8. Huck
HUCK
Bailey doesn’t cry. That’s the first thing I notice.
Wesley lays the photos out on the table like they’re evidence in a murder case—and maybe they are, if you look at them from the right angle—and Bailey doesn’t blink.
No tears. No screams. No cracked-glass gasp of betrayal.
Just silence. Tight and heavy and terrifying.
She flips through the photos slowly. One. Two. Three. Her eyes stop on one of them—me behind her, Sean in front, Wesley curled against her back—and her lips press into a line so sharp it might cut glass.
She doesn’t ask where they came from. Doesn’t ask how we got them. Just breathes like it’s costing her something.
When she finally speaks, her voice is low. “If these get out, it’s over.”
Sean’s jaw flexes. “We won’t let that happen.”
Bailey doesn’t look at him. She’s still staring at the photos. “Everything I’ve built. Gone in a click.”
“You’re not alone,” Wesley says gently.
She finally lifts her eyes—and I see the crack in her. Not fear. Not shame. Anger. And that makes me want to kill someone. Specifically, her ex-husband.
“I can take care of him,” I offer, quiet but steady. “Quick. Permanent. I can make it as painful as you want.”
She blinks at me, then lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “Thanks, Huck. Really.”
She pats my chest, soft and distracted, and turns away, leaving us behind. Sean watches her go. Wesley sighs.
I glance between them. “That was a yes, right?”
They both groan.
“No,” Sean says.
“Definitely not,” Wesley mutters.
I frown. “Seemed like a yes.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Still sounded yes-adjacent.”
Sean just walks away, probably off to write another operations protocol. Something stupid about not killing enemies or whatever. Wesley claps my shoulder and says, “She’s not there yet, big guy.”
Yeah. But I am.
Bailey’s estate sprawls across ten acres of private land, lined with trees, bamboo, and money.
The kind of place you only get after clawing your way through a brutal business and surviving with your teeth still in your mouth.
From above, it’d look like a sleek glass-and-stone estate.
From the ground? It’s a fortress wrapped in jasmine.
Now that I’ve had the chance to explore the grounds, I’m even angrier about the breach.
The main drive splits into a half circle that loops past a three-car garage and back toward the rear gates.
Beyond that, there’s the pool house, a detached gym (in addition to the gym inside), two garden courtyards, a greenhouse, and a walking path that disappears into a dense grove of citrus trees, oaks, and silence.
If you didn’t know this place was owned by someone famous, you’d think it was a retreat for a CEO who hates people. It’s perfect. Except someone got in.
I walk the perimeter on foot, slow and methodical, scanning every inch of the gravel path and brush just beyond the gates.
The sun beats down hard enough to make me sweat through my shirt, but I don’t rush.
The tension in my chest needs somewhere to go, and stomping out my anger one footprint at a time is better than putting it through someone’s skull.
I circle to the front gate again and crouch low. That’s where I see it. Faint tire tracks. Wider than a sedan, narrower than a truck. The fine gravel’s been nudged slightly out of alignment—cleaner, newer tread impressions. I run a hand across the edges, following the pattern with my fingers.
Deep enough for weight. Rugged enough for off-road. Not commercial. Jeep Wrangler. Not definitive. But familiar enough.
I take a quick series of photos, then stand and scan the tree line. Nothing else. No cigarettes. No footprints. No wrappers. Nothing I can latch on to. Whoever it was, they didn’t stay long.
But they got close.
I clench my jaw and head back up the drive, heat thrumming under my skin like a live wire. Bailey built this place to be untouchable. And still, he touched it.
Wesley’s in the garage when I find him, half under the SUV with a tablet in one hand and grease on his cheek like he’s doing it on purpose. He doesn’t look up when I walk in. “Did you find anything?”
“Tracks,” I grunt. “Front gate. Fresh tread.”
That gets his attention. He slides out, sits up, and wipes his hands on a towel. “What kind?”
“Wide. Deep. Off-road capable. I’m betting Jeep Wrangler.”
His brow lifts. “Wrangler?”
I nod. “Not definitive, but I’m mostly sure.”
“David used to drive one.”
“I’ve heard.” But I pause. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to do his own dirty work, though.”
“Still a clue.” He stands and walks over to the whiteboard we’ve set up in the corner of the garage. It’s covered in marker scrawl and photo printouts—our own private war map. He writes “Wrangler” in all caps near David’s name and underlines it twice.
“It’s not much,” I admit. “But it’s more than nothing.”
“More than we had before,” he agrees.
I cross my arms and lean against the wall. “We should add more cameras at the gate. Low angle, thermal, and wide-lens. Catch anything on foot or wheels.”
Wes nods. “Already queued up a delivery. They’ll be here tomorrow, before the kids get here.”
“Good.”
He watches me for a second, like he’s waiting for me to say something else.
I give him what he wants. “It would be easier if I just killed him.”
Wesley’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite shock either. “You’re not serious,” he says. Flat.
“I’m always serious.”
He tosses the towel onto the workbench. “You need to stop saying that out loud.”
“I haven’t said it to her. Not since we were all together.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
I scowl. “Why?”
“Because Bailey’s not like us. Not like that. She was never a SEAL, Huck. She needs to believe there are clean ways to handle dirty things.”
“There aren’t.”
He walks over and claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not wrong, big guy. But she’s not ready for that truth.”
I look away, jaw tight. “Then I’ll keep it in my back pocket.”
“Keep it deep in the pocket. Bottom corner. Sew it shut, even.”
I grunt. “No promises.”
Wes just shakes his head. But he doesn’t argue.
Because he knows if it comes down to it—if David shows up, if he crosses a line we can’t walk back—I’ll be the one who does what needs to be done. And I’ll sleep just fine after.
The sun’s sinking low by the time I finish my second pass through the property. The house glows from the inside—long windows lit up like soft lanterns. From out here, it looks like peace. Like safety.
But I know better.
I stop by the corner of the back veranda, where the pool glistens under the fading sky. Bailey’s in a chaise near the edge, a towel wrapped around her legs, a book in her lap she hasn’t turned the page on in twenty minutes.
I watch her from the shadows. Not to be creepy. Not to intrude. Just to make sure she breathes uninterrupted. That she exists without consequence.
People like David hate that kind of freedom. They can’t stand the idea that the women who survived them could ever smile again, stretch again, let their guard down without asking for permission.
She doesn’t know I’m watching. That’s fine. She doesn’t need to. My job isn’t to make her feel protected.
It’s to make sure she is.
Even when she thinks she’s alone. Especially then.
I wait until she heads inside, then circle once more, checking every door and lock. Every window. Every shadow line. I can’t sleep when I don’t know the edges of a place. It’s like a ritual for me. A way to guarantee safety, even if only for a night.
Each of us have our rituals. I’m watchful. Wesley’s in ops, probably still tracing Jeep registrations across three counties, like he’s hunting for the holy grail. Sean’s upstairs reading old intel like it’s gospel, probably praying he’ll see something he missed.
Security and religion have a lot in common that all boils down to a single thread—protecting what’s valuable. A body or a soul. Until now, I had no idea I was a religious man. I found religion the moment I tasted that gift between her thighs.
If someone tries to take Bailey’s peace away again—tries to make her fear her own home, her own body, her own joy —I’ll end them. No warnings. No mercy.
Just me and the silence that comes after.