Chapter 36
The kitchen table looks like it’s survived its own war. Knife scars crisscross the surface like tally marks. Coffee stains bloom, dark and ugly, where mugs sat for too long, and a burn ring where a previous tenant placed a far-too-hot pot from the stove. This table has history.
My elbows are planted on it, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that went cold twenty minutes ago. Each of my brothers circles the table with me, all of us ready to plan for this bad idea.
Hawk’s cell phone sits in the middle of the table on speaker.
Abby’s voice comes through—clean and sharp—already ten steps ahead of us.
She sounds like she always does when things are bad: focused enough to be comforting, detached enough to function.
“I talked to Reese earlier. There is no fast-track visa option that won’t set off alarms. Humanitarian parole will take weeks at best, and that’s if Washington doesn’t decide to take a moral stand and sit on it. ”
Mattis cuts in immediately, his voice bright with irritation and caffeine, with the faint tapping of keystrokes in the background. “That’s the holdup? Seriously? You could’ve asked. I can have her a US birth certificate and passport in maybe three hours.”
The room goes dead quiet. The everyone just heard something they can’t unhear kind of quiet.
“Mattis,” Abby huffs.
Hawk closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s calculating how much plausible deniability he can afford.
Hawk opens his eyes and looks at the phone. “I’m not saying do it,” he replies, deliberating choosing each word with care, “but—”
“—I would never do such a thing on company time,” Mattis barrels right over him, sarcasm dripping thick enough to drown in. “That would be unethical. Illegal. Downright offensive to my delicate moral compass.”
I snicker, quickly lifting my cold mug to my lips before I wind up on the receiving end of a Hawk-prescribed lecture.
Abby clears her throat. “For the record, I did not hear that, either.”
“Same,” Damon adds. “This conversation is extremely boring and very compliant.”
Hawk drags a hand over his face, fingers catching on stubble.
The line between desperation and catastrophe is razor-thin, and we’re not just walking it, we’re tap-dancing in combat boots.
“Focus. We still need a plan that doesn’t rely on miracles or Mattis committing illegal acts that could put him in federal prison. ”
“Hey,” Mattis replies mildly, “I prefer the phrase creative problem-solving.”
My voice comes out rougher than I expect. No one argues. “Maryam and her daughter. Clean extraction. No trail.”
“Thirty-two hours.” Hawk glances at his watch. “That’s the window before her brother starts asking louder questions.”
Damon leans forward. “Weapons.”
“Already assumed,” Gunnar says. “Not heavy, but enough to get us a hot exit if this goes south.”
“We’ll need another vehicle,” Hawk declares. “The four of us, Blake, Zahra, Maryam, and the baby. We can’t fit everyone in the Jeep.”
“The Aegis jet is prepped,” Abby shares. “There is a private airstrip about twenty minutes from the edge of the city. Flight plan can be… flexible.”
“There needs to be medical supplies on board,” Blake declares from the doorways. Her voice is steady, but there’s a tightness under it. “Zahra is still in rough shape. Plus, it’s a long flight. We need baby supplies. Diapers, wipes, the usual.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Abby says without hesitation.
“And if I happen to get my hands on that document I’m not supposed to do on company time,” Mattis imparts, “I’ll be sure it’s on board, too.”
“Good.” Hawk nods once. He turns to us. “This would be a lot easier to finalize a plan if we knew where she was.”
I glance toward Blake, who gives the smallest dip of her head, knowing what I’m going to ask before I open my mouth. “At the hospital,” I disclose to the others. “In an abandoned wing.”
“You knew?” Gunnar abruptly turns in his chair, his tone sharp. “This whole time?”
“Yesterday,” I correct flatly. “I found out yesterday.”
He stares at me like he’s deciding whether or not to punch me. “I’m not going to lecture you now,” he finally grits out, “but the next time we’re on the mat, I will be very clear how I feel about this.”
I grin. “Oh, thank God. I’m tired of needing to let you win all the time.”
Gunnar merely shakes his head in response.
“Weapons load stays light,” Damon adds. “Suppressed. No hospital shootout unless our hands are forced.”
“No kids or staff caught in the crossfire,” Blake quietly demands.
“Agreed,” Hawk says. “Jagger, Gunnar, you’re primary.”
“Blake waits with the convoy,” I insist immediately.
“No.” She adamantly shakes her head.
I turn to her. “This isn’t negotiable.”
“It is when Maryam trusts me and not you,” she snaps. “She’s not exactly going to follow commands from two men with guns.”
She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.
Hawk’s gaze flits between the two of us for a moment, like he knows he’s about to start a domestic. “She goes.”
I don’t like it—in the slightest—but I don’t argue.
We keep building the plan, piece by piece, for hours. Routes. Timelines. Worst-case contingencies.
Blake gives me a tight, nervous smile before turning toward the hallway.
I push from the table to follow after her because, in thirty-two hours, everything changes.
I don’t know who is going to walk out the other side of this, and I’ll be damned if I don’t spend every second between now and then with her in my arms.