29. Flynn
CHAPTER 29
FLYNN
I gritted my teeth as I yanked the IV from my arm, the sharp sting nothing compared to the deeper ache in my side where Moreau’s knife had sliced through muscle and nicked an artery. Two weeks in this sterile prison was enough. The doctors had their opinions about my recovery timeline, but I’d never been good at following other people’s rules. My duffel bag sat packed and ready on the visitor’s chair—the one where Lyric had spent those first critical nights, though I’d been too drugged to remember much beyond the warmth of her hand in mine.
Morning light slanted through the partially closed blinds, painting stripes across the institutional tile floor. The hospital in Nice was fancy as far as medical facilities went. Private rooms with a view of the Mediterranean for those who could afford it. Or in my case, for those whose shadowy government teams had excellent health insurance. I’d woken early, determined to make my escape before the morning rounds brought more lectures about “recovery protocols” and “physical therapy schedules.”
I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, each movement sending fresh bolts of pain through my ribcage. The neural agent had finally cleared my system, but it had left my muscles twitchy and unreliable. My leg—the one that had taken the dart during the drone attack—still throbbed when I put weight on it. The doctors had used words like “remarkable recovery” and “lucky to be alive,” but all I could think about was getting out of here and finding Lyric.
She’d visited daily at first, sitting silent vigil, her fingers laced through mine as if she could physically anchor me to this world. But then she and the rest of the team had been forced out of France by political tensions. She’s called when she could, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to see her. To hold her. To assure myself she was okay.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted my struggle with my shirt buttons. Before I could respond, Ethan Voss pushed the door open, his entrance as precise and deliberate as everything else about him. His face gave nothing away, but the rigid set of his shoulders told me this wasn’t a social call.
“Going somewhere?”
“Anywhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and death,” I replied, wincing as I leaned over to grab my shoes. “I have shit to do. Got a problem with that?”
Ethan closed the door behind him, then took up position by the window, arms crossed over his chest. Classic defensive posture. This was going to be interesting.
“The doctors say you’ve got another week, minimum,” he said.
“The doctors can bill Uncle Sam for an empty bed.” I finally managed the last button, the small victory almost worth the fire burning along my ribs. “I appreciate the dramatic rescue and top-notch medical care, but I’m done being poked and prodded.”
Ethan’s jaw worked, a tell I’d learned to read years ago. He was chewing on something he didn’t want to say.
Fine. I’d go first.
“Spit it out, E,” I said, shoving my feet into my boots. “Whatever’s eating you, get it off your chest before I walk out that door.”
Ethan’s expression shifted, the mask of professional detachment cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of concern. “You almost died, Flynn. Twice. On the chopper and again in surgery.”
“Not the first time.” I straightened, ignoring the protest from my ribs. “Won’t be the last.”
“You’re going after her, aren’t you?” Ethan asked, voice carefully neutral.
“Since when do you care about my personal life?”
“Since your ‘personal life’ involves one of my operatives.” Ethan pushed away from the window, his reflection fracturing across the glass as he moved. “She’s been... different after what happened with you on the chopper. When we thought we’d lost you.”
My fingers found the scar on my side, the raised ridge of new tissue still tender beneath my shirt. I remembered fragments of that helicopter ride—pain, voices, the steady pressure of Lyric’s hand in mine. And then nothing but darkness until I’d woken in the recovery room three days later.
“Fuck you, E. You sidelined her, didn’t you?”
A muscle jumped in Ethan’s jaw. “She requested some personal time after the initial debrief. It’s protocol after a mission goes sideways.”
“Bullshit.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “You sidelined her. What, she didn’t play by your precious rulebook? She killed Moreau instead of bringing him in for questioning?”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Yeah, right. I know you.” I paced away from him, trying to cool the anger boiling inside me before it exploded. But then—nah, fuck that. I swung around and jabbed a finger at his face. “She’s not Maya. She will never be Maya. She’s her own operative. And a damn good one, considering she completed the mission with zero support from her team leader.”
Ethan’s posture went from rigid to granite. “Sit down and shut the fuck up for a minute.”
He grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me down onto the bed. I was strong—at least I had been before spending two weeks flat on my back healing—but Ethan was a mountain. I had no choice but to do what he said.
He paced and I could all but see the steam rising from his head.
“You want to know why she killed Moreau instead of bringing him in?” I asked after several charged moments of silence. “Because while we were paralyzed by those drones, he put his hands on her. Touched her when she couldn’t move, couldn’t defend herself.”
