Chapter 6 Old Habits
Old Habits
Finn Bollinger
(Married to Charlie Bollinger; father of Ethan, Derek, Bear, and River; grandfather of Marie and Denise)
Finn saw it before he understood it.
Dorian’s posture changed—subtle, the kind of shift only someone who’d known him for three decades would catch. His shoulders squared. His weight redistributed onto the balls of his feet. His eyes swept the room in that particular pattern that meant he was cataloging threats, exits, bodies.
Finn’s own body responded before his brain caught up. Muscles tensing. Breath slowing. The room sharpening into focus the way it hadn’t in years.
He looked across the crowded space and found Zac already looking back at him. Then Gabe, from the other side of the room, his hand frozen halfway to his drink.
They’d all felt it. Old warriors, same radar.
Finn didn’t need words. Neither did they. That single shared look said everything: Something’s happening.
He scanned the room again, this time watching the younger generation.
They were doing the same thing—that silent communication, that shift into readiness that happened below the level of conscious thought.
Theo was already moving toward the hallway, Lincoln at his heels.
Derek had broken away from his conversation with Dorian.
Scarlett materialized from near the windows, her casual posture gone.
Bear emerged from the kitchen, foam and dishwasher forgotten. His face had that particular stillness Finn recognized from a thousand ops—the look that said a mission had started and everything else had become secondary.
Two of his sons. Both of them shifting into warrior mode like flipping a switch.
Finn had four kids. He’d raised all of them to be capable, to handle themselves, to protect the people they loved.
Ethan had joined the Navy before he’d even turned eighteen and had become a Navy SEAL.
Bear and Derek had both served in the military also.
River hadn’t been interested in that route, but she could handle herself just like her mother could.
He and Charlie had raised damned fine kids.
But watching Bear and Derek move toward whatever threat had triggered this response—that wasn’t easy. Didn’t matter how old they got. Didn’t matter how well-trained.
The Linear Tactical OGs converged on Dorian without discussion. They moved through the crowd quietly, not wanting to alarm the civilians—the wives who hadn’t spent years in combat, the children who’d never known a world where their fathers had to kill to survive.
“What’s happened?” Finn asked when they’d gathered in a loose cluster near the hallway.
Dorian kept his voice low. “Two figures approaching from the east. On foot. Moving slow.”
“Not using the road?” Zac’s question was sharp.
“Coming through the blind spot in the tree line.”
Gabe’s jaw tightened, his eyes cutting to Dorian. Everyone knew Ray and Dorian still had active enemies. “Anyone with friendly intentions would just drive up to the front door.”
“Exactly.” Dorian’s eyes flicked toward the hallway that led to the ready room. “Could be nothing. Could be something. We need to get out there.”
Finn was already moving. They all were—four men in their fifties and sixties whose bodies remembered what their minds had tried to forget. The ready room. Gear up. Handle the threat.
It was muscle memory. It was instinct. It was twenty years of peace that hadn’t quite erased thirty years of war.
They reached the ready room and stopped in the doorway.
The next generation was already there.
Theo stood at the center, directing with quiet authority.
He pointed at a selection of tactical vests, then at Bear, who stepped up and made his choice.
Derek was checking a SIG P320 with the efficient movements of someone who'd done it ten thousand times.
Scarlett had her P365 already holstered and was pulling on a jacket that would hide it but allow her easy access.
Lincoln sat at the comm station in the corner, his face lit by multiple screens. Security feeds. Thermal imaging. A map of the property with two red dots moving slowly through the eastern perimeter.
Thirty years ago, hell ten years ago, this would have been them. Finn would have been the one checking the rifle, ready to walk out that door into the unknown. Gabe would have been at his six. Zac calling the shots. Dorian already in the shadows, doing the work no one else could do.
They'd come here to gear up. To handle the threat. Because that's what they did—what they'd always done.
But the next generation hadn't waited for them. Hadn't needed them. The kids had mobilized faster, moved smoother, fallen into roles like they'd been doing this their whole lives.
Because they had. Because Finn and Zac and Gabe and Dorian had trained them for exactly this.
The old guard, watching the new guard take point.
Beside him, Zac let out a long breath. Gabe made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had any humor in it.
“Well,” Dorian said quietly. “Fuck.”
Nobody disagreed.
