Chapter Twelve
Thomas
The first light of morning stretched thin across the compound, a pale wash that chipped away at the dark edges of nightfall.
I walked the perimeter with my coffee in hand, the metal of the travel mug still warm against my palm, but the heat was fading faster than I was drinking it.
Sleep hadn’t come easily, and when it had, it was a struggle.
My body felt it in the way it always did after nights like that, tight across my shoulders, a dull pressure behind my eyes.
But I’d learned a long time ago how to move through that kind of deprivation without letting it show.
Admittedly, it was becoming more difficult as the years passed.
The compound was already awake in quiet ways.
Not loud, not active as it was under the full light of day, but alive.
A door opened somewhere behind me, hinges controlled enough not to echo.
Footsteps moved along packed gravel. The low hum of a generator carried faintly through the air.
Even the smell of my coffee wasn’t singular.
It layered with everything else, the lingering scent of breakfast cooking in the commissary, oil from machinery, and of course the dust. Always there, coating the back of my throat, grinding between my teeth, collecting in the creases of my skin and the weave of my shirt.
I took another sip and found my way to a higher vantage point, letting my eyes move over the perimeter, noting what had changed since the night before.
A new vehicle parked along the east side, rotations at the towers already in motion.
Whoever Marcel had in charge of overnight watch had done their job.
Everything was as it should be, allowing my thoughts to drift.
My tour of the compound with my brothers had gone better than expected.
For the most part, they tolerated my presence.
Or, at least, seemed to. They hadn’t said it outright since the first night.
They didn’t need to. The hesitation to look at me, the pause before acknowledging any point I made, the way conversations redirected just enough to avoid stepping into anything that might lead to more difficult truths.
It was all there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to light a fire beneath it.
I understood it. I understood them, more than they probably wanted.
That didn’t make it easier to be the target for their anger, their frustration, their hurt.
Every decision I’d made had been thought through as far as time allowed.
I’d left emotion out of it. That was where their issue lay.
There had been a path forward to keep Olive safe, narrow but clear enough that I hadn’t hesitated.
I’d followed it because that was what I did.
I assessed, I chose, and I moved. It had kept them alive more times than they would ever know.
This time was no different, except for what it cost.
I’d taken that on knowing they wouldn’t understand or even accept it and acknowledging they might never.
That had been part of the math too, and they were angry with me for that as well.
Still, there was a piece of me that wished they could see it the way I had.
Not to justify it or to ask for anything in return, but to understand that it hadn’t been carelessness or selfishness.
It hadn’t been betrayal. It was just the only option left that had the least risk.
I finished the coffee and adjusted my grip on the mug as I turned toward the western side of the compound.
Sound hit me before the sight did. Not loud, but distinct.
Repetition. Impact. Breath pushed past exertion.
Then I heard Naomi’s voice barking commands and insults at whatever incompetent recruit was standing in front her.
I followed her voice without breaking stride, rounding the edge of a long structure before the open space came into view.
A group of recruits moved through a series of drills under Naomi’s supervision, the line uneven in places, some keeping pace, others already lagging.
She stood off to the side at first, watching, her arms crossed loosely, her attention fixed on every misstep.
“Again,” she growled, her voice carrying. “You only slow down when you’re dead. Pick it up!”
They did. Most of them.
Bodhi stood out immediately, not because he was ahead, but because he wasn’t.
He pushed through the same sequence as the others—movement drills, transitions, positioning—but his timing was a fraction behind, his footing off just enough to cost him momentum every few steps.
Sweat had already soaked through his standard issue tan T-shirt, darkening the fabric along his spine, under his arms, and making a V down his chest. He was unquestionably in shape from basketball, and yet almost clumsy in his exhaustion.
Still, he didn’t stop.
Naomi moved in closer, stepping into his space without hesitation.
“You think anyone attacking that door you’re so worried about is going to wait for you to catch your breath?” she seethed.
