Chapter 22
Griff stood in Doc's guest bathroom, staring at his reflection in the antique mirror.
The man looking back at him bore little resemblance to the operator who'd vanished six months ago.
Hollow cheeks, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, stubble that couldn't hide the gauntness.
The chemical burns around his eyes had faded to angry pink patches.
About the only thing with his face going right, at this point.
His team had been kind about it. Professional. But he'd seen the looks they'd exchanged when they thought he wasn't watching the screen. Concern. Worry. The unspoken question: Is Ghost still solid?
He splashed cold water on his face, wincing as it hit the tender skin.
Six months of hunting shadows, of carrying Tank's death alone, had carved pieces out of him he wasn't sure he could get back.
The team had moved on—married, engaged, building lives.
He'd stood still in a world of ghosts and vengeance.
Prove you're solid.
That's what Charleston would be about. Not merely stopping Buckley and Stillwater, but proving to his team that Griffin Hawkins was still someone they could count on.
A soft knock interrupted his spiral. "Griff? Doc wants to show me something. She says you should see this too."
Sarah's voice carried through the door, grounding him. Somehow, she’d become his anchor—brilliant, brave, refusing to break even when everything around her shattered. If he could keep her alive, get her through Charleston, maybe that would be enough proof that he was still worth something.
"Be right there."
He stared himself down again. Prove you're solid.
He found them in Doc's walk-in closet, which was apparently the size of Sarah's entire apartment. Doc stood beside a rolling rack of clothes, looking pleased with herself, while Sarah stared in open-mouthed shock.
"This is impossible," Sarah said, holding up a blazer that would fit her perfectly. "How do you have an entire wardrobe in my size?"
"I have many sizes," Doc replied airily, as if keeping a department store's worth of women's clothing was perfectly normal. "One never knows when circumstances might require appropriate attire."
Griff examined the selection—business suits that would let Sarah blend into any federal building, casual clothes for surveillance work, and at the far end, tactical gear that looked military-grade.
"Doc," he said slowly, "most retired professors don't stock ops gear for their guests."
"Most retired professors didn't spend twenty years ensuring America's enemies had very bad days." She pulled out a set of black cargo pants and a fitted tactical vest. "Sarah, dear, try these."
Sarah disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, emerging five minutes later looking like she'd stepped out of a special operations catalog. The tactical gear fit perfectly. Pants that allowed full range of motion, a vest that distributed weight properly, boots that would actually support her ankles.
"You look..." Griff started, then stopped.
She looked dangerous. Competent. Like someone who belonged in his world instead of behind a desk analyzing spreadsheets. The transformation was jarring—this was the woman who'd bear-sprayed him less than a week ago, and now she looked ready to breach a compound.
"Ridiculous?" Sarah asked, checking herself in the mirror. Her face fell. "I don’t deserve to wear these. I have no training. No skills."
Doc snorted dismissively. “You have a brilliant mind.”
“And way more heart than a body that size should carry.” He couldn’t help adding. “The clothes don’t make the woman. The woman makes the clothes.”
“Well put.” One of Doc’s silver eyebrows rose skyward.
Shocked he actually constructed a real sentence probably.
"You look like an operator," he said honestly. "Natural."
Something flickered in Sarah’s eyes at the compliment, but she turned back to the mirror. "I can't believe how well this fits."
"Movement test," Griff instructed, falling into training mode. "High knees, lunges, simulate drawing a weapon."
Sarah ran through the motions, the gear moving with her instead of against her. Doc watched with the satisfied expression of someone whose preparations had paid off perfectly.
"Outstanding." Doc clapped once. "Now then, back to casual clothes for the drive. Save the tactical gear for Charleston."
As Sarah changed again, Griff studied the remaining outfits. Everything high-quality, versatile, appropriate for any situation they might encounter. Doc had thought of everything.
"How long have you been planning this?" he asked.
"Planning what? Helping former students who stumble into conspiracy networks? Or maintaining appropriate resources for unexpected circumstances?"
"Both."
