning at her new station? What would an actual op look like with these guys? She couldn’t wait to find out. Excitement and caution tangled in her chest. As for Bash? He could kiss his perfect zero goodbye. She’d survived one sniper. She’d survive another.
Breakwater Tavern, Carlsbad Village, Carlsbad, California
They stepped out of Breakwater Tavern into the warm coastal night, the music fading behind them as the door swung shut.
Fly was still wrestling with what had happened at Blacks, wondering if he had dreamed the whole thing, but the buzz in his skull told him he hadn’t. What he had experienced was real, and without an anchor, without information he was floating untethered in a world that was suddenly not making sense.
The street was alive with the usual late night Carlsbad energy, neon signs flickering above surf shops and taco stands, laughter spilling from open patios.
Somewhere down the block someone revved a motorcycle.
The ocean was only a few streets away, its steady breath threading through the warm coastal air.
North leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance, rubbing the back of his neck. North looked…unstable as if he was experiencing aftershocks from an earthquake none of them could feel.
Bolt studied them both with narrowed eyes.
“Alright,” he said finally. “You two couldn’t be that drunk.”
Fly gave a short laugh. “Not even close.”
For a few seconds they stood there listening to the distant crash of waves.
Then Bolt snapped his fingers like he’d just solved a problem. “Well hell,” he said. “I know exactly what this night needs.”
Fly eyed him warily. “That’s usually a dangerous sentence.”
Bolt grinned.