Chapter 10
By the time we get back to base, the air is full of heat and dust, and it feels like I’m breathing through sandpaper.
Everyone is quiet—tense and brooding. It’s the kind of silence that stems from exhaustion and unspoken frustration.
No one says a word as we all climb from the SUV until Hawk gives a few clipped orders.
He disappears toward the showers with Gunnar and Damon in tow.
Jagger gets saddled with bodyguard detail, staying behind and leisurely leaning against the Humvee.
I haven’t eaten since dawn, and my stomach growls so loudly it earns a sidelong smirk from him. “What?” I ask, brushing sand from my sleeves.
He pushes off the truck, shrugging. “Didn’t say a damn thing. But judging by that noise, I’m guessing food is priority number one.”
“Smart observation,” I sass. “I’m starving. You coming or what?”
“Guess I’m your babysitter until the boss is done scrubbing off the desert.” He nods toward the mess hall. “Let’s go before you bite someone.”
I roll my eyes but follow him, the low hum of generators and distant chatter filling the air as we walk. The camp is winding down for the night. Soldiers cluster under floodlights, and leisurely laughter cuts through the static of radios. It should feel safe and familiar, but it doesn’t.
Inside the chow hall, the air is cooler, with the scent of something pretending to be beef stew permeating the air.
A few soldiers glance our way, mostly at Jagger, because he’s the size of a damn wall with non-regulation tattoos trailing down his fingers, but no one pays much attention.
We grab trays, get in line, and I pile on whatever looks edible as my stomach growls again.
We find a spot in the back corner, away from the main crowd. I sit with my camera resting against my thigh. Digging in immediately, Jagger shovels in questionable food like he is at a competition.
“You eat like a feral raccoon,” I say.
“If you eat it fast enough, you don’t have to taste it,” he garbles through a mouthful. “It’s a trick they teach you in basic training.”
“It would have to taste like something in order not to taste it.”
He grins. “Fair point.”
I take a bite, trying to ignore the gritty texture.
Please just be sand. When the door opens, I instinctually look up and nearly choke on the food in my mouth.
A group of men—four of them—stride toward the counter.
Their uniforms are the same sand-colored camouflage fatigues everyone wears.
The one in front moves with the same rigid authority and stuffy gait I saw in the village.
He turns slightly, and I get a clear view of his face.
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. My throat locks.
Jagger glances up at me, his brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?” he asks firmly, but quietly.
I lower my fork slowly, forcing a steady breath before whispering. “That’s him.”
“Him, who?”
“The man from the village.”
He blinks, subtly following my gaze. “Which one?”
“The one in front,” I whisper. “Gray stubble, with a scar over his left eyebrow. I saw him. He was there when they carried the woman.”
Jagger leans back, coyly studying the group. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.” My voice shakes despite my confidence in my answer. “He was the one giving orders. He saw me before they opened fire.”
He studies the man again, skepticism flickering in his eyes. “Could just look like him. You’ve had one hell of a few days, Reese. Your brain might be—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
He sighs, scrubbing at his jaw. “All right, all right. No need to bite my head off.” The men move toward the far table, laughing and carrying trays. Jagger’s tone softens. “If you’re sure—really sure—we should get out of here. Quietly and without drawing attention to ourselves.”
I nod, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s shaking my ribs.
We leave our trays half-full and slip out through the side door.
We walk briskly, not stopping until we reach the tent.
Adrenaline still thrums under my skin as I drop to my knees beside my cot, pulling my laptop from my pack.
Jagger hovers behind me, his presence solid but uncertain. “What are you looking for?”
“Proof.” I lay it on my cot, flip it open, and my fingers fly over the keyboard.
The screen lights up, displaying the same images I shared with them yesterday.
I scroll past shots of crumbling walls and rooftops, my heart hammering faster with each frame.
And then I find it: Two men carrying the limp, bloodied woman through the street, her arm dangling lifelessly, and their uniforms all dust streaked.
“There.” I zoom in until the pixels sharpen just enough.
The same face. The same scar. Same shape of his jaw. “That’s him.”
Jagger leans closer, his voice low. “Shit.”
“You believe me now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the screen, then glances toward the entrance of the tent like he expects someone to walk in. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I believe you.”
“Good,” I mutter, though it doesn’t feel good. It feels like a noose tightening around my neck.
The tent flap rustles, and Hawk strides in, hair damp, shirt sticking to his shoulders. Damon and Gunnar follow immediately behind him, looking cleaner but just as tired.
Hawk stops short when he sees us huddled over the laptop. His eyes flick from me to the screen. “What’s going on?”
Jagger looks at me, giving a small nod, urging me to answer. I take a breath, steadying my voice. “We saw him.”
