Chapter 8 MAGGIE
EIGHT
MAGGIE
The Guardian medic is efficient and impersonal, checking my pupils with a penlight that makes my head throb worse.
"Concussion is mild," he says, fingers probing the wound on my temple. "You're lucky. Another inch and that pistol-whip could have fractured your skull."
Lucky. Right.
I'm standing in the pre-dawn darkness watching my brother get loaded into an SUV with a gunshot wound I gave him, while the man who saved my life gets dressed down by his team leader fifty yards away, and in an hour I'll disappear into witness protection with a new name and a new life and no way back to any of this.
Tyler’s eyes find mine across the distance. Even bleeding, even beaten, there’s no remorse in them. Just resentment.
"You always thought you were better than me," he says, loud enough to carry.
I wait for the grief to hit. The sisterly love. The hope he’ll apologize.
Nothing comes.
"I am better than you," I say quietly, not caring if he hears me. "Because I would never have sold you."
The medic continues his exam.
"Any nausea? Dizziness? Vision problems?" The medic is going through the checklist like I'm not actively dissociating.
"No. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're in shock." He wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm. "Elevated heart rate. Shallow breathing. Pupils dilated. When's the last time you ate?"
I try to remember. The warehouse. Three days ago. They gave me water but no food. Said I needed to stay alert to sign the papers.
To sign away my life.
"Three days," I hear myself say.
The medic swears under his breath. "We need to get fluids and glucose into you. You're running on adrenaline and spite."
Spite.
That's accurate.
I look past him to where Colt is standing with CJ. Even from here, I can read the tension in Colt’s shoulders, the rigid set of his spine. He's being taken apart professionally, and there's nothing I can do about it.
He went rogue for me. Violated orders. Risked his career. Saved my life.
And now he's paying for it while I stand here getting my blood pressure taken like any of this matters.
"Ms. Brooks." A new voice. Female, professional, carrying a badge. "I'm Special Agent Holbrook, FBI. I need to ask you some questions."
The medic protests. "She needs medical treatment first—"
"She needs to give her statement while the details are fresh." Agent Holbrook's expression is sympathetic but firm. "It won't take long."
I walk her through everything. The staged kidnapping. Tyler's debt. The trust fund. The warehouse. Colt’s extraction. The ranch house. The two assaults. Shooting Tyler.
She takes notes without judgment, asks clarifying questions, and records everything on a digital device that will probably end up in a federal database somewhere.
"And the Guardian operative—Frost—he acted alone throughout?" She's watching me carefully when she asks this.
"Yes."
"No authorization from Guardian HRS?"
"He was on leave. He overheard cartel members talking in a bar and followed them."
"That was fortunate."
"That was brave." I meet her eyes. "He saved my life when nobody else could have gotten there in time."
Something flickers in Agent Holbrook's expression. Understanding, maybe. "Your statement corroborates his version of events. That'll help."
"Will he lose his job?"
"That's not my jurisdiction. But off the record?" She leans in slightly. "Guardian HRS values results. Twelve dead cartel enforcers and a rescued hostage are good results, unauthorized or not."
It's not much reassurance, but it's something.
Agent Holbrook closes her tablet. "The witness protection coordinator will be here within the hour. I understand this is overwhelming, but the cartel's still active and they've already demonstrated they're willing to commit significant resources to recovering you."
"I'm not a product." The words come out harder than I intend. "I'm not inventory or an asset or something to be recovered. I'm a person."
"I know." Her voice softens. "And we're going to keep you safe. New identity, new location, full support until the threat is neutralized."
"How long?"
"Minimum two years. Possibly longer depending on cartel activity."
Two years?
Minimum?
Two years of being someone else. Somewhere else. No contact with anyone from before.
Including Colt?
"Your brother will face federal charges," Agent Holbrook continues. "Human trafficking, conspiracy, fraud. He's cooperating, which will help his sentencing, but he's looking at a minimum of fifteen years."
Fifteen years. Tyler will be in his forties when he gets out. If he gets out.
I should feel something about that. Sadness. Relief. Anger. Something.
But I'm empty.
Agent Holbrook leaves, and I'm alone again. The medic returns with an IV bag, insists on getting fluids into me, and I let him because it's easier than arguing. The needle slides into my arm, and the cool liquid begins to flow. I watch the eastern horizon lighten as the approaching dawn breaks.
