Chapter 8 Radio Silence #2
"They're part of it. The muscle, the transportation, the ground-level protection.
But someone higher up is running the show—someone with federal access, federal protection.
" I met Hawk's eyes. "Cross isn't the top of this.
He's management, maybe. A fixer. But the people above him?
They're the ones with the power to make federal seizures disappear, to shut down investigations, to protect an operation this size from exposure. "
The chapel fell silent. I could see them processing the implications—the scale of what we were facing, the resources arrayed against us. This wasn't a local problem. This was something systemic, something that reached into the institutions that were supposed to protect people.
"What do you need?" Hawk's voice was quiet, serious.
"The rest of the documentation from last night.
Everything we photographed, everything we recovered.
I can start building a picture of the network, identifying the players, mapping the supply chain.
" I paused, thinking of the skills I'd honed during my years in the Bureau—the pattern recognition, the data analysis, the ability to see connections that others missed.
"But that's just intelligence. If you want to actually stop this. .."
"We need to cut off the head."
"Or expose it. Get enough evidence to the right people, the ones who aren't bought.
" I thought of Sarah—my former handler, the woman who'd helped me escape Cross's orbit, who'd believed me when I said something was wrong.
"I might know someone. Someone who's been building a case of her own.
But reaching out is risky. If she's compromised, or if the network is monitoring her communications. .."
"Everything's risky." Hawk stood, gathering the photographs. "Do what you need to do. Keep me informed."
He left. Axel lingered, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You should talk to him."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Axel crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Whatever happened between you and Tank last night—and something obviously happened—you need to deal with it. We can't afford distraction right now."
"I tried to deal with it. He walked away."
"Then try again." Axel's voice softened slightly.
"Tank's not good with... this. With feelings, with wanting things he thinks he shouldn't want.
He's spent his whole life being the steady one, the reliable one, the guy who doesn't let himself need anything.
If something's changed for him, he's probably terrified. "
"That's not my problem."
"It is if you want it to be." Axel pushed off the doorframe. "I've seen the way he looks at you, Tyler. The way he's been looking at you for weeks. Whatever this is, it's not nothing. But if you wait for him to figure it out on his own, you'll be waiting forever."
He left me alone with that, the words settling into my chest like stones.
I found Tank in the gym.
It was late afternoon, the light slanting gold through the high windows, dust motes drifting in the beams like lazy thoughts. He was alone, working the heavy bag with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was trying to beat something out of himself.
I stood in the doorway and watched him.
His hands were wrapped, his shirt discarded, sweat gleaming on his back and shoulders.
Each punch landed with a solid thud that echoed off the concrete walls, the bag swinging and settling, swinging and settling.
His form was good—powerful, grounded, the kind of raw strength that came from years of fighting without formal training.
He hadn't noticed me yet. Or he had, and he was pretending he hadn't.
"We should talk."
His rhythm faltered for just a moment before he resumed, not turning around. "Nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit."
That made him stop. He caught the bag, stilled it, and finally turned to face me. His expression was closed off, guarded—the same blank mask I'd seen him wear in church, in combat, in every situation where he didn't want anyone to know what he was thinking.
"Tyler—"
"You kissed me." I stepped into the gym, letting the door close behind me. "You kissed me, and it wasn't nothing, and then you walked away without a word. So yeah, Tank. We should talk."
His jaw tightened. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything. Just don't pretend it didn't happen."
Silence stretched between us. I could see him fighting with himself—the impulse to shut down, to deflect, to retreat into the safety of not dealing with this.
And underneath that, something else. Something that looked like want, and fear, and a desperate confusion that almost made me feel sorry for him.
Almost.
"I've never—" He stopped, started again. "I don't know how to do this. With you. With—" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the situation, the complication, everything that had shifted between us.
"Neither do I. But I'm not going to pretend it away."
"What do you want from me?"
The question hung in the air. I thought about Cross, about all the times I'd twisted myself into knots trying to be what someone else needed, trying to make myself small enough to fit into the spaces they left for me.
I was done with that.
"I want you to stop running. That's it. That's all. Just stop running long enough to figure out what this is."
Tank's hands flexed at his sides. The muscle in his jaw jumped. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to step back or jump.
"Spar with me."
"What?"
"You heard me." He moved toward the mats in the corner, grabbing a second set of hand wraps from the shelf. "You want to have a conversation I don't know how to have. So let's do something I do know. Spar with me."
It wasn't what I'd expected. But maybe that was the point—meeting him where he was, speaking a language he understood.
I caught the hand wraps he tossed me and started winding them around my knuckles.
"Don't hold back."
"Wasn't planning to."
The first exchange told me everything I needed to know about how he fought.
Tank came at me hard and fast, no preamble, no feeling out.
His punches were heavy, meant to end fights quickly—the kind of brutal efficiency you learned on the street, where hesitation got you killed.
He didn't waste movement, didn't telegraph, just exploded forward with the expectation that I'd crumble under the assault.
I didn't crumble.
FBI defensive tactics training had drilled into me a different approach: redirect, control, use your opponent's momentum against them. I slipped his first punch, let his second slide past my shoulder, and used his forward motion to throw him off balance.
He caught himself, eyes widening slightly with surprise.
"Quantico. They taught us how to fight people bigger than us."
"Show me."
I did.
We circled each other, trading strikes and blocks, learning each other's rhythms. His power was undeniable—every hit I failed to redirect felt like getting kicked by a horse—but I was faster, more technical, better at reading tells and exploiting openings.
He'd throw a haymaker; I'd duck under it and land a body shot that made him grunt.
He'd try to clinch; I'd slip out with a joint manipulation that made him swear.