Ethan stopped moving like he’d hit a wall and his face drained of color. “She didn’t include that in her report.”
“Of course she didn’t. She knows what the team thinks of her—that she’s just filling Maya’s shoes. That she’s expendable. That her trauma doesn’t matter as long as the mission gets completed. She deserves better from her team and her leader.”
“You’re right.” Ethan’s broad shoulders dropped and he scrubbed his face with both hands. He suddenly looked exhausted. “She needs you, Flynn.”
I looked up sharply, searching his face for any sign he was manipulating me. Ethan and I had history—complicated, messy history that had left us both with scars that went deeper than skin. Trust didn’t come easy between us, not anymore.
“That’s quite an admission coming from you,” I said carefully. “Considering you spent the first half of the mission trying to keep us apart.”
A shadow passed over his face. “I was wrong.”
Now that was unexpected. Ethan Voss admitting he was wrong was about as common as snow in the Sahara.
“Say that again? I think I might still have neural damage affecting my hearing.”
His lips twitched. “Don’t push it, Shepherd.” Then the almost-smile faded. “Maya’s death... it messed me up. I couldn’t see past it. Couldn’t accept anyone taking her place on the team.”
“Lyric never tried to take her place. She just wanted to do the job and be accepted.”
“I know that. Now.” Ethan looked down at his hands, flexing them as if testing their strength. “Watching you nearly die in that helicopter... it brought back Yemen. All of it.”
The name of that godforsaken country hung between us, heavy with unspoken history. Seven years of silence, of blame and guilt and things we’d both said that couldn’t be unsaid.
“Yemen was a clusterfuck,” I said finally. “Bad intel, worse timing, and decisions made under impossible pressure.”
“I made the wrong call,” Ethan said flatly.
I couldn’t hide my wince. I’d always wondered if he regretted coming back for me that day. Now I knew for sure. “Yeah, you should’ve left my dumb ass. Command would have considered me an acceptable loss.”
“I don’t leave my people behind,” Ethan replied with unexpected vehemence. “Not then, not now.”
I blinked. Despite everything, despite the years of resentment between us, Ethan had never stopped considering me one of his people.
“Don’t look at me like I’ve grown another head.” He scowled. “Going back for you was the right call, and every single man there that day agreed. I never regretted it. The wrong call—he one I regret—was moving up the timeline based on intel my gut told me not to trust. I knew it was thin, but you were so certain, and I was under pressure from command to deliver results, so I sent my guys into that kill zone. I’ve carried that,” he added, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “Every mission since. Every team I’ve led.”
I stared at him, caught off guard by this voluntary breach in his carefully constructed defenses. In seven years, he’d never once acknowledged any part of that clusterfuck had been his decision, his mistake. It had always been mine—I was the one with the dirty informant, the faulty intel. I was the one who disobeyed orders in my desperation to salvage the mission. “If I hadn’t gone back in after you ordered us out, they’d all still be alive. We both fucked up.”
Ethan nodded. “And Perez, Jackson, and Chen paid for our mistakes. They deserved better from both of us.”
I nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat. Tommy Perez, with his collection of bad jokes and worse tattoos. Nick Jackson, who’d been three weeks away from becoming a father. Henry Chen, the newest member of our unit, barely twenty-two and still believing he was invincible.
“I made sure their families were taken care of,” Ethan said, his eyes now fixed on some point beyond my shoulder.
I hadn’t known that. It was so characteristically Ethan, handling the responsibility without fanfare, without seeking absolution or recognition.
“They were good operators,” I said. “Good men.”
“Yes.” Ethan’s agreement was simple but heartfelt. “The best.”
It wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but it was the closest thing to closure we were likely to get. Some wounds never fully heal—they just become part of you, changing how you move through the world.
Ethan nodded, a ghost of relief passing across his features. He produced a thick envelope from under his jacket and dropped it on the end of the bed.
I reached for it, opened the flap staring at the thick stack of money.
My payment.
This meant I was officially done with Edge Ops.
Officially no longer Lyric’s partner.
My gut clenched and I tucked the envelope away in one of the pockets of my duffel.
“So where do you go from here?” Ethan asked. “Now that you’re staging a jailbreak from the hospital. Another job?”