Doc's smile was mysterious. "Let's say I believe in being prepared. Speaking of prepared.” Her gaze sought Sarah. “Give her a few skills, would you?"
An hour later, they stood in Doc's basement training area—which, like everything else about the woman, was more sophisticated than it appeared. Mats covered the floor, and the walls held enough equipment to outfit a small army. Almost as well-equipped as Knight Tactical’s gym.
"Basic self-defense isn't about fighting," Griff began, watching Sarah stretch in her yoga pants and Georgetown t-shirt. "It's about buying time to escape. Creating opportunities to run."
"I can run," Sarah said. "My ankle’s much better now."
"Understood. But running when you're already free is different from getting free so you can run." He moved to face her. "Hands up. Defensive position."
She raised her hands awkwardly, fingers spread.
"Fists. You're not surrendering, you're protecting." He adjusted her stance, hands briefly covering hers. "Elbows in, protect your core. Chin down."
They worked through basic strikes—palm heel to nose, knee to groin, elbow to solar plexus. Sarah was a quick study, her movements becoming more fluid with each repetition. She had natural coordination, the kind of body awareness that couldn't be taught.
"Good. Again." He held pads while she practiced combinations. "Drive through the target. You're not trying to hurt them, you're trying to stop them."
Sweat beaded on her forehead as she worked, determination replacing uncertainty. When she connected solidly with a cross-elbow combination, the impact rang through the basement.
"That's it," he said, genuinely impressed. "You've got power."
"My dad made me take self-defense classes in high school," she panted. "Said every soldier's daughter should know how to defend herself. I thought I'd forgotten everything."
"Muscle memory. It comes back." He set down the pads. "Now the hard part. Restraint escape."
He produced a handful of zip ties, and Sarah's face went pale.
"You're going to tie me up?"
"I'm going to teach you how to get untied. Zip ties are easy to apply, hard to escape if you don't know the trick. But there's always a trick."
He demonstrated on himself first, sliding the plastic restraint around his wrists. "The mechanism has a weak point. You exploit physics, not strength."
"Okay..." She watched as he positioned his hands.
"Thumb dislocation. Temporary, mostly painless if you do it right, but it reduces your hand width enough to slip free." He pressed his thumb against his palm at an unnatural angle.
Sarah made a strangled noise. "That's horrible."
"That's survival." The zip tie slipped off. "Your turn."
"Not. Happening." She clenched her fists, backing away.
The fear on her face froze him in place. Idiot. What was he thinking? She’d barely ever held a weapon, let alone…. Idiot. He raised his hands, palms out. “You’re right. My bad. That’s probably a little much.”
“It’s a lot much.” She tried to smile and sat heavily on a bench, flexing her fingers. "How do you know all this?"
"Training. Experience. Too many missions where someone got grabbed." He reached in the minifridge for a cold water and handed it to her. "You did good today. Better than good."
She accepted it. No more traces of fear, thankfully. "Is this what your life is always like? Learning horrible things because someday you might need them?"
"Pretty much."
"Doesn't that get exhausting? Living as if the worst is always coming?"
He considered the question. "In my line of work, the worst usually is coming. But today, the worst didn't win. You're alive. We have proof of the conspiracy. My team is coming to help. Those are victories."
"Small ones."
"Small victories add up." He sat beside her on the bench. "Tank used to say that. Every mission we completed, every person we saved, every bad guy we stopped—small victories that made the world a little bit better."
"He sounds like a good man."
" He believed in justice, in doing the right thing even when it was hard. Even when it cost him everything." Griff's voice roughened. "He had faith that things would work out. That God had a plan."
"And you don't?"
"I want to. I used to. But watching good people die for doing the right thing..." He shrugged. "Makes it hard to believe there's someone looking out for us."
Sarah was quiet for a moment, picking at the bottle’s label. "My dad used to say that faith isn't believing everything will work out. It's believing that whatever happens, you're not facing it alone."
"Tank would have liked that."
"I think I would have liked him."
They sat in comfortable silence, the basement's training equipment surrounding them.
Sarah didn't belong here. She belonged in boardrooms and conference halls, using her brilliant mind to build things instead of destroying them.
