Chapter 13
RACHEL
The team deployed hours ago.
Stryker kissed me once before gearing up, hard and fast and desperate, then disappeared into the operations center with Kane and the others. I heard the heavy equipment being checked, the terse commands as they loaded into vehicles, the engines starting.
Now there's nothing to do but wait.
I sit in the common area with Lucas curled against my side, his favorite book open on his lap though neither of us is reading.
My coffee went cold long ago. The mug sits on the table in front of me, refilled twice and abandoned both times since Stryker and the team went to hunt the men hunting my son.
Waiting is worse than running ever was.
Lucas shifts closer, sensing my tension the way kids always do. "Is Mr. Stryker going to be okay?"
The question lodges in my throat. I want to lie, want to promise him everything will be fine, that the man who's become his hero will walk back through that door without a scratch.
But I've lied to Lucas too many times already—lies about why we had to leave our house, lies about why we can't go back, lies about why bad men want to hurt him.
I'm done lying to my son.
"I don't know, baby." The honesty tastes bitter. "But he's very good at his job. And he's not alone out there."
Lucas nods, seemingly satisfied with this non-answer. He goes back to staring at the pages of his book without reading them. Waiting, like me, for someone to tell us it's over.
The common area feels too big and too small at the same time.
Khalid sits in the corner with Odin's head in his lap, pretending to do homework but really just staring at the same page he's been on since the team deployed.
Willa moves through the space like a ghost, supplies checked and organized in the medical bay, doing anything to keep her hands busy while Kane leads the strike team.
Sarah appears in the doorway, tablet in hand. Our eyes meet across the room and my chest tightens at her expression.
"Contact," she says simply.
I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move. Lucas grabs my hand, fear bright in his eyes, but I squeeze his fingers and force myself to breathe. "Stay here with Khalid, okay? I'll be right back."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I cross to Sarah, following her into the operations center where Tommy sits surrounded by monitors showing tactical feeds and communications arrays. His fingers fly across keyboards, pulling up data streams I can't begin to interpret.
"Sitrep," Sarah says, all business despite the tension radiating from her shoulders.
Tommy points to one of the screens. "Firefight initiated. Kessler's advance team was larger than anticipated. Our team engaged at the predetermined intercept point."
"Casualties?" My voice doesn't sound like mine.
"Multiple hostiles down, some wounded and retreating." Tommy's expression is grim. “Mercer took a round to the vest, broke a rib but he's still operational."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by guilt. Mercer isn't Colton. The fact that he's okay doesn't mean Colton is.
"Stryker?" The name comes out barely above a whisper.
Tommy's hesitation tells me everything before he speaks. "Took shrapnel from an explosive device. Bleeding but operational. Kane's keeping him in the fight."
Operational. The word should be reassuring. Operational means functional, means able to complete the mission, means not dead. But operational also means injured, bleeding, in pain, still in danger.
I watch the tactical display, trying to make sense of the symbols and movement patterns.
Blue markers representing our team, red markers for hostiles, lines showing fields of fire and movement vectors.
It's all abstract geometry until I remember that one of those blue markers is Colton, bleeding somewhere out there because he chose to protect my son.
"How bad?" I ask Sarah, trusting her to translate Tommy's operational assessment into something approaching truth.
"Bad enough that Willa's prepping the medical bay," Sarah admits. "But he's still fighting, which means he's conscious and coherent. That's good."
Good. The word sits in my mouth like broken glass.
Minutes crawl past. Tommy provides updates in terse sentences: hostile retreat confirmed, team pursuing to secondary intercept point, additional hostiles down.
Each update is another spike of adrenaline I can't process, another reminder that Stryker is out there putting his body between my son and the men who want him dead.
"They're RTB," Tommy announces, and I must look confused because Sarah translates.
"Returning to base. They're coming home."
Home. As if this underground facility carved from Montana rock could be home. As if anywhere could be home while Kessler's still breathing.
But Colton's coming back. That's all that matters.
I return to Lucas in the common area, pulling him close and trying to project calm I don't feel. "They're on their way back."
"Is Mr. Stryker okay?"