But he was learning. Adapting. By the third exchange, he'd started to anticipate my counters, to close the distance before I could use it against him. His street fighting became something else—still raw, still powerful, but more controlled. More deliberate.
"Not bad." I blocked a hook that would have rung my bell if it had landed.
"You either." He reset his stance, rolling his shoulders. Sweat was running down his chest now, catching the late afternoon light. "Where'd you learn that wrist thing?"
"Defensive tactics. Here—"
I moved closer, took his wrist, showed him the angle. His skin was hot under my fingers, his pulse visible in the veins of his forearm. "It's about leverage, not strength. You rotate here, apply pressure here, and—"
I demonstrated. He went to his knees, more from surprise than actual pain, and I released immediately.
"Jesus." He stood, shaking out his arm. "That's dirty."
"That's survival. Want to learn it?"
He did. And so we shifted from sparring to teaching—me showing him joint locks and pressure points, him showing me how to fight without rules. The dynamic changed, became something almost collaborative. Two people sharing knowledge, building something together.
"This one's good for when someone grabs you from behind." I demonstrated a technique on his arm. "You drop your weight, rotate into them, and—"
I walked him through the motion slowly, then faster, feeling the way his body responded to guidance. He was a quick study—physical intelligence, Quantico would have called it. The ability to learn through movement rather than explanation.
"Now you. Show me something."
He thought for a moment, then moved behind me. "Street rule number one: never fight fair."
His arm came around my throat—not choking, just demonstrating position. I could feel the heat of his chest against my back, the solidity of him surrounding me.
"Everyone expects punches." His breath was warm against my ear. "They don't expect this."
He hooked his foot behind my ankle and shifted his weight. If he'd followed through, I'd have been on the ground before I knew what was happening.
"The headbutt comes from here." He released me and turned me to face him, tapping his forehead. "Hardest part of your skull. Aim for the nose, the orbital bone. It's ugly, but it works."
"Show me."
He did, in slow motion—the setup, the weight transfer, the explosive forward motion. I mirrored it, feeling the violence coiled in the technique.
"Elbows." He demonstrated next. "Close range, when there's no room to punch. Here—"
He positioned me, adjusted my stance, his hands firm on my shoulders. The contact was professional, technical, but my skin burned wherever he touched.
"Drive from the hip. Not the arm. The power comes from here."
His hand pressed against my hip, correcting my position. I threw the elbow, felt the difference.
"Better. Again."
We drilled. Elbows, headbutts, knee strikes, all the brutal tools that Quantico had called "inappropriate force" and Tank called survival. His hands were on me constantly—correcting, adjusting, guiding—and mine were on him, showing him the mechanics of locks and chokes and joint manipulations.
The contact became more sustained. The heat between us built, layer by layer, until the air itself felt thick with it.
"Again." Tank's voice was rough. "Full speed this time."
We reset. And this time, neither of us held back.
The fight became something else—not violence, not quite, but something raw and honest that words couldn't capture.
Every hit was a question; every block was an answer.
We moved together like we'd been doing this for years, anticipating, responding, two bodies learning each other's language through the oldest conversation there was.
He shot for a takedown. I sprawled, caught his neck, tried to sink a choke. He powered out of it, got his arms around my waist, and drove me backward onto the mat.
I hit the ground hard, his weight coming down on top of me. I tried to scramble, to get my guard up, but he was too fast—pinning my wrists above my head, his hips settling between my thighs, his body covering mine completely.
We froze.
His face was inches from mine. I could see every detail—the sweat beading on his forehead, the darkness of his eyes, the rapid pulse beating in his throat. His breath was hot against my lips, coming in harsh gasps that matched my own.
His grip on my wrists loosened. His weight shifted, pressing down in a way that had nothing to do with combat.
"Tyler." My name in his mouth sounded like a prayer.
"I'm right here."
His eyes dropped to my lips. I saw the want there, naked and undisguised, the same want that had driven him to kiss me in the garage. His hips shifted again, and I felt the evidence of what this was doing to him, hard against my thigh.
I didn't move. Didn't push. Just lay there beneath him, letting him decide.
He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could smell the salt of his sweat and the heat of his want. His lips brushed mine, barely a touch, a question rather than a kiss.
Then he pulled back.
Released my wrists. Rolled off me. Got to his feet without meeting my eyes.
"I can't." His voice was rough, almost broken. "I'm sorry. I can't."
He grabbed his shirt from the floor and walked out.
Again.
I lay on the mat for a long time after he left.
The ceiling was gray and water-stained, the kind of industrial ugliness that shouldn't have held any interest but became fascinating when you couldn't bear to think about anything else. My body was still humming with adrenaline and want, the phantom weight of him pressed against me like a bruise.
Twice now. He'd walked away twice.
And the thing was, I understood. I did. Coming to terms with wanting something you'd never let yourself want before—that was terrifying.
I'd watched enough people struggle with it during my years in the Bureau, watched marriages end and friendships shatter as people tried to reconcile who they thought they were with who they actually were.
But understanding didn't make it hurt less.
I sat up, ran my hands through my sweat-damp hair. The gym was quiet around me, the light fading as evening approached. Somewhere in the clubhouse, people were living their lives—eating dinner, making plans, pretending that the world made sense.
I was done waiting.
Done letting Tank set the pace, decide the terms, control when and whether this thing between us got acknowledged. Done being the one who stood still while he walked away.
Tomorrow, I would find him. And we would have the conversation he kept running from, whether he was ready or not.
Because I wasn't Cross. I wasn't going to use his confusion against him, wasn't going to manipulate or punish or play games. But I also wasn't going to let him pretend this away.
He'd kissed me like I mattered. He'd looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been afraid to ask.
And I was done being afraid too.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, we would figure this out.
Or we would burn.