5. Jon
FIVE
Jon
The field’s quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with anticipation.
Cool air clings to my skin, damp with the scent of churned dirt and cut grass.
I check my rifle again—third time: Bolt, sight, chamber.
Everything’s clean, everything’s tight. Still, I go over it once more.
Not superstition. Just habit carved into muscle and bone.
The others have their rituals. Mac cracks his knuckles in sequence, and Jenny recites the same three words under her breath like a prayer.
Me? I check. Then check again.
“Planning to take that rifle to dinner, or you gonna shoot it sometime today?” Mac’s voice cuts through the stillness, dry as sandpaper and twice as abrasive.
Heavy footfalls thud closer, gear rattling with each step. He’s already suited up, vest snug across his barrel chest, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s daring the morning to piss him off.
“Just making sure she’s still prettier than you.” I don’t look up.
Mac snorts. “That’s not hard. But she still won’t cuddle you after.”
“She doesn’t talk back. I’ll take the trade.”
“You ready?” He crouches beside me, eyes scanning the line where the targets will pop.
“Always.”
My grip tightens because this isn’t just a drill. Not today.
“Just making sure I don’t embarrass myself in front of the new guys.” I run my thumb along the edge of the magazine before slotting it into place with a satisfying click.
“Too late for that. Your face already does the job.” He grins, the expression transforming his weathered features into something almost boyish despite the gray at his temples.
Jenny materializes beside us, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that means business. No one wears authority quite like her—it fits better than her tactical gear.
“Our new team members are getting the tour from Sam. They’ll meet us at the range in ten.” Her eyes scan the horizon, where the training course sprawls across five acres of Guardian HRS property. “Everyone needs to play nice. I’ve seen their files. They’re good.”
“Good enough to replace Charlie and Brett?” Blaze drops his gear bag next to mine, the thud punctuating Jenny’s statement.
The question hangs in the air. Charlie and Brett left holes bigger than their tactical positions. They were family. Eight years of missions, near-misses, and triumphs don’t disappear overnight because someone decided to open a gym and have a baby.
“Different skill sets,” Jenny answers diplomatically. “Matias Kane—goes by Razor—former Navy SEAL, sniper qualification that makes our previous records look like amateur hour. And David Rodriguez—Storm—ex-Ranger, demolition specialist. Both decorated. Both highly recommended.”
“Recommended by who?” Mac adjusts his tactical belt, skepticism etched into every line of his face.
“Forest himself.” Jenny lets that sink in.
Blaze whistles low. Forest doesn’t personally recruit often, but when he does, it means something. Like when he found me in that bar in Tijuana, half-dead and fully drunk, somehow seeing potential where I saw only wreckage.
“Speaking of…” Blaze sidles closer, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that’s anything but private. “How’s Aria? Still pretending you two aren’t completely gone for each other?”
“We’re taking it slow.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck, traitorous and sharp beneath my collar. Years of training, and still, she gets under my skin like no one else.
“That’s not what I heard.” Mac doesn’t even look up as he slides extra mags into his pack. “Word is you’ve been sneaking off to the beach… K-noodling.”
“Word gets around fast,” I grunt, eyes on my vest straps as I rethread the shoulder harness.
“We wouldn’t say word’s getting around,” Blaze cuts in, grin audible in his voice.
“But Aria and Ember are tight. They talk. And then Ember talks to me. And I’m telling you—you’re not moving as fast as you should be, brother.
” He claps a hand on my shoulder, solid and loud enough to make the vest dig into my ribs.
“Life’s short. Especially for guys like us. ”
A knot tightens low in my gut. I keep my voice neutral, eyes locked on the edge of my gear. “That’s what she’s saying to Ember?”
Blaze doesn’t catch it—too busy grabbing his hydration pack. “Nah. She says you’re different. Careful. That you actually give a damn.”
He moves on, but I stay still, pulse thudding behind my ears.
Different.
Careful.
She notices.
I double-check the Velcro across my chest plate, buying time, letting my face settle back into unreadable lines. I don’t need them catching the way her words land like a gut punch wrapped in velvet.
“She seems good for you.” Blaze’s teasing smile softens into something more genuine. “After everything that went down with Charlie and Brett leaving… You good?”
“I’m good. Really.” I look up, meeting his eyes.
“Well, Aria seems good for you.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“Incoming. Best behavior, children.” Jenny clears her throat, but I catch the hint of a smile before she schools her features.
