Chapter 23
Sarah stared at her reflection in Doc's guest bathroom mirror, adjusting the tactical vest for the third time.
What am I doing?
In a few hours, she'd be driving toward Charleston with a man who could probably kill someone with a paperclip, to meet a team of elite operators who solved problems with precision and violence.
And what did she bring to this equation?
A talent for spreadsheets and an unfortunate tendency to panic-babble when nervous.
"Lord," she whispered to her reflection, "I really hope You know what You're doing here. Because I have no idea."
The smell of bacon drew her downstairs, where she found Doc bustling around the kitchen with the energy of someone who'd been awake for hours.
She was dressed in what Sarah was beginning to recognize as her "mission casual" look—designer jeans, silk blouse, and the familiar pearls that probably cost more than Sarah's car.
"Good morning, dear," Doc said without turning around. "Sleep well?"
"Define well." Sarah accepted the offered coffee mug gratefully. "I kept having dreams about dislocating my thumb. Which is probably not what normal people dream about."
"Normal is overrated. Effective is what matters." Doc flipped bacon with the same precision she'd probably once used to flip enemy operatives. "You look troubled. Second thoughts?"
Sarah slumped onto a barstool, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. "Not second thoughts. More like... hundredth thoughts. I keep thinking about what happens if I mess this up. If I'm too slow, or I freeze, or I do something stupid that gets someone killed."
"Ah." Doc set down her spatula and turned to face her fully. "The burden of competence."
"The what?"
"You're worried because you care. Because you understand the stakes. That's precisely why you won't mess this up." Doc's eyes, sharp as her intelligence, softened slightly. "Do you know what my first real mission was?"
Sarah shook her head.
"Prague, 1987. I was supposed to be observing only, gathering financial intelligence on arms dealers. Instead, I ended up having to extract an asset when everything went sideways. I was so terrified I threw up twice before we even reached the safe house."
"You? But you seem so... unflappable."
"Years of practice, dear. But that night in Prague, I was convinced I'd get us all killed. Do you know what saved us?"
"Your training?"
"My terror." Doc smiled. "I was so afraid of failing that I thought through every possible contingency three times. I checked and double-checked everything. Fear made me careful, and careful kept us alive."
Sarah considered this, taking a sip of coffee that was somehow exactly the right temperature. "So you're saying my anxiety is actually a feature, not a bug?"
"I'm saying that anyone who isn't at least a little terrified before walking into danger is either incredibly skilled or incredibly stupid. Griffin wouldn't trust you with his team if you were stupid."
The mention of Griff sent a warm flutter through Sarah's chest that had nothing to do with the coffee. "He doesn't really trust me. He's just... protecting me."
Doc's eyebrow arched in that way that suggested Sarah was being deliberately obtuse.
"I watched that man during your video call yesterday.
The way he positioned himself when you leaned into frame.
How his shoulders tensed every time one of his teammates asked you a direct question.
That wasn't protection—that was pride. He was showing you off. "
Before Sarah could stammer out a response, Doc continued. "Now, we should pray before you leave. I find it settles the nerves wonderfully."
"You pray?" Sarah tried not to sound surprised, but Doc mentioned casually extracting assets in Prague the way other people discussed grocery shopping.
"Constantly. How do you think I've survived this long in such a dangerous profession?" Doc wiped her hands on a dish towel that probably cost more than Sarah's entire kitchen. "Shall we?"
They moved to the breakfast nook, morning light streaming through windows that Sarah now knew were bulletproof. Doc took her hands with the same matter-of-fact grace she applied to everything else.
"Heavenly Father," Doc began, her cultured voice carrying the confidence of someone accustomed to being heard, "we come before You this morning seeking Your protection and guidance.
Watch over Sarah and Griffin as they travel today.
Give them wisdom to see through deception, courage to face whatever dangers await, and strength to see justice done. "
Tears pricked her eyes as Doc continued.
"Lord, we especially lift up Griffin to You.
Heal his wounds—not only the ones we can see, but the deeper ones that grief and loss have carved into his heart.
Help him remember that You are still there, still listening, even when the darkness seems overwhelming. "
"Yes," Sarah whispered, squeezing Doc's hands. "Please."
"And Father, bless this team that's coming together. Keep them safe as they risk themselves for others. Let their skills serve Your purposes. And if it's Your will, let this mission bring an end to the evil that took Tank's life. And James’s."
"Guide their steps, guard their hearts, and bring them all home safely," Doc concluded. "In Jesus' name—"
"Amen."
The voice came from the doorway, rough and quiet.
Sarah's eyes flew open to find Griff standing there, fully dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt that made him look less lethal operative, more someone who might fix your porch railing.
His hair was still damp from a shower, and his face held an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Amen," Sarah echoed, her heart doing something complicated at the sight of him.
"Amen indeed," Doc said smoothly, as if she'd known he was there all along. "Perfect timing. Breakfast is ready."
Griff moved into the kitchen in that silent way Sarah was learning to recognize, but she caught him glancing at the spot where they'd been praying. Something flickered in his eyes—longing, maybe, or loss.