Chapter 2
The rhythmic thump thump of tires over seams in the concrete fills the blacked-out company Tahoe as we drive through the thick mid-afternoon traffic of the Chicago Loop.
Hawk handles it without thinking, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, and his eyes moving constantly over the sea of red taillights flowing toward the horizon.
Even now, he can’t help but watch for threats. But… truth be told, neither can I.
With my body angled slightly toward the window in the passenger seat, I observe the flow of cars and people without focusing on anything too long.
It’s a habit at this point. I don’t stare.
I don’t lock in on any one thing. I just keep my awareness wide, picking up what matters and ignoring what doesn’t. Most of the time, it’s nothing.
My phone is settled in a dash mount, as a makeshift mobile command center.
On the screen, a digital conference room has been assembled.
Abby’s face is top left, perfectly poised against the backdrop of her pristine home office.
Jagger and Gunnar are sharing a video stream from the Aegis jet, the two of them a study of contrasts.
Gunnar has a tight jaw and naturally stoic face, making him appear to be all business twenty-four seven.
Jagger, on the other hand, has a near-permanently affixed grin that I know means he’s going to be full of his cocky bullshit today. At least he’s Gunnar’s problem.
“—so, to give you the quick rundown.” Abby’s voice is crisp and clear, cutting through the low hum of the engine.
“The death threats are credible, and the threat level is high. Per the DEA documentation forwarded for this case, the Cartagena cartel is making a lot of noise about retaliation for a recent drug seizure. Surveillance of the cartel has indicated intent to target the local ambassador. Within the past six weeks, those communications have escalated. The protective detail’s primary is US Ambassador Richard Bradenburg, who Jagger and Gunnar are en route to in Cartagena.
” A photo appears on the small screen of my phone.
It’s a man in his late forties with the kind of cookie-cutter, diplomatic face that could be smiling at a state dinner while simultaneously discussing drone strikes with the Pentagon.
“Secondary is his daughter, Mackenzi. She’s a college student here in the states,” Abby continues while swapping out the photo.
It’s a standard-issue college ID photo, the kind they force you to take against a mottled blue background under harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look vaguely ill. Except her. She looks… luminous.
A waterfall of wavy, chestnut hair cascades over her shoulders, framing her face.
She has a broad, radiant smile that deepens the curve of her round and rosy cheeks.
Her eyes are a rich shade of umber, and even in the cheap, flat lighting of the photo, they hold a spark.
She is naturally beautiful in a way that feels effortless.
“Dibs on the ambassador.” Jagger’s voice is laced with his usual jovial undertone, crackling through the car’s speakers. “I get my fair share of wrangling kids at home.”
“And whose fault is that?” Gunnar murmurs without bothering to look at him.
“Mine, apparently,” Jagger snorts. “Though, we’re still talking rookie numbers. I think we can increase the roster a little more.”
“Shut up, Jag,” Gunnar grouses, his voice already filled with annoyance, before steering the conversation back to the job. “So, the ambassador is the package, and the daughter is a high-value complication.”
“Agreed.” My voice comes out as a low rumble as I force my gaze away from the photo on the screen. “She’s the soft target. We treat her with the same level of threat as the principal.”
“Sounds like you just volunteered for babysitting detail,” Jagger chimes in, his smirk growing impressively more cocky.
“That’s the plan,” Abby confirms. “It’s why two of you are heading directly to their residence in Cartagena, and the other two are en route to Westbridge University to handle her extraction.”
Westbridge…
Having blindly climbed into this SUV with Hawk, I was oblivious to where we were going other than the job.
“Westbridge?” I clarify, the information hits me like a punch to the gut and momentarily knocks the air from my lungs.
It is a physical reaction that has nothing to do with the job and everything to do with a life I have failed at.
“Westbridge?” Jagger’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Isn’t that where your kid goes, Damon?”
My son.
The thought of him is a familiar ache, a dull, chronic pain behind my ribs. A ghost I have carried with me in every city, every safe house, and every life I have protected.
“Yes, Westbridge University,” Abby confirms. “She’s a junior there. The ambassador wants her pulled from classes immediately and flown down to him under our guard. He believes it’s safer than trying to protect her on campus in the city. And I have to agree with him.”
“Maybe you could kill two birds with one stone,” Jagger continues. “Pick up the asset and say hi to your estranged offspring.”