"He's hurt, but he's coming back." Truth, as much truth as I can give him.
Lucas processes this with the same serious expression he's worn since that night in the grocery store when he saw a man murdered. Too much gravity for a six-year-old face. "Can I see him when he gets here?"
"After the doctor checks him out, okay? Let's give him some space to get patched up first."
The waiting stretches. Lucas falls asleep against my shoulder, exhausted from the tension. I shift him carefully, making him more comfortable, and stare at the corridor until my eyes burn. Hours blur together until finally I hear the heavy door to Echo Base grind open.
Voices echo down the corridor. Boots on stone, the particular rhythm of exhausted men who've just survived combat. I stand, Lucas's hand tight in mine, and watch the hallway.
Dylan appears first, supporting Mercer who's moving stiffly but under his own power. Then Kane, face grim, blood on his tactical vest that I hope isn't his. Sarah moves immediately to his side, hands checking him for injuries with practiced efficiency.
Then Stryker.
He's walking, which my brain registers as good even as the rest of me focuses on the field dressing wrapped around his left bicep, the blood seeping through the fabric, the way he favors his right side, the cuts on his face.
Willa is already moving toward him, medical bag in hand, but his eyes find mine across the room and everything else fades.
He's alive. Bleeding, hurt, but alive.
The relief hits so hard my knees go weak. I release Lucas's hand and move toward Stryker without conscious thought, crossing the space between us in heartbeats. Up close, I can see the full extent of the damage—wounds on his arm, burns on his shoulder, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
"You're hurt," I say, like an idiot, stating the obvious.
"Operational," he echoes Tommy's assessment, and the word sounds different in his voice. Rougher. More painful.
Willa is all business. "Medical bay. Now. Let's see how much of that blood is actually yours."
Stryker doesn't argue, which tells me more about his condition than any sitrep could. He lets Willa guide him down the corridor toward the medical bay, and I follow without asking permission.
Lucas tugs at my sleeve. "Mom?"
"Stay with Khalid, baby. I'll be back soon."
Khalid's already moving to collect Lucas, understanding written across his young-old face. He's been where Lucas is—waiting to see if someone he cares about will survive their injuries. The knowledge passes between us in a glance, and I'm grateful for him in ways I can't articulate.
The medical bay is clean and clinical, exactly what you'd expect from a facility designed by someone like Kane.
Willa directs Colton to sit on the exam table and starts cutting away his tactical gear with practiced efficiency.
Each layer reveals more damage—shrapnel embedded in his arm, burns across his shoulder, bruising that's already blooming purple and black across his ribs.
"It looks worse than it is," Colton says, catching my expression.
"Says the non-medically trained operator," Willa mutters, pulling out irrigation supplies and local anesthetic.
I stand against the wall, trying to stay out of the way while watching every move Willa makes. Cleaning the wounds, extracting debris, stitching the deeper cuts. Colton doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound beyond controlled breathing that tells me exactly how much pain he's swallowing.
Watching him bleed. Knowing he'll do it again tomorrow if that's what keeping Lucas safe requires. Understanding that every time he walks out that door, he might not walk back through it.
I'm in love with him.
Still. Always was. Never stopped, even when I convinced myself I had, even during the eight years of silence, even when I hated him for leaving.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my bones like truth I've been avoiding.
Willa finishes the last stitch and steps back, surveying her work. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
"Noted," Colton says.
"Chasing hostiles with wounds in your arm. Kane should have pulled you off the field."
"Kane was busy keeping Mercer from collapsing."
Willa makes a disgusted sound but doesn't argue. She packs up her supplies, gives Colton a look that promises future lectures, and heads for the door. She pauses next to me on her way out.
"Make sure he actually rests," she says quietly. "He won't do it on his own."
Then we're alone.
Colton sits on the exam table, bare-chested except for the bandages, exhaustion and pain etched into his face. His eyes find mine across the small space, holding me with that intensity I've never been able to look away from.
"You're okay," I say, needing to hear it.
"I'm okay."
"You could have died out there."
"But I didn't."
"You could have." My voice cracks. "You went out there to protect Lucas and you could have died and I—"