Chapter 1 #2
She holds up the phone with the screen showing the emergency dial. "I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't care. You walked out of my life eight years ago without explanation. You don't get to come back now and tell me my son's in danger from some shadow organization."
The words hit like gut punches, carefully chosen and designed to cut. She's not wrong.
"You spent over a year in a cartel compound." The words come out harsh and rough. "You know what it looks like when people decide you're disposable. You know what it feels like to be a target. This is the same thing, except these people have federal resources and unlimited funding."
Her thumb hovers over the call button. "How do you know about the cartel?"
"Because the people who sent me have access to classified intelligence.
Because we've been tracking Committee operations for months.
Because recently, your son was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he's on a list of targets that needs elimination before a federal investigation goes public. "
"Prove it." She doesn't lower the phone. "Prove you're not some stalker who's been following me. Prove you have any idea what you're talking about."
"Check the news from a few weeks back. Alley behind Martinez Grocery on Sixth Avenue. Body found, ruled gang violence by Tucson PD. Except it wasn't gang violence. It was a Committee cleanup operation, and your son saw the operatives responsible."
Rachel's face goes white. Her hand moves to her mouth. "Martinez Grocery. We were there that day. I was inside and Lucas—" She stops, realizing she's confirmed it.
"Lucas wandered to the back alley while you were shopping," I say quietly. "Saw something no kid should ever see. Came back scared but didn't tell you what happened. Maybe didn't want to get in trouble for wandering off. Maybe didn't know how to explain what he'd witnessed."
"The nightmares," she whispers. "They started a few weeks ago. I thought it was delayed trauma from the compound, but—"
"It wasn't. It was fresh trauma. And the people who were there know a kid saw them.
They've been running facial recognition through security cameras near the grocery store.
Checking vehicle registrations. Building a profile.
It won't be long before they identify him and decide he's a liability that needs permanent elimination. "
"You're insane." But her voice wavers.
"I was special ops. My team's been hunting the people who are after your son.
" This is make or break. "Right now, I'm the only thing standing between you and people who will kill Lucas to protect their secrets.
So you can call the police and explain why a man showed up claiming your son witnessed a murder.
Or you can give me a few minutes to explain why staying alive depends on trusting someone you have every reason to hate. "
The phone stays raised, but she doesn't press call.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded with years of anger and hurt. A car passes behind me. Someone's sprinkler system kicks on two houses down.
"I'm listening," she says finally. "And if I don't like what I hear, you leave and never come back. Or I make sure the police know you were threatening my family."
I'm making progress, not earning trust, but at least she's listening.
"Deal." I spread my hands wider. "Can we talk inside? Less chance of surveillance from the street."
Rachel's eyes scan the neighborhood, looking for surveillance and checking for threats. Her gaze tracks every parked car and every window.
"You get one chance," she corrects while lowering the phone. "And Colton? I'm not the woman you left behind. I survived things that would break most people. So don't test me."
She turns and walks into the house, leaving the door open behind her in what could be an invitation or a trap. Either way, it's the only chance I'm getting.
I follow her inside. The door closes behind me.
The last time I walked through a door Rachel held open, she asked me to stay.
Asked me to be something other than a weapon with a pulse.
I'd just come back from a mission I couldn't talk about, carrying things I couldn't share, and she wanted normal.
Wanted a future. Wanted me to choose her over the job.
I walked away instead. Told myself it was the right call, that operators like me don't get happy endings, that keeping her close would paint a target on her back. Told myself a lot of things that felt true in the moment and hollow every day after.
Turns out the cartel painted that target anyway. Turns out walking away didn't keep her safe at all.
Eyes adjust to the dim interior after the desert glare.
Cool air flows from a window unit. The living room is small but tidy with a couch against one wall and a television on a stand.
Bookshelves filled with paperbacks and children's books.
Photos on the wall show Lucas at various ages, none of Rachel with anyone else, only mother and son.
Rachel keeps herself between me and the hallway where Lucas is standing. Phone still in hand, positioned near the door with clear escape routes. Every movement deliberate, calculated. This is someone who learned survival the hard way.
"Lucas, go to your room," she calls without taking her eyes off me. "Now."
I hear a door close down the hall. Only then does she shift her weight, planting herself more firmly.
"Talk," Rachel says, and the flat finality in her voice tells me everything about who she's become.
She's not the woman who needed me to be more than a weapon or the woman who asked me to stay.
She's someone who learned to save herself, someone who sent her son to safety before dealing with me, someone whose controlled calm is more threatening than any weapon.
Kane said to handle it right. Looking at Rachel's eyes—hard where they used to be soft—I'm not sure I know how.