Chapter 3
STRYKER
Rachel's neighborhood is too exposed.
I walk the perimeter of her property, cataloging vulnerabilities with the same methodical precision I've used in dozens of combat zones.
Chain-link fence on both sides offers zero security.
Low mesquite trees provide inadequate cover.
Sight lines from the street give any observer a clear view of the front door, living room windows, and most of the driveway.
Sitting at the end of a cul-de-sac limits escape routes to a single access road.
A tactical nightmare.
Committee operatives could set up surveillance from three different positions without Rachel ever knowing they were being watched. Could breach from the front or back simultaneously, box us in, eliminate any and all targets before neighbors even registered the sound of suppressed gunfire.
Eight years ago, I told myself walking away would keep her safe.
Told myself that an operator like me attracts the kind of attention that gets civilians killed.
Told myself she deserved normal, and normal meant someone who came home every night instead of disappearing for weeks on black ops missions I couldn't discuss.
Looking at this house now, at the soccer ball in the yard and the flower boxes under the windows, I realize how monumentally stupid that logic was. I didn't keep her safe. Wasn't there when she needed someone who knew how to fight the kind of evil that takes women for leverage and control.
Micah's team got her out. Micah taught her to shoot. Micah did the job I should have been doing if I hadn't been too much of a coward to admit I wanted her more than I wanted the mission.
My phone buzzes. Tommy's preliminary surveillance report loads on the encrypted app. Committee assets have been active in Tucson. Multiple operatives confirmed. They've been running standard search protocols through local databases, but nothing's pinged Rachel's address yet.
Yet.
I pocket the phone and head back inside.
The security equipment in my duffel won't stop a dedicated assault team, but it'll give us warning.
A few precious seconds to grab Lucas and Rachel and run for the truck parked in the driveway, already loaded with tactical gear and enough fuel to reach the safe house near the Mexican border—the emergency fallback if the Committee finds them before Tommy finishes building bulletproof new identities.
The front door opens into the living room, and I stop just inside the threshold. Really look this time instead of cataloging threats.
Photos cover every available surface. Magnetic frames on the refrigerator show Lucas at various ages—gap-toothed kindergarten smile, serious first-grade portrait, action shot of him kicking a soccer ball with his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
Rachel appears in some of them, looking older than I remember but somehow more herself.
Stronger. Harder. A woman who survived hell and came out the other side with a kid who still knows how to smile.
An older couple features in a few pictures—gray hair, kind faces, the man's arm around Rachel's shoulders in a way that speaks of protection and unconditional support. Parents, probably. Family I never met because I kept our relationship in a carefully controlled box labeled "temporary."
Lucas's drawings cover one entire wall. Crayon masterpieces of stick figures playing soccer, a house with a crooked chimney and flowers that are bigger than the windows, a dog that looks more like a horse.
Kid art, bright and messy and full of the kind of innocence that shouldn't have to know about murders and Committee operatives with snake tattoos.
Books are stacked on the coffee table, the end tables, a small bookshelf in the corner that's overflowing onto the floor. Mystery novels mixed with parenting guides, a well-worn copy of "Misty of Chincoteague" sitting on top of what looks like a technical manual about home security systems.
Rachel built a life here. A real life with warmth and safety and all the normal things I convinced myself she needed from someone who wasn't me.
Turns out she built it without needing anyone.
"Are you a soldier?"
I turn to find Lucas standing in the hallway, watching me with the kind of wide-eyed curiosity that six-year-olds haven't learned to hide yet. He's wearing a t-shirt two-sizes too big and shorts. There are grass stains on his knees. Fresh from playing outside.
Dark hair sticks up at odd angles. Brown eyes study me with an intensity that reminds me of his mother. He's small for six, all gangly limbs and baby fat starting to give way to muscle.
"Yeah," I say, because there's no point lying to a kid who's already seen too much. "I'm a soldier."
Face lights up. "Cool. What kind of soldier? Like on TV?" He bounces on his toes. "Do you have a gun? Can I see it? Does it make loud noises?"
