29. Chapter 29
Chapter 29
T he tires screeched as Jesse pulled into his parking lot, his heart slamming against his ribs. The morning light cast long, sharp shadows through the trees over his truck, his apartment in the duplex, the ordinary world he was about to leave behind—again.
No time.
He killed the engine and moved, his ribs aching with every breath as he jogged to his door. His side still throbbed from the stab wound, but it didn’t fucking matter. Nothing did right now except getting back to base.
His keys fumbled against the lock before he shoved inside. The apartment was dark, still smelling like her—flowery hair, vanilla skin, the faintest trace of the tea she drank at night.
Straight to the closet. The go-bag was always ready. SEAL life meant being ready to deploy at a moment’s notice, so his bag was packed with essentials—extra uniforms, clean socks, toiletries, cash, copies of important documents. He yanked it out, double-checking the inside. Ammo, multi-tool, flashlight, gloves, tourniquets—not the issued stuff, but the good stuff.
Last—the personal shit. A charm necklace his mom had give him with a cross. The chain slipped around his neck, settling against his chest. Wallet. Work phone. Personal phone.
Jesse stared at it for half a second. Torn. He shouldn’t even bring it. There was no point. It would end up locked in a box on base somewhere.
Instead, he unlocked his phone, typing out the only message he had time for.
I love you. Be good. I’ll get details to you however I can.
He hit send, swallowed the lump in his throat, then powered off the phone and threw it in a drawer. No distractions. Not where he was going.
One last sweep of the apartment. The bed was still unmade from yesterday. Their clothes were still strewn over the floor from the weekend.
And then he was out the door.
Jesse swung the door open, one boot already stepping onto the front stoop, his mind three steps ahead—base, gear check, pre-op briefing. He didn’t have time for distractions this morning.
But the moment he stepped out, he nearly ran into Mrs. Elaine Whitaker, his seventy-something-year-old landlord, standing just outside with a kind but nervous smile, her hands folded neatly in front of her cardigan.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” he greeted, shifting his go-bag higher on his shoulder. “Didn’t know I had company.”
“I was hoping to catch you before work, dear.” She peered up at him, her pale blue eyes warm, but hesitant.
Jesse exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Everything alright?”
She hesitated, then nodded, but the way she fidgeted with the buttons of her cardigan told him otherwise.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” she finally said, her voice tinged with regret. “I’ve decided to sell the property.”
Jesse stilled.
Not a big deal. Not a huge deal. But damn, one more thing he didn’t need on his plate right now.
He dragged a hand through his hair, glancing back at his small, barely-lived-in one-bedroom unit—half of the old coastal house she’d split into two rentals. It wasn’t much, but it was his. A quiet place to land between deployments.
“You sure?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
She nodded. “It’s been a hard decision, but I’m getting older, and the market’s good right now. It is time.” Her brow furrowed. “You’re leaving again?”
“Soon.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I’ll keep you updated. You’ll have time to figure things out.”
He nodded, stepping past her onto the sidewalk. “Appreciate it, Mrs. Whitaker.”
She watched him go, still shaking her head like he was a grandson she didn’t quite know how to handle.
Jesse exhaled, tightening his grip on his go-bag. Another thing to deal with later.
Right now, he had a job to do.
The base was already buzzing by the time Jesse rolled through the gates. Men moving, gear being loaded onto transports, the controlled chaos of an emergency deployment in motion.
He parked, grabbed his bag, and strode toward the team compound.
Inside, the briefing room was packed. Team guys, officers, intelligence analysts. Jesse spotted Colson at the front, all business, already rattling off details.
“Navarro, you’re late,” Colson barked, though there was no heat in it.
“Still beat everyone else,” Jesse muttered, dropping his bag next to the others.
Colson gave him a sharp look but didn’t argue. They had bigger shit to deal with.
The mission briefing was fast and to the point. Jesse barely had time to absorb it before they were moving.
A hostage extraction. High-value personnel. Sensitive location.
No guarantees of success.
The prep was a blur.
Gear up. Kit up. Check weapons. Run comms. Everything automatic, his body moving like a machine while his mind was a thousand miles away. Every movement was second nature, every click of his rifle, every strap tightened, every last-minute adjustment to his gear. He should have been locked in, dialed in. Instead, there was a gnawing at his gut—something raw and aching, something pulling him in the opposite direction.
Hayley.
Kwilé.
Everything he was leaving behind.
He forced it down. Focus. He had to focus.
But then—Heath.
Jesse caught him in the med room, the harsh overhead fluorescents making the lines in Heath’s face look deeper, his sharp blue eyes scanning him with that familiar, assessing intensity. The kind that saw right through every wall Jesse ever put up.
Jesse shut the door behind him and exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair before yanking up his shirt.
“I need you to check this for me.”
Heath’s expression didn’t change. Just a sharp nod, already moving. No questions, no hesitation.