“Who?”
“The man from the village. The one carrying the woman.”
Hawk moves closer, leaning over me and planting his hands on opposite sides of the laptop as he looks at the photo. His shirt brushes against the back of my neck, and the scent of his soap floods my nostrils. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I insist. “We saw him in the chow hall not more than twenty minutes ago.”
Gunnar frowns. “You think he’s stationed here?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But if he is, whatever happened out there wasn’t a random operation.”
Jagger shifts his weight, glancing up from the zoomed-in image. “She’s right, Hawk. That’s the same guy. I’d bet on it.”
For a long moment, Hawk doesn’t speak. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, his jaw tight and eyes unreadable. The silence stretches for suffocating long seconds. Finally, he straightens. “Sunrise tomorrow,” he shares, his voice low but certain. “We head back. See what we missed.”
“You sure that’s smart?” Jagger asks. “If this guy’s part of something, going back might paint a big fat target on us.”
“I’m counting on it,” Hawk replies. “Maybe they’ll show their hand.”
I glance up at him. There’s a glint in his eyes again, the same one I used to love and hate all at once—focused, dangerous, and calculating. He’s already planning three steps ahead, and part of me, despite the fear clawing at my chest, feels safer for it.
The night drags on, none of us talking much, and the guys readying their equipment to head into the desert tomorrow.
The air in the tent is fueled with nerves and exhaustion.
When things settle, I lie on my cot, pretending to sleep and staring at the ripping canvas ceiling.
At some point, Jagger’s soft snores fill the air.
Gunnar mutters in his sleep. Damon’s breathing evens out. But Hawk—he’s awake. I can feel it.
After slipping from my cot, I silently make my way outside and take a seat on a crate right beside the tent.
I no more than get comfortable, my knees pulled to my chest and arms wrapped tightly around them, when the tent flap rips open like it’s been punched from the inside.
Hawk barrels out, wearing nothing but a pair of worn, unlaced combat boots and boxer briefs.
The tight black fabric clings to him like a second damn skin.
As I gulp, my eyes develop a mind of their own.
My gaze sweeps over the ridges of his abs, each one cut like stone, down the deep V that vanishes beneath his waistband to the bulge beneath it.
Some things don’t change… He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with barely checked fury, every inch of him a study in strength and raw power.
His arms are roped with muscle, veins popping, and those tattoos—God, those tattoos—they snake over every inch of him like wildfire.
I drag my eyes up to his face, finding his jaw ticking with the same ire coursing through the rest of his body.
He stops in front of me, arms crossing over his chest, and teeth grinding like he’s holding back the urge to shout.
“One rule, Reese,” he growls. “How hard is it for you to follow one simple fucking rule?”
I let out a sigh, already annoyed. “What?”
“You go nowhere without us.”
“I’m maybe ten feet from the damn tent.”
“Ten feet too far.”
I push up from the crate, my heart thudding more than I’d like. “Why?” My voice cuts sharper than I mean it to. “You haven’t cared where I’ve been for a decade.”
His expression darkens, something raw flaring behind his eyes. “I care,” he exhales, quieter now, like he’s forcing the words from his throat. “I’ve known exactly where you were…”
I blink. His confession hits like a blow to the chest. “What?” I barely muster the question. He’s kept dibs on me this whole time.
I’m met with silence. His gaze drops, just for a second, like he’s not proud of whatever it is he has to say.
A strange ache blooms in my chest. I don’t know whether to scream at him or fall apart.
Or both. I step forward, stopping far closer than I should.
Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his bare chest and see the faint scar on his collarbone, the one I remember tracing once in a time that feels like it belonged to someone else.
His breath catches. Mine does, too. “Tell me there’s a reason.” I look up at him and whisper, “Tell me why I shouldn’t hate you.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just looks down at me like the answer is too complicated to give and too dangerous to speak out loud.
“I…” He opens his mouth—then closes it—inhaling deeply with his eyes burning into mine.
His golden pools look flat and sad, like he wants to say more, but can’t. “Back in the tent.”
I should do as he said. I should walk back into the tent and climb into my cot.
I should turn away. I should pretend none of this happened.
Pretend I don’t see the truth in his eyes or feel that damn spark that still lights up between us, even now.
But I can’t move. I just stand there, staring at him, wanting things I swore I buried years ago.
“Reese.” He exhales my name with his voice barely above a whisper. “Back in the tent.”
I swallow hard and nod. Because if I stay out here a second longer, I’m going to do something reckless. Again. I step past him, brushing against his arm as I go. His skin is warm, and for a second, I think he might grab my wrist and pull me back.
But he doesn’t.