3. Falcon #2
The room goes quiet enough that I can feel every man at that table deciding whether I'm about to prove him right or wrong.
He's not just handing me a job. He's finding out whether I can still carry one.
Nobody says it out loud, but every man at this table remembers the last time perimeter oversight went to somebody who couldn't hold it.
Three years back, before Kells, before Merrick, before any of this, we lost a full patch named Coyle on a rotation that got sloppy at the wrong hour.
Vulture buried him himself. Nobody's forgotten what sloppy costs.
"You good with that?" Vulture prompts me again.
It isn't really a question. "I've got it."
He nods once, no praise attached, and it's exactly what I deserve.
Sterling flips a page. "One more update. Women's support."
My whole body reacts to that before I can stop it, and I know Sterling clocks it, I know Zip does too, and I pretend neither of them did.
"We had an incident this morning," Sterling says. "The contractors on the guttering, one of the women saw a man outside her second-floor window and panicked. I had the work order and didn't pass it over. My fault, no excuses."
"Fix it," Vulture says.
"Already started. Cara made the point that we keep talking about protecting the women without including them in how it works."
Harrier sits back. "She said that to Vulture?"
"She told him no," Zip says, grinning now.
Every head turns toward Vulture, who looks irritated enough that I know it's true. Ice Pick mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like smartest you’ve been all day.
Before I can respond, Vulture raises his voice over the noise around the table. “We’re setting up a regular meeting. Any woman who wants input gets it.”
“Good,” I say, settling back in my chair.
Zip’s head turns sharply in my direction. “That’s it? No argument?”
I meet his stare. “Why would I argue?”
He lifts both hands in surrender, although the grin tugging at his mouth ruins the effect. “Just checking.”
“Keep checking,” I lean forward, holding his gaze, “and I’ll give you something to worry about.”
His grin only widens.
Sterling's already moving to the logistics. "Moving forward, security changes affecting the house get communicated before they happen unless it's an active threat, and if it is, Cara or whoever they pick as point of contact gets told immediately."
"No," I say, before I've fully thought it through. "That's too many steps. If we're giving them control over their own safety, they need direct access. A phone that stays at the house. Patrol leader messages them straight. Contractor arrives, they know. New brother on watch, they know."
Condor's already typing. "I can build that."
“Simple,” I tell Condor. “Not something that needs three passwords and a cybersecurity degree.”
He looks mildly offended. “My systems are intuitive.”
“Your coffee machine needs an app,” Zip points out.
Condor straightens in his chair. “That’s innovation.”
“That’s why nobody uses it.” Zip laughs.
A few quiet laughs circle the table before Vulture points a warning finger at Condor. “Simple.”
Condor mutters something beneath his breath but gives a reluctant nod.
Vulture turns his attention back to the rest of us. “Anything else on survivor support?”
Knox raises a hand from the end of the table, and I realize he's been quiet through most of Church, which usually means he's been listening harder than the rest of us. "Long-term housing. Cara thinks we need something between the compound and independent living."
"We've been looking at the house outside the city," Vulture says.
"She already knows, she asked," Knox says, when Sterling looks at him. "I told her."
Of course she asked. Cara's never once in her life stood still and let somebody else finish a thought she could finish herself. Pride catches me off guard, it’s strong enough that I have to look at the table instead of at anyone.
Even after everything those men did to her, they didn't manage to take that away from her.
"That all came from Cara?" I ask.
"Most of it." Knox nods.
Vulture's watching me now, and I meet his eyes and don't look away. "I think she's right."
He nods once and moves us on to the rest of it, money, a disputed garage payment, two prospects due for review, a territorial issue west of the city.
Ordinary business, and I stay in it, asking the questions that are mine to ask and leaving the rest where they belong.
Nobody congratulates me for doing my job, which is exactly how it should be.
When Vulture finally says that's it, chairs scrape back and the room breaks into motion, Harrier heading for the door with Vulture calling numbers after him like they're negotiating a hostage release, seven, six, five, until Harrier stops dead and says you're a dick and takes the seven.
Vulture catches me before I'm through the door. "You did good."
I hate how much three words can still do to me. "I did my job."
