Chapter 18 #2
She didn’t cry or get sentimental. She just folded the scarf with care and slid it into the small inside pocket of her duffel. It was the one no one checked.
Then she stood, zipped the bag closed, and looked around the room. There wasn’t much else to take. Everything she needed, she already carried. On her shoulders and in her lungs.
She grabbed her orders from the desk and tugged the zipper on her jacket just past her collarbone. Then she paused in the doorway. It didn’t feel like leaving a room. It felt like stepping out of someone she used to be. And into someone new.
The ride to the airport wasn’t long, but it stretched anyway, not with tension, just silence.
Shannon sat with her duffel in the back seat. Her boots tapped lightly on the floor mat. Her body always wanted something to do when her mind was this still.
Dante drove one-handed, eyes forward, sunglasses reflecting the late-morning glare off the pavement. He hadn’t asked if she needed anything. He hadn’t filled the silence with music. He just let her be in the space without asking her to explain it.
As they pulled up to the departure curb, Shannon’s breath came a little shallower. He eased the SUV into park.
Shannon reached for the door. Dante grabbed her duffel, setting it down gently on the curb. The airport entrance loomed behind her, all glass, steel, and quiet bustle. Other people were saying goodbyes here too. She ignored them.
Dante looked at her. “You good?”
“I’m fine.” And she was, mostly.
He studied her face like he didn’t quite believe it but wasn’t going to challenge it either.
She looked away. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m not leaving until you go inside.”
Shannon shifted her weight. “I don’t like long goodbyes. Feels indulgent.”
“This doesn’t have to be one.”
She looked up at him. There was no melancholy in his expression. No plea. Just something steady.
“I meant what I said,” he added. “San Diego’s just a location. Not an excuse.”
Her voice was quiet. “You don’t know where I’ll be in a year.”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll find out when we get there.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” he said. “You’re just worth it.”
She stepped in, arms folding around him. No hesitation or holding back. Her head rested against his chest for three full breaths. Then she pulled back, just enough to look at him. “You better not get soft while I’m gone.”
He smirked. “Not possible.”
“Or smug.”
“Less likely.”
She kissed him once, fast, right at the corner of his mouth. Not a goodbye. Just a reminder. Then she turned, grabbed the duffel, and walked toward the terminal doors. She didn’t look back.
CHASE SECURITY D.C. HEADQUARTERS
The fluorescent lights on Sub-Level 3 buzzed faintly above layers of concrete, steel, and classified conversations. No one smiled down here. No one raised their voice. Everything lived inside briefcases and clearance tags.
Dante scanned into the lower ops wing, his badge chirping green. The steel security door released with a mechanical sigh. He was barely through when a voice called out, “Yo, San Diego.”
Dante turned.
Sean Paulsen approached from the side hallway, hands in his pockets, a hard silhouette under the bland ceiling lights. He wore a plain black long-sleeve shirt and jeans, nothing tactical, but his presence still read command. Paulsen wasn’t just another operator. He was Bravo Team’s head.
They clasped hands, solid and brief.
“You back from escort?” Paulsen asked.
“An hour ago,” Dante said. “She’s wheels up.”
Paulsen gave a short nod. “Good. Need you to swing through Medical.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “Something I should know?”
“You’re not deploying,” Paulsen said. “Yet. But you need to be medically current. Cholera, typhoid, meningitis, rabies, and all your booster checks.”
Dante folded his arms. “This about Africa?”
Paulsen nodded. “Sahel corridor’s turning into a landfill fire. Multiple factions consolidating. Intel says Russian arms may be funneling through a front NGO near Burkina Faso. Cartel involvement likely. We’re putting boots on the ground in three sectors. Fast.”
“Who’s leading?”
“I am,” Paulsen said. “Bravo’s got the west route. We were prepped to move forward until Harrison got clipped outside Lagos.”
Dante’s jaw moved slightly. “How bad?”
“He’s alive,” Paulsen said. “But the round fractured his pelvis, nicked a nerve bundle. Surgery saved function, but he’s out. Indefinite desk status.”
The two men stood quietly for a moment.
Dante exhaled through his nose. “Harrison was your cornerstone.”
“Still is,” Paulsen said. “But I need a new ground pounder who can shoot and think at the same time. And I don’t have time to train a rookie.”
Dante shook his head. “I’ve never run with Bravo.”
“You’ve never needed to,” Paulsen replied. “But you’re Eagle’s Talon-qualified, and that buys you the clearance to slide into a tier-one rotation without a six-week vetting chain. You can keep up. You know field tempo. The rest we build in-house.”
Dante leaned back slightly, arms still crossed. “Why me?”
“Because you’ve got the discipline for strategy, but you’re still dangerous in a room. And I don’t have the luxury of personality chemistry right now. I need performance. You fit.”
Paulsen let it hang then added, “Medical’s ready. If you say no, no harm, I’ll find someone else. But if you’re in, we start transition training Monday. Full Bravo immersion. No half measures.”
Dante’s eyes stayed on the map glowing red and yellow across Northwest Africa. Shannon was somewhere in Alabama, learning to fly in circles. And now here he was again, standing on the edge of something that would probably bite back.
He looked at Paulsen. “I’ll get the shots. The reactions will blow my weekend plans of watching TV.”
Paulsen didn’t smile, just nodded. “See you Monday.”