"Special Forces. Yes, I have a gun, but no, you can't see it. And yes, they're very loud." I answer them in order, keeping my voice level. Non-threatening. The way you talk to kids when you don't want to scare them.
"Why can't I see it?" Lucas takes a step closer, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mom says guns are dangerous, but you're a soldier so you know how to use them safe, right?"
"Your mom's right. Guns are dangerous. That's why they stay locked up when I'm here."
"But—"
"No." Rachel's voice cuts across the room from the kitchen doorway, sharp enough to make Lucas flinch. "Absolutely not. No gun talk. No weapons. No military anything."
One hand braces against the doorframe, the other hanging loose at her side—ready to move if she needs to.
Shoulders slump. "But Mom—"
"I said no, Lucas. Mr. Stryker is here to help us stay safe, not to show you dangerous things."
Her eyes find mine over her son's head, and the message is clear. We had rules. Don't touch Lucas's sense of safety. This conversation is over.
"Fine." Lucas drags the word out, disappointment written across his face. Then he perks up slightly. "But you can still tell me about being a soldier, right? Like stories?"
Rachel's jaw tightens, but she nods. "Stories are fine. As long as they're appropriate for a six-year-old."
"Awesome." Lucas grins at me, hero worship already cementing itself in his expression. "Do you have any cool gear? Mom said you brought a bag. Does it have special stuff? Can I see?"
Questions start again, and I glance at Rachel for permission. She gives a slight nod, though her posture doesn't relax.
"Some of it," I say carefully. "But most of the equipment is for protecting people, not fighting."
"Like what?"
I move to my duffel, making my movements slow and obvious. Rachel watches every motion, and I can practically feel her calculating how fast she could reach her biometric safe if this goes wrong. Still doesn't trust me. Can't blame her.
I pull out the motion sensors first. Small black boxes that look innocuous enough.
"These detect movement. If someone comes near the house who shouldn't be here, they send an alert to my phone and to my team's operations center.
They monitor in shifts, round the clock, so someone's always watching. "
Lucas leans closer, fascinated. "Like a burglar alarm?"
"Similar. But better." I show him the wireless camera next, equally small and nondescript. "This records video so we can see who's around even when we're inside. Also feeds to the operations center."
"That's so cool." Lucas reaches for it, then pulls his hand back and looks at his mother. "Can I touch it?"
Rachel's expression softens slightly. "Gently."
Lucas takes the camera with the kind of reverence most kids reserve for video game controllers. He turns it over in his hands, examining every angle. "Where does the video go?"
"To a secure server. Only people with the right password can access it."
"And you have the password?"
"I do."
"Can I have it?"
"Lucas." Rachel's tone carries warning.
"What? I just want to see how it works." Lucas hands the camera back to me, disappointment flickering across his face again. "This is still really cool, though. You're like a spy."
"Something like that."
Rachel moves further into the living room, positioning herself where she can watch both of us. "Why don't you go get ready for bed, Lucas? It's almost seven."
"But I'm not even tired."
"It's a school night. Bed at seven means bed at seven."
Lucas groans with the kind of dramatic flair only kids can pull off, but he heads back toward the hallway. Pauses at the door to his room. "Mr. Stryker?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for showing me the cool spy stuff."
"Anytime, kid."
Lucas disappears into his room, and silence settles over the living room like a physical presence.
Rachel doesn't move from her position near the kitchen, and I don't move from the duffel.
We watch each other across the space, two people who used to know how to navigate each other and now have no idea where the boundaries are.
"He likes you," she says finally.
"Kids are easy to impress."
"Don't." Her voice goes flat. "Don't do that thing where you deflect. Lucas already decided you're his new hero. I saw the way he looked at you. Like you hung the moon."
"I'll stay professional. Just someone staying at the house for a while."
"Will you?" Rachel takes a step closer, arms still crossed. "Because I remember how you are, Colton. You get invested. You care. And then you leave."
Accusation hangs between us, deserved and unanswerable. She's right. I do care. Already care about the kid who asked me about guns and looked at basic surveillance equipment like it was magic.
"I'm here to do a job," I say, keeping my voice neutral. Professional. "Keep you and Lucas safe until Kane arranges something permanent. That's all."