Chapter 23 Talia #2
“I did what was necessary.” I flush, remembering the crunch of the operative’s foot under my boot.
“You did good,” Whisper says. Coming from him, it sounds like knighthood.
“Speaking of targets,” Halo spins his chair around. “I’ve been scrubbing the fragments we pulled from the Chicago purge. Most of it is corrupted junk—the AI fought Talia tooth and nail for those bytes—but I found a persistent query. Phoenix is obsessing over a specific file.”
“What file?” Ghost asks.
“Project Sentinel.” Halo swipes a file from his station onto the main holographic display. A photo appears, rotating in the blue light. A woman with sharp features, dark hair, and intelligent eyes that look tired even in the photo.
“Cassie Brennan,” Halo says. “DC Attorney. Specializes in whistleblower protection and defense contractor fraud.”
“I know the name,” Brass says, leaning forward. “She’s a pitbull. Suing Vanguard Defense for faulty body armor. She’s been a thorn in the DoD’s side for years.”
“Phoenix flagged her as a Level 5 threat forty-eight hours ago,” Halo says. “The kill order was queued but not executed because of the system crash.”
“So she’s alive,” I say.
“For now.” Halo types a command, bringing up a map of DC. “But Phoenix is rebooting. It has a list of unfinished business, and Cassie Brennan is at the top. The AI calculates that her lawsuit will expose the financial laundering scheme.”
“She needs a protective detail,” Ghost says. He looks around the table, assessing his assets.
Jackson tries to stand, gripping the arms of his chair. “I can—”
“Sit down,” Ghost orders. He doesn’t even look at Jackson. “You’re full of holes, Fuse. You’re not clearing a room; you’re barely clearing your throat.”
“I’m functional.”
“You’re a liability,” Torque chimes in, stealing a grape from Brass’s fruit bowl. “You can’t lift your left arm past your nipple. What are you going to do, bleed on them until they slip?”
“I’ll shoot you first,” Jackson growls.
“And miss,” Torque grins. “Because of the painkillers.”
“Enough,” Ghost says. “Fuse is benched. Brass is needed here to coordinate the intel Talia brought in. Whisper, you’re on recon for the Grandmaster leads. Torque, you’re prepping transport.”
Ghost pauses. He looks at the empty slot. “I need an operator for Brennan.”
“I’ll take it,” Halo says.
The table turns to him as one. Diego “Halo” Martinez is the tech guy. He stays in the van. He flies the drones. He loops the cameras. He doesn’t take point on protection details.
“You?” Brass raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you run solo ops?”
“It’s digital warfare,” Halo says, standing. He looks smaller than the rest of them, wiry and intense, but his eyes are hard. “Phoenix is hunting her through the grid. I know the code. I know the architecture. I can hide her better than any of you gun-bunnies.”
He looks at the photo of Cassie Brennan again. “Besides … She looks like she hates authority. She’ll eat you guys alive. I’m charming.”
“Debatable,” Whisper mutters.
“I have personality,” Halo defends. “You guys have PTSD and grunting.”
“He has a point,” I say quietly.
They look at me.
“Phoenix finds people through patterns,” I explain. “Digital footprints. Financial transactions. Facial recognition. You can’t shoot an algorithm. You need someone who can ghost her digitally. Halo is the best choice.”
“See?” Halo points a finger at me. “The smart one agrees with me.”
“She’s yours.” Ghost studies Halo. “But if it goes kinetic, you call it in. No heroics.”
“I’m allergic to heroics,” Halo says. “I prefer cheating.”
“Pack out. Wheels up in two hours.”
Halo nods. He taps his tablet to transfer the files to his secure drive, then heads for the door. “Don’t break my servers while I’m gone,” he calls back.
“The rest of you,” Ghost says, standing. “Debrief is over. Go home. Get drunk. Sleep for a week.”
