2. Necessary Risk
Chapter two
Necessary Risk
Matt
I tell myself I’m not going to think about her.
It’s a goddamn lie.
For the past hour, I’ve been trying to distract myself—unpacking, moving furniture, wiping down counters that don’t need it—pointless shit. No matter what I do, she’s there. Sitting in the back of my head like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled.
Skirt clinging to every curve, blouse dipping low enough to tease, blonde hair pinned up—making a man imagine it down, spilling over bare skin, in his face as she moves on top of him. It makes me want to clear the nearest surface and lay her out on it.
I’ve never felt something so immediate. A deep pull that causes my hands to sweat and mind wandering places it shouldn’t.
And Spencer? Sharp kid. Quick-witted. Completely at ease with her—sarcastic, playful, entirely himself. No walls. No hesitation. Shows what kind of mother she is.
It affects me more than I care to admit. My whole life, I’ve kept my distance from anything that resembles a family. Not because I don’t want it—hell, I do. But wanting it and believing you can have it are two different things.
Blood matters. My father was a mean drunk who’d rather pick a fight than deal with his own shit.
Sometimes I wonder how much of him is in me.
How much of that temper, that darkness, is simmering beneath the surface.
Even if it’s not, I’ve spent twenty years moving, deploying, chasing the next mission.
Fatherhood is about being there. I’m not built for that.
I need to get my shit together. Melina isn’t my problem. She’s nothing—just a woman I helped on the side of the road.
I grit my teeth and push off the counter, grabbing my keys before my thoughts can linger longer. Then my cell buzzes. Bishop.
I answer on the first ring. “Hey.”
“You’re off today?”
I shift, already suspicious. “Yeah… why?”
“You’re about to be working on your day off.”
I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “That bad?”
“Callahan wants us briefed. Looks like a big op in the works.”
That means high risk, high reward. Not a job they assign to anyone.
“Be there in thirty.”
I end the call and shove the phone in my pocket, my focus shifting from Melina to the task ahead. But as I step onto the porch, a car idling across the street catches my attention.
I frown. It doesn’t belong to a neighbor. Sedan with tinted windows, driver’s window cracked enough for me to catch a man’s profile. Sharp features. Dark hair. Sunglasses.
He’s watching Melina’s house.
The fuck?
I straighten, tightening my posture as I walk toward him. His head snaps to me, startled. I don’t break stride.
“Hey!” I call out. “You lost or something?”
The window shoots up. Tires squeal as the sedan jerks forward, speeding away.
I glance at her place. Everything seems normal. No signs of distress. No indication that she knows someone’s out here.
With a final look, I climb into my truck and drive to headquarters, my mind now juggling two problems instead of one.
***
Logan Bishop is more than a teammate. He’s the closest person I have to a brother.
We met during Ranger Assessment and Selection—me, eighteen and inexperienced—him, two years older and already sharp.
Steady. We butted heads constantly, neither backing down.
But the thing about surviving hell together, eventually you stop trying to outrun the other guy and start making sure he doesn’t fall behind.
Then came Ranger School. Sixty-one days of sleep deprivation, hunger, and misery—the kind that strips you to the bone. We got through it the same way we always did—together. Swamps, heat, rucking. Weight loss so brutal we looked like corpses by the end.
Next was Delta selection. I didn’t have to ask if Bishop was in, I knew. We pushed through every test, every eval, every gut-check designed to break us. And we made it. We were Delta.
For years, that was everything. The mission. The fight. We were the best.
And then—he left.
Not early. He did his twenty. Got out clean. It still hit me square in the ribs.
What pissed me off most? He didn’t tell me. His name wasn’t on the op roster. I figured it was a mistake—until I saw his status: retired. No warning. No heads-up. Just gone. Like it was that fucking simple.
I saw red.
We went toe-to-toe, trading shots until we were both bleeding, staring at each other like strangers.
He still didn’t take it back—just wiped the blood from his mouth and said he was done.
Done with the bullshit, the politics, the missions getting riskier while people in charge got greener, more willing to throw us into the fire.
He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t want to hear it. So I stayed—kept my head down, locked in my retirement. Needed to prove I still had something left. But the job changed. Too many good men burned or buried because someone higher up wanted to play hero from behind a desk.
“Mason, it’s time,” Bishop said. Last call. I answered.