Jesse barely flinched as Heath peeled the blood-soaked bandage away from his side. The wound was ugly—red, irritated, sluggishly leaking—nothing life-threatening, but bad enough that he should have handled it hours ago. Heath didn’t say anything, but Jesse felt the judgment in his silence.
“Jesus, man,” Heath muttered, reaching for his supplies. “This is a fresh wound, isn’t it? What the fuck happened?”
“Ran into a junkie,” Jesse gritted out. “Didn’t see the blade.”
Heath huffed, already dousing gauze with antiseptic. “Bet that felt great.”
Jesse sucked in a sharp breath as Heath pressed the gauze to his side, fire licking through his ribs. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still. There was no time for painkillers, no time for anything. Just a quick patch job before he had to be on that plane.
“I can glue it instead of stitching,” Heath said, voice calm, clinical. “Less time, less movement restriction. It’ll hold for the op, but you’re gonna feel it.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, that’s what you always say,” Heath muttered.
Jesse’s fingers flexed on his thighs as he braced against the pain. It wasn’t just the wound that was eating him alive. It was everything. The deployment. The unfinished business. Hayley. Kwilé. The fact that he was getting on a fucking plane and leaving it all behind.
He bowed his head, elbows digging into his knees, fingers pressing hard against his skull as he squeezed his eyes shut.
And then, suddenly, there were tears.
Silent, steady, burning hot as they slid down his face.
He didn’t sob. Didn’t make a sound. Just sat there with his head in his hands, letting the weight of it crash over him.
Heath stilled, the med kit shifting slightly on the metal tray.
“Brother,” he said quietly. “What’s going on?”
Jesse dragged in a slow, shuddering breath. “This is the worst fucking timing for me to go.”
Heath didn’t push. Just kept working, the cool press of medical glue against his skin, his hands firm, steady.
Jesse exhaled, his throat tight. “She’s pregnant.”
Heath’s hands paused for the briefest second. Then—“Yeah?”
“I asked her to marry me.”
Heath’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “And that’s what you want?”
Jesse let out a sharp breath. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”
Heath gave a small nod, eyes back on his work. “I’m happy for you, man. But I get it.”
Jesse swallowed. “I’m leaving her in a fucking mess. She’s pregnant, and I’m not gonna be there. I’ve got a friend who’s lost and vulnerable, and I should be looking for him, but I’m leaving for God knows how long. I have no choice. No fucking choice.” His voice cracked, frustration bleeding through. “And I don’t think either of them will truly understand that.”
Heath was quiet for a beat. Then, his voice even, steady—“Brother, you focus on the mission. Get back out there. Get on that plane. I’ll watch Hayley. I’ll help her. And I’ll find your friend. Just give me the details.”
Jesse blinked at him, throat thick.
“Heath, I—”
“It’s okay, bud.” Heath’s voice softened. “I got your back.”
Jesse inhaled sharply, blinking hard as he reached out, clamping a hand on Heath’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” he rasped. “Thank you so fucking much.”
Heath just nodded, securing the last of the bandaging.
Then Jesse stood, tugging his shirt down, the weight of the job settling back over his shoulders.
One hour. He had one hour before wheels up. No fucking choice.
* * * * *
The C-17’s engines thundered to life, a deep, bone-rattling growl that vibrated through the steel floor, up Jesse’s boots, into his spine. The air inside the massive cargo bay was thick with the stench of oil, sweat, and metal, a scent so familiar it was almost comforting. Almost.
Strapped into the rigid canvas seat, Jesse adjusted his helmet in his lap, his rifle resting between his knees, barrel pointed down. The weight of his gear pressed into him—plate carrier snug against his chest, sidearm strapped to his thigh, comms secured. Everything in place. Everything ready.
Except his fucking mind.
He should be locked in, running through the mission plan in his head. Should be visualizing the objective, assessing contingencies, preparing for whatever shitshow they were about to walk into.
Instead—Hayley.
The way she’d looked at him.
The way her lips had parted, like she wanted to argue, to tell him this wasn’t fair.
The way her fingers had curled into the front of his shirt before she’d let go, stepping back.
She had let go.
And he had walked away.
Again.
The engines revved higher, the aircraft vibrating beneath him as the rear ramp sealed shut, locking them into the belly of the beast. The crew moved through final checks, shouting over the roar of turbines, securing cargo, strapping in last-minute gear. Around him, his team sat in their own heads, some silent, some bullshitting to break the tension, some adjusting their gear with meticulous precision.
Jesse barely heard any of it.
His jaw clenched, fingers flexing against the grip of his rifle. He had told her to trust him. To wait.
But how many more times would she wait before she didn’t?
How many more times could he walk away before she stopped being there to walk back to?
He exhaled sharply, shutting his eyes for a second, forcing himself to reset.
The mission. The job. The reason he was sitting on this goddamn plane instead of holding her, instead of figuring out how the fuck to be the man she needed him to be.
A sharp voice cut through the hum of the cabin. “Wheels up in five.”
Jesse let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, shaking out the tension.
Five minutes.
Then it was go-time.
He opened his eyes, steeling himself, and pushed everything else away.
For now.