Two figures approach from the main compound, flanking Sam’s stocky silhouette. Even from a distance, I can read their movement patterns—the way the taller one scans his surroundings in precise arcs, the way the other moves with barely contained energy.
Military. Experienced. Dangerous.
Sam makes the introductions before disappearing back toward headquarters, leaving our potential new teammates standing before us like fresh meat at inspection.
“This is Razor,” Sam says as he stops in front of us, gesturing to the taller of the two men flanking him.
The guy nods once, his dark eyes sweeping over each of us like he’s cataloging weak spots. Controlled. Quiet. SEAL sniper, and it shows in every inch of him.
“And this is Storm,” Sam adds, jerking his thumb toward the broader one with the twitchy energy.
Storm flashes a crooked grin, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Marine Raider,” Sam continues. “Breacher, demo, CQB. Moves fast, thinks faster, talks the fastest. You’ll see. They’re joining today’s exercise. Trial run.” Sam’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Whether it turns permanent is up to all of you. And them.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns and heads back toward HQ, leaving the new guys in our territory.
“So you’re Delta team.” Storm steps forward, voice smooth with a clipped East Coast edge. “Heard you guys were the best. That true, or just good PR?”
“Why don’t you tell us after today?” Blaze snorts, his laugh sharp and unbothered.
“Jenny. Delta-One.” Jenny steps up, shoulders squared, chin tipped up. She doesn’t offer a handshake. “Before we start, let’s establish the hierarchy. Guardian HRS doesn’t promote based on gender or size. We promote based on capability.”
“Wouldn’t have assumed otherwise.” Storm lifts a brow, expression unreadable.
“Good.” Jenny’s smile is a knife’s edge. “Then you won’t mind a quick demonstration.”
“On the mat or here?” Razor doesn’t hesitate, voice cool, assessing.
“Here is fine.” Jenny shrugs off her jacket, flexes her fingers, and rolls her shoulders with unhurried calm. “You first.”
Mac and Blaze don’t say a word. Just step back in sync, boots grinding into the dirt as they form a loose perimeter. I join them, familiar with what’s coming. Jenny doesn’t posture. She doesn’t raise her voice. She demonstrates.
Razor circles, cautious. A quick testing jab.
Jenny slips under it, her movement liquid and economical, then pivots, taking his balance with her. A breath later, she’s behind him, one arm looping his neck, the other sweeping his legs. They hit the ground hard, Razor flat on his back, her forearm pressing across his windpipe, elbow locked.
He doesn’t fight it. Smart.
“Good technique,” Jenny says, and just like that, she’s up again, offering him a hand like nothing happened. He takes it, breath steady but eyes sharper now.
“Storm?” She turns, already resetting.
“Sure,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Why not?”
He doesn’t dance. Just comes straight in—fast, aggressive, low center of gravity. Jenny absorbs the first blow, redirects the second. Storm adjusts mid-strike, trying to power through with brute force.
Doesn’t matter.
She catches his momentum, pivots hard, and drops her weight. He goes airborne, lands with a thud and a grunt, face first in the dirt. She’s on him before he can blink, his arm twisted back in a lock that has Blaze wincing in sympathy.
“Would’ve popped your shoulder if I’d committed,” she says mildly, releasing him.
Storm groans but grins as he rolls onto his back, shaking it off. “Fuck. Okay, yeah. Message received.”
Jenny doesn’t smile. “CJ—our boss, the one who oversees every Guardian HRS team—used to be Delta-One. I took over when he stepped up.”
She lets that settle.
“I earned this position. And I earn it every damn day.”
Razor coughs, rubbing his throat. “Where’d you train?”
“Streets of S?o Paulo,” she says. No embellishment. No pride, just fact. “Forest and Skye found me there when I was seventeen.”
That silences them both.
“Now,” she adds, voice clipped, “let’s see if you follow orders half as well as you fall down.”
Mac grunts something that might be an expression of approval or indigestion. Hard to tell with him.
“Two-person teams,” Jenny barks. “Mac and I will run tactical opposition. Jon, you take Razor. Blaze, you’ve got Storm.
Hostage retrieval scenario. Three potential hostiles, one civilian asset.
Asset extraction is primary objective. Clean shots only—we don’t want any friendly fire incidents like last month. ” She cuts a glance at Blaze, deadpan.
“Rules of engagement?” Razor falls into step beside me, already adjusting his gear with quiet efficiency.
“Sim-ammunition only. Blue rounds for us,” Jenny says without missing a beat. “Red for you. One hit to center mass or two extremities counts as a casualty. Asset wears a yellow vest—hit them, you fail automatically.”