They weren’t the tip of the spear anymore. They were backup now. Second string.
This was the goal. This was the whole point of every lesson, every drill, every hard conversation about what it meant to protect the people you loved. Finn just hadn't expected it to feel like this. Like watching a door close on a version of himself he hadn't realized he'd miss.
The older men drifted into the room but stayed near the walls. Out of the way. Observing.
Theo reached for a specific rifle from the rack. Finn watched him check the chamber, the magazine, the sight.
“Good choice,” Zac murmured, low enough that only they could hear.
Gabe nodded. “Theo always did have good instincts with long guns.”
“Gets it from Dorian.” Finn kept his voice equally quiet. “Remember that op in Egypt with Boy Riley—”
“I remember.” Dorian’s mouth twitched. “I also remember you complaining about my choice for three days afterward.”
“Because you were wrong.”
“I was efficient.”
“You were showing off.”
Bear selected a vest with integrated comms, then grabbed a sidearm from the secondary rack.
Finn watched his son’s hands move with practiced ease—check, load, holster.
The same hands that had fumbled with toy guns as a toddler.
The same hands Finn had guided through his first real shooting lesson at the age of eight.
“He’s going for the Glock 19,” Gabe observed.
“Solid choice.” Zac crossed his arms. “I’d have gone with the SIG.”
“You always go with the SIG. It’s a character flaw.”
“It’s called consistency.”
“It’s called being set in your ways.”
“Says the man who hasn’t changed his carry weapon since 1998.”
Finn ignored them. His attention had shifted to Scarlett, who was running a final check on her own gear with the kind of focused efficiency that made her look ten years older than she was.
Gabe had gone quiet beside him. Watching his daughter.
“She’s good,” Finn said.
“She’s better than good.” Gabe’s voice was rough with something Finn recognized—pride so fierce it was almost pain. “She’s every bit the warrior any of us ever were. Better, maybe. She’s got all our training and none of our baggage.”
Scarlett caught her father’s eye across the room. Something passed between them—not words, just acknowledgment. Then she turned back to Theo, ready for orders.
“God help anyone who actually threatens this family,” Zac muttered. “Between Scarlett and Ray, they’d be dead before they hit the ground. We boys could just sit back and–”
“Bake brownies?” Finn snickered. “At least that we could do better.”
Bear finished gearing up and crossed to Finn. His face was calm, controlled, but Finn could see the tension underneath. The weight of what he was about to do.
“I need you to do something.”
“Name it.”
Bear dropped his voice even lower, barely above a breath. “Joy. Get her somewhere interior. Away from windows.”
Finn didn’t ask why. The look on his son’s face said everything—said more than Bear probably realized.
Finn had seen that look before. On Zac’s face when Annie was pregnant with Becky.
On his own face, in mirrors he’d avoided, when Charlie had carried each of their own kids.
On Ethan’s when Jess had been pregnant with Marie.
“Done,” Finn said.
Bear held his eyes for a moment. Gratitude. Trust. The understanding that some things didn’t need to be spoken to be known.
Then he turned back to the team.
Finn caught Zac and Gabe’s eyes. They’d heard. They’d understood. Their faces gave nothing away, but Finn saw the slight shift in their expressions—the recognition of what Bear hadn’t said, what none of them would say until Bear and Joy were ready.
A baby. There was going to be a baby. And Bear was about to walk into potential danger to protect the family his child would be born into.
Finn’s chest tightened. Pride and terror, braided together so tight he couldn’t separate them.
Dorian slipped out of the ready room. A moment later, through the doorway, Finn caught a glimpse of Ray moving down a different hallway.
She didn’t have a visible weapon, but Finn had known her long enough to recognize the particular way she walked when she was armed.
Her crossbow was either already on her back or hidden somewhere she could reach it in seconds.
Anyone who thought a small, silver-haired woman wasn’t a threat had clearly never met Ray Lindstrom.
Callum Webb passed the doorway a moment later, moving in the opposite direction.
He caught Finn’s eye and gave a slight nod.
As Oak Creek’s sheriff, he would be official backup.
Law enforcement standing by if it became necessary—but hanging back, because he understood that if these intruders were connected to Dorian and Ray’s past, official channels would only make things worse.
Some things had to be handled quietly. Some threats couldn’t be solved by badges and warrants.