Six hours ago, I was zip-tied to a chair in a warehouse, believing my brother was a victim like me.
Three hours ago, I learned the truth about what Tyler did.
One hour ago, I kissed Colt Harrison like he was the only real thing in a world made of lies.
Twenty minutes ago, I shot my brother.
And in forty minutes I'll disappear.
"Maggie." CJ's voice pulls me out of my spiral. He's approaching alone; Colt is nowhere in sight. "Got a minute?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." But his tone isn't unkind. He sits down on the tailgate of the Guardian SUV beside me, and up close, I can see the exhaustion in his face. "Hell of a night."
"Yeah."
"Frost gave me his version of events. Now I need yours."
"Agent Holbrook already took my statement."
"This isn't about the FBI. This is about Frost." CJ looks at me directly. "He violated protocol. Went dark. Conducted an unauthorized solo rescue operation. That's grounds for termination."
My stomach clenches. "He saved my life."
"I know."
"The cartel would have moved me in three hours. Guardian HRS couldn't mobilize that fast. He did what had to be done."
"I know that too." CJ runs his hand over his face. "But I need to understand something. When he armed you and put you in a firefight—was that his call or yours?"
"Mine. I grabbed his weapon and took out the trucks following us. After that, he armed me when we got here, but I'm a former Army. Combat medic. I know how to handle a weapon."
"That's not the point. The point is whether he was thinking tactically or emotionally."
"Both." I pull the IV out of my arm, ignore the medic's protest. "He was thinking tactically because I'm trained and capable. He was thinking emotionally because he gives a damn whether I live or die. Those aren't mutually exclusive."
CJ studies me for a long moment. "You have feelings for him."
It's not a question.
"I've known him for six hours."
"That's not an answer."
I look toward the ranch house where Colt is helping operators document the scene. Even from here, I can see the efficiency of his movements, the way he's compartmentalized everything to focus on the mission.
"He wears dog tags that aren't his," I say finally. "From a woman who died in Caracas five years ago because he followed orders instead of choosing to protect her. He's been punishing himself ever since. Wearing guilt like armor."
"Sofia." CJ's voice is quiet. "We were both CIA at the time. I was his team leader on that op. The call to extract without her came from CIA command. Frost followed my orders."
"And someone died."
"Yeah. Someone died." CJ leans back against the SUV. "I left the CIA and joined Guardian HRS soon after. Frost followed me. He’s a damn good operator. But he’s been making every decision since then based on that guilt. Going rogue. Making it personal. Choosing people over protocol."
"Is that wrong?"
"It is when it gets operators killed. When it compromises missions. When it—" He stops. "When it makes him reckless."
"He wasn't reckless. He was precise. Professional. Tactical." I meet CJ's eyes. He chose to save someone rather than let stupid protocols get in the way. That's not reckless. That's brave."
"Brave or not, it has consequences."
"Like what? Termination? For saving my life?"
"Like mandatory psychological evaluation. Like suspension pending review. Like—" CJ's expression softens slightly. "Like me having to decide if he's fit for duty or if his guilt is going to get him killed on the next op."
The implications settle over me like a lead weight. Colt didn't just risk his career. He risked everything. His job. His team. His life. Maybe even his sanity.
For me.
For a woman he didn’t know and met six hours ago.
"He's fit for duty," I tell CJ. "He's one of the best operators I've seen, and I served with some exceptional soldiers."
"You're biased."
"So are you. You're his team leader. You're supposed to be biased in favor of your people."
CJ almost smiles. "Fair point." He stands, stretches. "Witness protection coordinator will be here in twenty. You'll be relocated immediately. New identity, new location, no contact with your former life."
"I know."
"That includes Frost."
"I know."
"Once you're in the program, you can't reach out. Can't make contact. It compromises security." He looks at me directly. "You understand what that means?"
It means losing Colt before I ever figured out what this is between us.
It means disappearing into a new life while he stays here, dealing with the consequences of saving mine.
It means never knowing if he's okay, if CJ terminates him, or if his guilt finally consumes him.
"I understand," I manage.
CJ nods, starts to walk away, then pauses. "For what it's worth? I think he made the right call. Even if it was for the wrong reasons."
"What are the right reasons?"
"Saving a life. That's always the right reason." He glances back toward where Colt is working. "The wrong reason was thinking that saving your life would absolve him of Sofia's death. That's not how guilt works."