"Exactly." He starts stacking his folders, which means the conversation's over, and I get one step before he adds, without looking up, "You don't have to be fine."
"I’m pretty sure you just spent an hour telling me to act like I am."
"No." Calm as ever. "I told you to do your job, that’s not the same thing."
I don't have an answer for that, so I leave before he decides to get any more emotionally intelligent on me.
The common room's louder now, brothers are filtering out, and there’s music on somewhere.
I scan the room out of habit before I can stop myself, and I see Cara's gone, and disappointment hits before I can talk myself out of it.
She's got her own life here, her own work.
She doesn't exist to sit outside Church waiting for me.
I grab my jacket from the back of a chair and head for the door, but Zip intercepts me near the hallway.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
I pull on my jacket. “Perimeter.”
Zip falls into step beside me. “You just assigned that to Rook and Ice.”
“I’m overseeing,” I tell him, continuing toward the exit.
“You’re going outside because Cara isn’t in here.” Zip delivers the observation like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, because it is.
I tighten my grip on the front of my jacket. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he replies without missing a beat.
I shoot him a dark look. “I’m working on it.”
Zip stops and props one shoulder against the wall, completely unbothered by the threat. “You know she gave Vulture six pages?”
Despite myself, I slow and glance back at him. “Six pages of what?”
“Everything we’re doing wrong,” Zip says. “There’s a whole section on transport. And apparently, the women want some warning before we test the alarms because, and I’m quoting Sterling here, ‘Blaring sirens at trauma survivors without warning is fucking stupid.’”
I wince as I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “That’s fair.”
“Yeah, it is.” The amusement disappears from Zip’s face as he studies me. “She’s good for this place.”
I turn my attention toward the exit again, but I don’t answer.
"I know," I say, and that's the whole problem, isn't it. "She shouldn't have to be."
"You ever think maybe that's part of how she takes care of herself?"
I look at him. He shrugs, unbothered by the question he just dropped in my lap, and pushes off the wall toward the bar. "Not my business. For what it's worth, brother, she looked good today."
My chest goes tight. "She's good."
"Yeah," he says, and walks off, and leaves me standing there telling myself I'm heading to check the new security setup at the house, that’s a lie that lasts about ten seconds before I'm on the path toward the women's house with no intention of going anywhere near the perimeter first.
The house is quiet from the outside, a couple of windows are open.
Somebody's put a potted plant on the porch that wasn't there yesterday, three mugs are lined up on the railing.
They are ordinary things, but they mean a lot.
I stand at the edge of the path longer than I should, which is ridiculous considering I've breached fortified compounds with less hesitation than it takes me to walk twenty more feet toward one of my own buildings.
The door opens before I make it. Cara steps out, closes it behind her, and stops when she sees me. Neither of us moves. There's no reason this should feel more dangerous than Church, but it does anyway.
She’s standing near the porch with a notebook held against her chest. The six pages, presumably.
“Done?” she asks as I approach.
“With Church?” I glance back at the clubhouse. “Yeah.”
Cara’s fingers tighten around the notebook. “You stayed.”
“I said I would,” I remind her.
“I know,” she says quietly.
There’s no accusation in her voice. No reminder of all the times I didn’t. Just an acknowledgment, and it hits harder than either of those would have.
I step onto the edge of the porch and shove my hands into my pockets. “I heard you told Vulture no.”
Cara’s eyebrows rise. “Does nothing stay private in this place?”
“No,” I tell her.
“That’s horrifying.” She casts a wary glance toward the clubhouse.
“You get used to it,” I assure her.
Cara looks back at me and shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”
For a second, it almost feels like before; easy and familiar. Then we both remember how much time has passed, and the silence changes shape around us.
I nod toward the notebook pressed against her chest. “Sterling went through the list. There are some good ideas in there.”
“You think so?” Cara asks, watching my face closely.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I do.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re not just saying that?”
“No.” I lean one shoulder against the porch post. “The security channel’s going ahead. Condor’s building it now.”
“That fast?” Her eyebrows lift again.
“He likes computers more than people,” I explain. “It explains a lot, honestly. It also explains why the channel will have twelve unnecessary features nobody asked for.”