Now? I’m out for good. Not because I had to, but because I was ready. Sure, I’m making more now than I ever did in the military, but the paycheck doesn’t matter. It’s about trust. It’s about team. And at Aegis—I have that again.
***
The drive to headquarters takes just over thirty minutes, cutting through the outskirts of Dallas before merging onto a quieter road that leads toward the industrial sector. It isn’t flashy. No towering skyscrapers. No glass-paneled facade advertising its existence. That’s not how Aegis operates.
The building sits low and wide—an unremarkable, plain structure hidden behind a gated checkpoint.
From the outside, it resembles any other office warehouse: clean, modern, with dark-tinted windows, and a private lot surrounded by reinforced fencing topped with razor wire.
A casual observer wouldn’t realize what kind of operations are happening inside. That’s the point.
Up ahead, two armed sentries flank the guard booth, tactical gear squared away, weapons slung with practiced ease. Not rent-a-cops. Former military—each one of them. The Aegis logo, a circular monogram with the letters A and G in matte bronze, is stamped across their sleeves and chest rigs.
I slow to a stop and roll down my window. A guard steps forward, eyes flicking to my face, then to my credentials.
“Morning, Mason,” he says—voice clipped but not unfriendly. “You’re not on the schedule today.”
“Got called in.” I hand over my badge, watching as he scans it on the panel. A second later, the screen flashes green. He nods once. The steel gate groans open, hardened barriers sliding apart to reveal the lot beyond.
"Park in your usual spot," he remarks. “Bishop’s already inside.”
“Figured.”
I pull forward, weaving through the tightly controlled lot, where every vehicle belongs to an Aegis operator or someone cleared to be here.
Most are fleet rigs—identical black Raptors and SUVs, but a few personal rides stand out—a beat-up Jeep near the back, an old Ducati wedged between two trucks, and a classic Mustang I’m pretty sure is Hale’s.
I kill the engine and step out into the heat, heading toward the side of the building. I press my thumb to the biometric scanner by the door. A quiet beep, then a soft hiss as the reinforced entry unlocks.
Cool air hits me as I walk inside—a welcome change.
The hallway smells like gun oil and fresh coffee.
This place is built similar to a mix of a high-tech command center and a military installation—state-of-the-art briefing rooms, secure armories, a full-scale indoor training facility, and both indoor and outdoor ranges that can simulate almost any environment.
Footsteps echo ahead, steady and familiar. I don’t need to see him to know who it is. Bishop.
"You're late," he calls out, stepping into view with that same unreadable expression he's always worn on mission.
I snort, shaking my head as I shut the door behind me. "You’re old."
He chuckles, the casual banter sliding into routine like muscle memory.
"Yeah? My knees don’t sound like a goddamn cement mixer when I stand up, so I still got you beat."
We clasp hands. Firm. Years of history, trust, and something that feels a hell of a lot like family in the space between. Even after everything—Bishop leaving first, me taking longer to jump—there’s no bad blood. Just two men who’ve been through more together than most ever will.
I exhale, grip tightening briefly before letting go. "Callahan brief you yet?"
"Not yet. Waiting for you. Figured I’d get a coffee while I waited."
"You hate coffee."
Bishop shrugs. "Yeah, but it pisses Brooks off when I take the last cup."
I shake my head as we walk toward the briefing room, falling into step without thinking. The rhythm’s still there. Working with him again settles something in my chest.
As I enter the main corridor, the familiar hum of Aegis headquarters surrounds me—operators moving purposefully, the distant clatter of weights from the gym, and the faint echo of gunfire from the basement range. It feels like stepping onto a military base again.
I’m halfway to the war room when I sense it. That shift in the air, the weight of someone approaching. And then—the hit. A firm, intentional shoulder check pushes into my side, enough to throw me a step off balance. I exhale, jaw clenched, already knowing who I’ll see when I turn.
Jackson fucking Mercer.
He keeps walking as if nothing happened, but I catch the slight tilt of his head, that smug pull at the corner of his mouth.
Motherfucker wants a reaction.
Bishop’s a few feet away, arms crossed, clearly having seen the whole thing. His lips curve into a lazy half-grin.
“You make friends everywhere you go, huh?”
I huff out a sharp breath, forcing myself to relax. “He’s still pissed.”
Bishop snorts. “No shit. You took his seat on Alpha.”