Chapter 20 The Vow #2
“Three months before I stopped jumping at shadows. Six before I felt like I belonged.” He glances at me. “Halo took longer. He spent his first year trying to convince everyone he didn’t need us.”
“I didn’t need you.”
“You needed someone to stop you from walking into suicide missions.” His voice is light, but his eyes are serious. “You were a one-man wrecking ball, Halo. All skill, no survival instinct. Ghost used to bet on how long before you got yourself killed.”
“He lost that bet.”
“He’s glad he did.” Brass turns back to Cassie. “Fair warning about Fuse—he’s going to flirt with you. It’s not personal. He flirts with everyone. I think it’s a coping mechanism.”
“Diego mentioned that. Something about a character flaw.”
“The man has many character flaws. The flirting is actually one of the less annoying ones.” Brass grins. “But he’s good people underneath the bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on things here while we’re gone.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Don’t appreciate it yet.” Brass’s grin fades into something more serious. “Nevada is going to be bad, Cassie. But you staying here … That helps. Knowing the intelligence is secure. Knowing we have someone on the outside analyzing what we find.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will.” Brass studies her for a long moment. Then he nods—a single, sharp gesture of respect.
“Okay then.” He slaps Cassie on the shoulder, the gesture almost hard enough to stagger her. “Let’s go find Fuse. He’s probably holding court in the mess.”
The mess hall is utilitarian—metal tables, plastic chairs, a kitchen that’s seen decades of use.
The smell hits us first. Coffee and bacon and something that might be eggs, mixed with the industrial-cleaner undertone that permeates every military facility I’ve ever entered. It’s not appetizing, exactly, but it’s familiar. Comforting in a way that has nothing to do with quality.
Fuse is exactly where Brass said he’d be.
He’s hunched over a plate piled high with food—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, a mound of hash browns that could feed a family of four. He eats with the focused intensity of someone who learned long ago that you refuel when you can because you never know when the next meal is coming.
He looks up when we enter. Grins.
“Well, well.” He sets down his fork, leaning back in his chair.
Fuse—Jonah Jackson to the IRS, though I doubt he’s filed taxes in a decade—is a wall of muscle built to endure the apocalypse.
Dark hair, a face defined by sharp, angular features, and a permanent shadow of stubble that does nothing to hide the roadmap of scars on his skin. Burns. Shrapnel. Knife wounds.
He feels like a live wire in the quiet room, a grenade with the pin halfway pulled. Even sitting down, he radiates a volatile, kinetic energy that makes the air feel heavy.
“Look who finally woke up,” he announces, his green eyes flashing with gold flecks. “Morning, sunshine. Morning, Halo.”
“Fuse.” I guide Cassie to the seat opposite him. “Try not to corrupt her before coffee.”
“Corrupt her?” Fuse makes a show of looking offended. “I’m the picture of innocence. Ask anyone.”
“You set a man on fire last month,” Brass observes, sliding into a seat across from him.
“He was already on fire. I just—encouraged it.” Fuse winks at Cassie. “Don’t believe anything they tell you about me. Except the heroic parts. Those are all true.”
Cassie shakes his hand without flinching. “Diego said you handle demolitions.”
“Among other things. I blow stuff up, I shoot stuff, I occasionally engage in hand-to-hand combat with people who made poor life choices.” He gestures at the empty seats. “Sit. Eat. Thorne’s over at the supply counter, stockpiling enough ammo to invade a small country.”
Thorne is there, methodically loading magazines with the precise, efficient movements of a machine. He catches my eye, nods once, and goes back to work.
“He fits right in,” Fuse notes, buttering a piece of toast with unnecessary force. “Quiet. Scary efficiency. Likes knives. We’re going to get along just fine.”
We settle around the table—Brass and Fuse on one side, Cassie and me on the other.
It feels domestic in a way that surprises me.
Five people preparing for war, trading barbs, existing in comfortable proximity.
Thorne joins us at the edge of the table, methodically loading magazines, his presence a quiet anchor.
“So,” Fuse speaks around a mouthful of eggs. “Seattle. Nice drive?”
“Long. Quiet.”
“Quiet is good. Quiet usually means nobody’s shooting at you.” He points his fork at Cassie. “You survive the boredom?”
“I slept most of it,” Cassie admits.
“Smart.” Fuse grins. “Halo’s playlist is mostly silence and brooding.”
“It is not.”
“It is.” Ghost doesn’t turn from the coffee machine. “I’ve ridden with you. It’s like a funeral procession on wheels.”
“I like the quiet.” Thorne doesn’t look up from his magazines.
Fuse points the fork at him. “See? He gets it.”