“Jagger,” Gunnar huffs his admonishment. “For the love of God, can you just… not?” His tone sounds as though he is perpetually annoyed with Jagger’s shit. Probably because he is. “Read the file. Shoot the bad guys. Keep your mouth closed. It’s not that complicated.”
“All right…” Abby mutters to steer the conversation back to the job. “Mackenzi is in class all afternoon. I’m sending you her schedule. The ambassador prefers minimal disruption, but as always, the priority is speed and obtaining her compliance.”
Hawk lets out a heavy breath before echoing, “Obtaining her compliance?”
“Expect resistance,” Abby adds with a slight chuckle.
“She has no awareness of the situation. This will be a shock to her.” The rest of the call is a quick overview of logistics—routes, timing, and coordination with the embassy security already in place.
Abby runs through contingencies, fallback plans, and communication protocols.
It’s routine. It’s what we do. “Keep comms dark until you’re all boots on the ground in Cartagena unless there’s an emergency. ”
The screen goes blank, the digital conference room dissolving as I lean my head against the cool leather of the headrest. When I close my eyes, images of Gabriel immediately flit through my thoughts.
Chubby hands outstretched toward me as he wobbled his first steps across the living room.
A confused three-year-old clutching a stuffed dinosaur while his mother and I signed papers that neither of us knew how to explain to him.
All ears and missing front teeth, grinning at me from beneath a Little League hat that barely fit his little head during what little of his childhood I wasn’t deployed for.
A sullen and closed-off teenager full of anger and one-word answers when I saw him between jobs as we built Aegis from nothing.
And two years ago, standing on the curb outside his dorm at Westbridge, shoulders squared as he gave me a stiff nod instead of a hug before disappearing into the crowd.
Coming to Westbridge for college instead of staying in Texas wasn’t what he had planned.
He wanted familiar skies and faces in a place far away from me and my career.
But his mother convinced him otherwise. She thought that putting him within driving distance of Chicago—within reach of me—might give us the chance to repair all the damage my years in the military, and later Aegis’s founding, had carved into our relationship.
Isabella has always been an optimist. But her belief that forcing our son into my proximity alone could bridge a lifetime of missed birthdays, broken promises, and conversations cut short by classified calls was a bit far-fetched.
The truth is, being closer hasn’t changed much at all.
Gabriel still keeps me at arm’s length, polite but distant, answering texts hours later and treating our dinners like obligations to ensure his tuition gets paid.
Sometimes, I think he came here for his mother’s peace of mind, not because any part of him believed I could still become the father he needed.
When I open my eyes, the city gives way to the sprawling suburbs, and I grab my phone from the dash.
I turn it over for a second before unlocking it, my thumb hovering over my texts.
This is a bad idea. A terrible one. But I have to do it.
My fingers move with a life of their own, typing out a message.
I delete it and rewrite it three times, trying to ensure it sounds casual.
Stopping by campus. Would love to catch up for a few minutes.
I stare at the words, and I feel like such a fraud. Stopping by. Like this was a planned detour. Catch up. As if we have a rapport to catch up on.
The phone is heavy in my hand, the screen turning black as it times out.
Listening to the hum of the tires, I wait for a response I don’t think is coming.
If he doesn’t reply, we’ll just do the job: Extract the girl.
Get out. Either way, it’ll be fine. I nearly convince myself of the as foot traffic increases with each block we pass.
The screen lights up in my palm, and I swipe open my phone.
GAbrIEL
Yeah… sure.
Short. No real enthusiasm, but no refusal, either. It’s about what I expected. Those two little words say everything he isn’t. Yeah, I’m obligated to respond to you. Sure, come and remind me of everything that’s wrong between us. I’ll tolerate you visiting because I have no choice.
We pull closer to the college, traffic thinning as the suburbs become the manicured hills that surround campus.
The trees here are older, more established, with their branches forming a dense canopy over the narrowing roads.
This isn’t the normal raw, gritty city we operate in.
Westbridge University isn’t just an institution.
It’s a self-contained ecosystem of the future elite, founded on old money and quiet privilege—a world Gabriel has managed to navigate well, considering he doesn’t have the social status most of his classmates do.
Not all of us were afforded the option to be a US ambassador…
My mind, treacherous as ever, loops back to the photo of Mackenzi Bradenburg from her file.
Her smile, which appeared genuine and unguarded, now seems like a light slap against my face.
It’s a reminder of a world that—even after attaining wealth—I’ve only ever observed from a distance.
A world in which I am usually the hired help, tasked with protecting and preserving the detail.
Nothing more than a ghost to most of our clients.