19. Sloane
SLOANE
T he guest room's stale air presses down on me as I balance on the mattress edge. My pulse races beneath my skin. The Barracks should offer safety to the homeless—that's what Logan built it for. But right now, this shelter feels more like a cage.
The laptop screen casts an eerie blue glow across my trembling hands. Files upon files spread before me like a digital crime scene, each one a piece of the puzzle I've been chasing since my father disappeared.
Operation Blackout.
The words stare back at me, stark and damning. My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating for just a moment before pressing play on the audio file that could change everything.
A man's voice cuts through the silence with chilling precision:
"Civilian classified as asset... then terminated."
My breath catches. The clinical tone, the cold detachment—it reminds me of another voice from twenty years ago. Another man who thought truth was negotiable. Who decided some lives were worth less than others.
I force myself to breathe, to focus. The journalist in me takes over, cataloging details, connecting threads.
But the woman who kissed Logan last night? She wants to run. To slam the laptop shut. To pretend I never found this.
Instead, I dig deeper.
Military documents fill the screen, their jargon creating a maze of acronyms and code names. But I've spent years learning to read between bureaucratic lines. To find the humanity buried under redactions.
Mission logs. Assignment briefs. A timeline that makes my stomach turn.
OPERATION BLACKOUT — MISSION DETAILS:
My fingers trace the words on screen, following the breadcrumb trail of corruption. Each document reveals another layer, another lie. The supposed "weapons pipeline" was just cover for something darker—something that reminds me too much of why my father vanished.
Then I find it.
Mission Status: COMPROMISED
Reasons for Compromise:
My heart stutters. Logan. He wasn't the executioner. He was the one who tried to stop it.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by shame. How quickly I'd assumed the worst. How easily I'd let fear override trust.
I scroll faster now, hungry for more truth. The documents outline what happened after the mission failed—surveillance of every operative involved, systematic elimination of witnesses, a cover-up so thorough it makes my skin crawl.
And then, like a punch to the gut, I find the final report.
FINAL REPORT — OPERATION BLACKOUT:
Primary Asset Neutralized: Classified Civilian — [Redacted]
Collaboration and Execution:
Granger. The name sits like poison in my mind. He wrote these reports. He pulled the trigger. He turned a rescue into an execution.
And Logan? Logan tried to save them.
The realization hits me with the force of absolution. All this time, I've been carrying my father's lessons like armor:
Don't trust. Don't connect. The truth matters more than anything.
But Logan's truth isn't what I feared. It's so much worse—and so much braver.
I lean back, letting my head rest against the wall.
The weight of everything I've uncovered presses against my chest like a stone. This isn't just about exposing corruption anymore. This is about understanding why I'm being hunted. Why my father disappeared. Why some truths get people killed while others lurk in shadows, waiting to be found.
The laptop hums softly beside me, its screen still illuminating the evidence that could blow this whole thing wide open.
But now I'm torn between two instincts—the drive to expose every secret, and the need to protect the man who's already lost so much trying to do the right thing.
What would you do, Dad? Would you tell me to publish it all? Or would you understand why some truths cost too much?
A soft knock at the door startles me from my thoughts.
"Sloane?"
Lucia stands in the doorway, her young face pinched with concern. "Thank God I found you! Everyone's worried."
I try to smile, but it feels brittle. "I just needed some space. It's... complicated."
She steps into the room, all gangly limbs and earnest eyes. The daughter of a woman who teaches other women to fight back. To stand their ground.
The kind of kid who shouldn't have to understand why adults sometimes hide.
"But you don't have to deal with it alone," she says, kneeling beside the mattress. "I know things are weird right now, and I'm not sure what's happening. But if something's bothering you, I want to help!"
My heart twists. She's so young. So sure that honesty fixes everything. That truth always sets you free.
I used to believe that too.
"It's not that simple," I murmur, glancing at the laptop. "I've learned things about what happened before I got here... things that might change everything."
Lucia tilts her head, brow furrowed. "That sounds really hard," she says softly. "But maybe you should talk to Logan? I mean, if something's wrong, he should know!"
Her innocence hits me like a physical ache. She still believes in heroes—in right and wrong, black and white. She hasn't learned yet that sometimes the bravest people carry the heaviest shadows.
"I don't know, Lucia," I admit, my voice barely steady. "What if it just makes everything worse?"
"I don't think it could be worse than being alone with it." She says it with such conviction, such simple wisdom. "You're not alone here. We all trust each other. It might help to talk to him, even if you're scared."
Before I can respond, a shout echoes down the hallway: "Get ready! We've got a situation!"
"That's Eli." Lucia jumps to her feet, worry flashing across her face. "We need to check what's happening!"
"No, wait—" I start to protest, but she's already tugging me toward the door with surprising strength.
"We need to know what's going on outside," she insists. "You can't hide forever."
The hallway buzzes with tension as we step out. But before we can reach Eli's voice, another figure rounds the corner?—
Logan.
He's breathing hard, like he's been sprinting. His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't hesitate.
Just crosses the space between us in three long strides and pulls me against his chest.
His arms wrap around me like steel bands, warm and solid and real . I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek, smell pine and gunpowder on his skin. His breath fans across my hair in short, sharp bursts.
For a moment, the world narrows to just this—his grip on my waist, my fingers curled in his shirt, the way he holds me like I might disappear if he lets go.
I should pull away. Should tell him what I found. Should ask about Granger and Echo-13 and all the ghosts that haunt this place.
But right now, in this stolen breath between chaos and confession, I just let myself feel safe .
Because that's what Logan is—not just a soldier or a protector or a man with secrets.
He's sanctuary.
My face presses into his neck as his arms tighten. I can feel the tension radiating through him, the exhaustion, the weight of whatever drove him to find me with such urgency.
And in that embrace, wrapped in warmth and worry and something deeper than either, I realize what my father never taught me:
Home isn't just four walls and a locked door.
It's the people who choose to stand beside you when the shadows lengthen and the truth burns like fire in your chest.
Even if it kills them.
Especially then.