Cassie laughs, the sound bright and unexpected in the room. It draws eyes. Brass pauses midway through wiping down a table. Ghost turns, leaning against the counter.
“We missed you, rookie.” Fuse’s tone softens. “Place wasn’t the same without the drama.”
“I bring the drama?”
“You bring the chaos.” Fuse winks. “But we like chaos. Keeps things interesting.”
“Speaking of chaos.” Brass walks over. “Torque’s briefed. The bird is prepped. We’re looking at an early departure.”
“You want to tell me about the target?” I ask.
“Standard black site.” Brass leans against the table. Without taking a breath, he looks to Cassie, “Five floors on a tactical line?”
“With people shooting at us, yes.”
“And you held on the whole way down?”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“You had a choice. You could have panicked and let go. Most civilians would have.” He sets down his fork, studying her with new respect. “Brass is right. You’ve got spine.”
“I had good motivation.” Cassie glances at me. “Someone kept telling me to stay alive.”
“That someone has historically bad luck keeping people alive.” Fuse’s voice is light, but his words carry weight. “No offense, Halo, but your survival rate was shit before this run.”
“My survival rate is fine.”
“Your personal survival rate is fine. The people you protect tend to end up in witness protection or body bags.” He raises his hands at my expression.
“I’m not criticizing. The missions you take are the hard ones.
The ones nobody else wants. But Cassie here beat the odds, and I’m trying to figure out why. ”
“Maybe I’m lucky.” Cassie shrugs.
“Maybe.” Fuse doesn’t look convinced. “Or maybe you’re tougher than you look.
I’ve seen trained operators crack under less pressure than you’ve handled in the past ten days.
” He picks up his fork again, dismissing the topic with a shrug.
“Either way, I’m glad you’re here. Halo needs someone to keep him human. ”
“I’m human.”
“You’re a weapon that learned to walk and talk. There’s a difference.” Fuse grins to soften the words. “Brass and I have been trying to socialize you for years. Apparently, it just took the right woman.”
“Speaking of socialization,” Brass interjects, “Cassie needs range time before wheels up. You available to run her through the basics while we prep?”
“For the woman who pepper-sprayed Halo? Absolutely.” Fuse stands, gathering his plate. “Give me twenty to finish breakfast. We’ll have you hitting paper in no time.”
He heads for the kitchen, whistling something off-key.
Cassie watches him go. “He’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Darker. More serious.” She shakes her head. “He makes jokes about setting people on fire.”
“That’s how he copes.” I push eggs around my plate.
“We’ll see,” Brass says. He looks at Cassie. “If you’re staying behind, you won’t need full tactical clearance. But knowing how to handle a sidearm isn’t optional, given who we’re up against. I can run you through some drills before we lift off.”
“Fuse is already taking her.”
“Detailed work,” Brass corrects. “Fuse is good, but he rushes. I’ll make sure she knows how to clear a jam.”
“I can clear a jam,” Fuse protests.
“You clear a jam by throwing the gun and pulling a knife.” Brass’s tone is dry.
Everyone laughs. It’s easy. Familiar.
“All right.” Brass stands, collecting dishes. “I’m going to check on Ghost. You two finish eating, then head to the range. We’ve got a lot to cover.”
He leaves us alone in the mess hall.
Cassie reaches across the table. Takes my hand. Her grip is firm, no tremor in her fingers.
“This is it.” Not a question. A statement of fact.
“Yeah. Max security. Hard target.”
“You’ll get it done.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s what you do.”
“It’s dangerous, Cass. I can’t promise—”
“I know.” She cuts me off; eyes focused on mine. “I know you can’t promise. But I know you, seeing you with them … You’re good at this. You save people. That’s who you are.”
“I try.”
“You do.” She squeezes my hand. “Just—don’t take risks you don’t have to. I’m staying here so you can focus. So focus. Get the job done and come back.”
“That’s the plan.” I lift her hand, press my lips to her knuckles. “And it’s a good plan.”
“It’s the only plan.”
We finish eating in comfortable silence. The coffee is bitter and the eggs are cold, but the company makes up for it. The fear is there, a low hum in the background, but trust is louder.
The shooting range is a concrete tunnel extending into darkness.
Fuse moves with a slight hitch in his stride, a lingering stiffness from the injuries he took getting Talia safe, but he doesn’t let it slow him down. If anything, he seems energized by the familiarity of the range.
“All right.” He hands Cassie the Glock I gave her earlier. “Show me what Halo taught you.”
She assumes a stance—feet apart, arms extended, both hands on the grip. It’s wrong in half a dozen ways, but she’s trying.