“No,” he said, forcing the word out between breaths.
“Then why are you moving like I need to preorder your body bag? Move your skinny ass, recruit!”
He adjusted immediately, pushing harder, correcting his footing, trying to close the gap he’d already created.
“Better,” she said. “But you still suck, let’s go!”
Another pass. Another correction. Another missed step. She didn’t ease up.
“Again! I can do this all morning, ladies, and we’ll keep going until String Bean here can get it right!”
Bodhi wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt, and reset without argument.
I watched him for another minute, tracking the way he compensated, where he overcorrected, where instinct tried to take over without the training to support it.
He wasn’t there yet. Not even close. But he wasn’t quitting, and something told me Naomi would have him where we needed him to be when the time came.
Naomi glanced up then, catching me at the edge of the training field. She didn’t stop what she was doing, but she held my gaze long enough to acknowledge it.
I gave her a single nod.
She returned it, almost imperceptible, before turning back to the recruits.
“Last set,” she called. “If you wanna impress me, now’s the time.”
Bodhi didn’t hesitate.
I kept walking, leaving the sound of boots pounding dirt and exhausted grunting behind me as I circled back toward the main corridor.
The compound had shifted in the time I’d been out, the early morning movement switching to locked and loaded.
Activity had picked up, not frantic but faster, keeping up with the rising, unforgiving desert sun.
Just as I decided to make my way back to our adobe and start breakfast, something caught my attention. Two soldiers broke from the far side of the compound, moving at a controlled jog toward Command, another falling in behind them a second later.
I changed direction immediately. By the time I reached the entrance of Command, guards at the door were already holding it open, voices carrying from inside. I stepped through without announcing myself, catching the tail end of the report as one of the soldiers spoke.
“…multiple sets of tracks along the outer ridge, north side of the fences, sir. Fresh. Within the last six hours.”
“How many, Johns?” Marcel asked.
“Half a dozen, sir. Possibly more. Hard to tell with overlap.”
“Pattern?”
“Not random. They were moving with intent. Stopped twice along the perimeter, then doubled back.”
Recon.
I moved further into the room, Marcel’s attention falling briefly to me before returning to Johns. He was enormous, weathered, clearly someone in charge of something.
“Any breach attempts?” Marcel asked.
“No, sir. Perimeter’s intact.”
Marcel nodded once, already processing. “Increase watch on all sides. Double rotation on towers. I want eyes on every approach point. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Johns stepped back, the others adjusting position as orders were quietly and calmly relayed into radios without needing to be repeated.
“Could be a probe,” I said.
“Or they’re sloppy,” Marcel replied. “They’re untrained, impatient. They’ve exposed their presence.”
“If it’s them.”
“It’s them,” Marcel said. “The cartels move differently. The Carlisis are probably testing response time.”
“I’m sure you passed.”
“Of course we did. But without numbers and a weapons profile, we’re flying blind.”
“That’s the next order of business, I assume?” I asked, despite the risk of insult.
He glared at me. “This isn’t some backyard operation, Maddox. My recon team’s already inbound. And they won’t leave tracks like those clumsy sons of bitches who just tipped their hand.”
“I had no doubt,” I said with a subdued grin, turning for the door.
“Confidence noted,” he grumbled from behind me.
Outside, the compound continued moving, unaware of the exact details but responding all the same, something that only came when status changed.
I crossed hard-packed dirt toward the adobe, mug in hand.
Dawn had already crossed into day, different from the way it did in cities where light hit steel and reflected off windows.
Arizona sun, forced to break through a veil of sandy air, crawled over scrub and fencing, over low roofs and parked trucks powdered in dust, turning the horizon from pastels to harsh, washed-out neutrals.
A dog barked once somewhere beyond the main corridor, metal clanged in the distance, and boots moved a few blocks away—purposeful and quick, without a single step wasted.
They knew as well as I did that whatever was coming was already on its way.