She belonged with someone who could give her stability, security, a future that didn't involve learning how to dislocate her own thumb.
Griff watched her examine her hands—soft, clever hands that should be typing reports, not practicing combat techniques.
Everything about her spoke of a life carefully built around intellect and order.
Georgetown educated. FBI credentials. Probably had a nice apartment in a safe neighborhood, friends who discussed fine art and weekend plans, not weapons and warfare.
"What's your life like?" he asked suddenly. "I mean, your real life. Before all this."
She looked surprised by the question. "Real life? I work too much, order takeout too much, and talk to my spider plant more than actual humans. Not exactly glamorous."
"No boyfriend waiting for you to come home?" He clenched his fists as the query slipped out. Oh, man. Not where he wanted to go at the moment.
He set his jaw and waited for the inevitable.
"No boyfriend. There was someone—Derek from the Treasury Department. We dated for six months." She made a face. "He dumped me for being 'too intense about work' and having 'no work-life balance.' Apparently, staying late to solve financial crimes isn't considered 'fun.'"
"His loss."
"Is it? I mean, look at me. Learning to fight, hiding from assassins, planning to break up a conspiracy. This is exactly the kind of intensity that drives normal people away."
Griff studied her profile, noting the way she held herself—strong despite everything, competent despite being terrified. "You're not too intense. You're exactly intense enough."
"For what?"
For someone like me, he thought but didn't say. Instead: "For this mission. For justice. For making sure Tank's killers don't win."
She smiled, small but genuine. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in months."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Here was this incredible woman—brilliant, brave, loyal, beautiful in ways that had nothing to do with appearance—and some Treasury Department bureaucrat had made her believe she was too much.
While Griff sat beside her thinking he was nowhere near enough for her.
Because that's what this was really about.
Not that their lives were incompatible—they were, completely—but that she deserved so much better than what he could offer.
She deserved someone who could give her the stability she'd built her life around, not a broken operator who lived mission to mission with no real home, no real future beyond the next target.
After Charleston, she'd go back to her world.
Write reports about the conspiracy, probably get commended for her work, maybe transferred to a better position.
She'd find someone worthy of her—someone safe, stable, who'd appreciate her mind and her courage without asking her to duck bullets or learn combat techniques.
And Griff would go back to his world—the shadows, the missions, the endless cycle of hunting bad guys until one of them finally got lucky.
It was the only life he knew, the only one he was good at.
Tank had been trying to find something better when he died.
Griff wasn't naive enough to think he'd be more successful.
"We should get some rest," he said, standing abruptly. "Long drive tomorrow."
"Right. Thank you. For teaching me, I mean. I know it wasn't easy."
"You're tougher than you think."
"I hope so. I have a feeling Charleston is going to test that theory."
As they headed upstairs, Doc appeared with a travel bag and car keys. "Your chariot awaits," she announced. "Clean vehicle, untraceable to any of us. GPS disabled, communications encrypted. I've taken the liberty of packing supplies you'll need."
"What kind of supplies?" Sarah asked.
"The useful kind. Weapons, medical equipment, cash, documentation. Everything one needs for a proper road trip." Doc's smile was sharp.
Griff pocketed the keys, studying the woman who'd rescued them with a food truck and enough firepower to outfit a small army. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Wise policy. Now, off with you both. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we change the world."
As they climbed the stairs to their respective rooms, Sarah paused at her doorway. "Griff?"
"Yeah?"
"After Charleston... after this is over..." She hesitated, then shook her head. "Never mind. Good night."
"Good night, Sarah."
He watched her disappear into her room, wondering what she'd been about to say. Probably something about staying in touch, about friendship forged in crisis. The kind of thing people said when they were trying to be polite about inevitable goodbyes.
In his own room, Griff lay on Doc's expensive sheets, working out the kinks in his shoulder and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking, Griff admitted the truth he'd been avoiding. He was falling for her. Hard. Completely. Hopelessly.
Which made keeping her safe even more important. She had a life to return to, a future to build. His job was to make sure she lived to see it.
Even if that future didn't include him.