Before Monte Carlo, before Lyric, the answer would have been automatic. Get the job done, collect the payment, move on to the next contract. No attachments, no commitments, no team depending on me—or me depending on them. Clean. Simple. Safe.
But now?
I had a few more jobs lined up, but I wasn’t sure I wanted them now.
No, I knew I didn’t want them.
I wanted Lyric.
But did she want me?
I busied myself with checking the contents of my duffel, buying time. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“No rush,” Ethan said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I’m sure there are plenty of military contractors looking for someone with your skill set.”
I glanced up, trying to read his angle. This wasn’t just casual conversation. Ethan Voss didn’t do casual.
“What are you getting at, E?”
He shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. “Edge Ops could use someone like you.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, I laughed, then immediately regretted it as pain lanced through my side. “Jesus, Voss. Did you hit your head during the extraction? Last I checked, you and I weren’t exactly compatible colleagues.”
“People change,” he said simply. “Priorities shift. The work we do matters, Flynn. And you’re good at it. Better than most.”
“You want me on the team? Permanently?”
“Is it that hard to believe?” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You’re a good operator, Shepherd. One of the best I’ve worked with. Your tactical instincts are solid, and you think on your feet. The team respects you.” A short pause. “I respect you.”
Coming from Ethan, that last bit was practically a ringing endorsement with fireworks and a parade. I turned away, oddly unsettled by the sincerity in his voice.
“I work alone,” I said, the words automatic, a defense mechanism I’d relied on for years. “Always have.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Ethan’s question was mild, but it hit like a sucker punch. “If the team hadn’t been there?—”
“I know.” I cut him off, not needing the reminder of how close I’d come to dying on that helicopter. How Nolan’s piloting skills and Alistair’s medical expertise had pulled me back from the edge. How Lyric’s voice had anchored me to this world when everything else was fading to black.
Lyric. There it was—the real complication. The real reason I was hesitating instead of giving Ethan my usual speech about preferring to work alone. Because joining Edge Ops wouldn’t just mean becoming part of a team. It would mean seeing her every day. Working alongside her.
It would mean admitting that she’d changed something fundamental in me, something I’d thought was permanently broken after Yemen.
“Let me think about it,” I said finally, the words inadequate for the storm of conflicting impulses raging inside me.
Ethan watched me, his eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. “Fair enough.”
I zipped the duffel closed with a finality that felt symbolic, though of what, I wasn’t sure. Then I slung it over my shoulder, wincing at the pull on my stitches.
“I’m not saying no,” I clarified, not sure why it mattered that he understand that. “Just… I need to sort some things out first.”
“Things?” The question was pointed, his gaze even more so.
I thought of Lyric—her fierce competence in the field, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide, the way she’d held my hand in the helicopter when I was slipping away.
The way she’d looked at me when I told her I loved her, like she was seeing a ghost and a miracle simultaneously.
“Yeah,” I said. “Things.”
Ethan nodded once, accepting my non-answer. “The team’s on stand-down for another week. After that, we’re back in rotation.” He straightened from his position by the window. “Don’t take too long. Some opportunities don’t wait around.”
I knew he wasn’t just talking about the job offer. The man never wasted words, and he certainly never stated the obvious unless there was a message beneath it. He was telling me that Lyric wouldn’t wait forever, that what had started between us in Monte Carlo needed to be addressed directly, not left to wither in uncertainty.
“Message received,” I said dryly.
A ghost of a smile touched Ethan’s lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
I nodded, shouldering my bag and heading for the door. My hand hovered over the handle as I suddenly found myself balanced between two futures—the solitary path I’d walked for seven years, and a new one that offered connection, purpose, and complications I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
I paused at the threshold, looking back at the man I’d once called friend, then enemy, and now... something in between. “Why the change of heart, Ethan? Really.”
He considered the question, his blue eyes serious. “Because I’ve seen how you look at her.” A pause, weighted with meaning. “It’s how I used to look at Maya.”
He looked so… sad. Defeated. If I lost Lyric the way he’d lost Maya, I don’t know what I’d still be
I swallowed hard. “Tell Lyric I’ll be there as soon as can.”
He looked so… sad. Defeated. If I lost Lyric the way he’d lost Maya, I didn’t know what would be left of me. Maybe nothing at all.
I swallowed hard. “Tell Lyric I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Ethan didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just held my gaze like he was seeing all the pieces I didn’t say out loud.
“Tell her yourself,” he said quietly. “She’s waiting.”