Torque stands, stretching his arms over his head. “Drinks at the Dive? First round is on Fuse, since he decided to play human shield and ruin our weekend.”
“Put it on my tab,” Jackson grunts. “I’m sitting this one out.”
“You coming, Talia?” Brass asks, packing up his knife. “You’re part of the crew now. Initiation involves terrible whiskey and Torque lying about his conquests.”
I look at Jackson. He’s sinking back into his chair, the energy draining out of him now that the briefing is over.
“I think I’ll pass,” I say. “I have a patient to monitor.”
Brass smiles. It changes his whole face. “Good call. Take care of him.”
The team files out. Torque punches Jackson lightly on the shoulder as he passes. Whisper gives me a silent nod of respect. Brass salutes with the apple core.
They leave a vacuum of silence behind them.
Only Ghost remains.
He walks over to where Jackson is sitting. He leans against the table, crossing his arms. He looks at Jackson—really looks at him—not as a commander, but as a brother.
“You scared us,” Ghost says quietly.
“Part of the job.”
“No.” Ghost shakes his head. “Taking a bullet is the job. Jumping in front of one you can’t stop? That’s something else.”
“I calculated the—”
“Shut up with the I-calculated-the-math bullshit,” Ghost says, but his voice is warm. “I remember the VA hospital. I remember the Glock in your lap.”
My breath catches in my throat. He told me about the grief, the anger—but not the end of the line.
A Glock?
In his lap?
Jackson looks down at his hands—the hands that defuse bombs, the hands that held mine in the dark, the hands that saved my life. “Mason …”
“You told me you were done,” Ghost continues, his voice low and intense. “That the fuse was burned out. You were ready to check out.” He gestures to me. “Now look at you. Fighting tooth and nail to stay in the game. Taking a bullet to buy one more day.”
Jackson looks at me. The vulnerability in his eyes is terrifying and beautiful. He looks exposed in a way that has nothing to do with his injuries.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I guess I found a reason to stick around.”
Ghost smiles. It’s a genuine, rare expression. He claps Jackson gently on the good shoulder.
“Put the Glock away, Fuse. You don’t need it for the demons anymore. Just the bad guys.” Ghost turns to me. “Take him home, Talia. Keep him there.”
“I will.”
Ghost leaves. The glass door slides shut with a soft hiss.
We’re alone.
The hum of the servers is gone. The rain drums softly against the glass, a steady, soothing rhythm. The war is paused.
Jackson exhales, a long, shuddering breath that seems to deflate his frame. The adrenaline of the briefing is fading, leaving the pain exposed. He rubs his face with his good hand.
“You okay?” I ask, moving to his side.
“He talks too much.”
“He loves you.”
“He’s annoying.”
“He’s right.” I reach out, my fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s soft. “What was that about the hospital?”
Jackson doesn’t look away. He doesn’t hide. “I was—I was in a hole. Very dark place. Didn’t see a way out. Didn’t want one.”
“And now?”
He reaches up with his good hand, trapping my fingers against his neck. He pulls me closer, until I’m standing between his knees. He rests his forehead against my stomach, surrendering the weight of his head to me.
“Now I see the world clearly,” he murmurs against my shirt. “And you’re at the center of it.”
I lean down, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, careful of the sling. I hold him. Just hold him. The heat of him seeps through the flannel, grounding me. I calculate the probability of this moment lasting forever.
It’s impossible.
But the probability of us making it last a lifetime?
High.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
“Where?”
“Your place. A bed with a good mattress. A place where nobody shoots at us, and Torque isn’t eating all the snacks.”
He looks up. A slow, tired smile spreads across his face. It reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “That sounds like a solid tactical plan.”
“I’m an analyst. I make good tactical plans.”
He stands, wincing slightly, leaning on me. We walk toward the door together. Not protector and principal. Not asset and operator.
Partners.
“After,” he says.
“After,” I agree.
We walk out of the War Room, leaving the ghosts behind.