1. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
“Tell me again why we couldn’t just call the cops like normal people.”
I keep my eyes on the tablet balanced against my thigh as I reroute the traffic camera feed for the third time in six minutes. “Because normal people don’t usually hire private covert teams to recover children their ex-brother-in-law stole after losing a custody hearing.”
“Mm.” Wheels drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Still feels illegal.”
“It is illegal,” Bullet says calmly through comms. “You’re driving a stolen van.”
“It’s not stolen,” Wheels argues. “It’s temporarily borrowed.”
The van’s suspension groans as he throws us around another corner hard enough to make the coffee in Matt’s cup slosh over the lid.
Behind me, Matt doesn’t even blink. He just wipes the spill off his hand with the same exhausted patience he’s used on all of us since the military shoved four psychologically questionable specialists into one unit six years ago and called it strategy.
Some days I still think the government owed him financial compensation for surviving us.
“Eyes up,” I murmur, zooming in on the tablet feed. “Blue sedan just crossed Halsted. That’s our guy's sister.”
Wheels straightens. “See? This is why we keep the resident felon.”
“I was never convicted.”
“That’s because the government got to you first.”
Fair.
I tap twice against the edge of the tablet while the software pulls updated traffic patterns across the screen. Green dots flare across the map. Toll cams. Stop lights. ATM captures. One very unfortunate gas station selfie from a woman currently helping her brother violate federal custody laws.
People are unbelievably stupid when emotions get involved.
They stop thinking about systems.
They forget everything leaves a trail.
“That’s him,” I say again, enlarging the feed. “Silver Camry. Front bumper damage. Kid’s in the backseat.”
Matt leans forward between the seats, eyes narrowing on the screen.
Even in the dark interior of the van, he looks steady.
Grounded. Like nothing in the world could truly rattle him.
It’s one of the reasons people follow him naturally.
The other reason is because Badger is built like he could snap most men in half without raising his voice.
“You sure?” he asks.
I give him a flat look. “Matt. I hacked a private traffic grid in under four minutes while Wheels committed at least nine felonies. Yes. I’m sure.”
A snort crackles through comms.
Bullet.
The bastard almost never laughs, which makes it annoyingly satisfying when he does.
“Good to know prison hasn’t humbled you,” he says.
“Again,” I reply, “too pretty for prison.”
Wheels barks out a laugh so loud it echoes through the van.
Matt pinches the bridge of his nose.
I’m ninety percent sure he regrets founding Grayline at least once a week.
The city blurs past outside the tinted windows while rain streaks against the glass in uneven lines.
My tablet glows blue against my hands, code rolling across the lower corner while I bypass another camera system.
The familiar rhythm settles into my chest. Inputs.
Outputs. Variables. Predictable patterns moving exactly where they’re supposed to.
This is the part I like. Not the confrontations. Not the cleanup. Not even the money. This. The systems. The invisible architecture underneath people’s lives.
A husband lies to his wife, but his GPS history tells the truth. A father kidnaps his daughter and thinks turning his phone off makes him invisible while his car pings six separate traffic cams on the way out of the city.
Everyone thinks they’re smarter than the network until the network decides otherwise.
“You’re staring again,” Wheels says.
“I’m working.”
“You get that weird little serial killer face when you’re working.”
“I don’t have a serial killer face.”
“You absolutely have a serial killer face,” he insists. “Rachel said it too.”
Rachel likes to pretend she’s not fascinated by the way my brain works while simultaneously asking me to fix every electronic device within a five-mile radius of her house.
Last month she handed me her blender like it personally offended her.
I fixed it.
Mostly because she threatened to tell Matt I willingly ate gas station sushi.
“Incoming turn,” Bullet says quietly through comms. “Target vehicle heading east.”
I shift the feed, fingers already moving over the screen while my mind builds the route three steps ahead. The Camry cuts through a yellow light. Wheels follows without hesitation.
Rainwater sprays across the windshield.
“Kid status?” Matt asks.
I zoom in on the rear passenger window just enough to catch a small face curled against the seat.
“Asleep,” I answer. “Looks unharmed.”
The tension in the van eases slightly. That’s another thing about Matt. Kids get to him. Not in a weakness way. In a dangerous one. The kind that makes him quieter. Deadlier.
A muscle jumps once in his jaw before he leans back again. “Let’s finish this clean.”
We do.
Twenty-three minutes later, the girl is wrapped in one of Matt’s jackets in the back of the van while her mother cries so hard she can barely get words out. Wheels looks deeply uncomfortable about the whole thing. Bullet never even comes down from overwatch until the exchange is complete. And me?
I sit exactly where I belong—half turned toward a laptop while rain hammers the roof overhead and encrypted files burn off three different servers at once.
Loose ends.
Always clean your loose ends.
The little girl sniffles softly from the backseat. Matt crouches in front of her, voice low and careful in a way I don’t think any of us learned in the military.
“You’re safe now, sweetheart.”
She nods slowly.
I look away.
Not because the moment bothers me.
Because it feels private.
The screen in front of me flashes green as the final server wipes complete. My fingers tap once against the laptop edge. Twice.
Done.
****
The Banks house smells like garlic, butter, and whatever candle Rachel is currently obsessed with pretending she didn’t spend forty dollars on.
I know this before I even step through the front door because Wheels groans getting out of the driver’s seat beside me and says, “Jesus Christ. Is she making pasta?”
Matt snorts from the back. “You say that every time.”
“Because every time it smells like heaven and emotional stability.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Shut up, Bullet.”
Wheels and Bullet argue quietly behind me about whether garlic bread counts as a meal or a side. Wheels opens the front door without knocking because Rachel stopped pretending years ago that any of us had boundaries.
Warmth hits. Not just heat. Warmth.
Lights under cabinets. Music low somewhere in the kitchen. A dishwasher running. The soft clatter of Rachel moving around beyond the hallway.
Home.
Or at least the closest thing any of us have to it.
“Take your damn shoes off,” Rachel calls before we even fully step inside.
Wheels sighs dramatically. “She can hear us through walls. It’s terrifying.” He whispers.
“She can smell your cologne from the driveway,” I tell him, toeing my shoes off beside the door.
“That’s expensive cologne.”
“That’s too much expensive cologne.”
I leave him standing there and move farther into the house, my fingers brushing twice against the wall as I pass through the entryway.
Habit. The same way my eyes sweep exits, windows, camera placements.
The Banks house is one of the few places my brain catalogues without tension anymore.
I know this layout better than my own apartment.
Kitchen to the left. Living room sightline open. Back door locked. One upstairs window cracked an inch because Rachel likes fresh air when she cooks. I hated she did that when they first moved in, but I've made sure it's safe.
Rachel turns as we walk in, wooden spoon in hand and dark hair piled on top of her head in a mess that somehow still looks intentional. She takes one look at us and sighs like four overgrown tactical disasters have personally inconvenienced her evening.
“You all look horrible.”
“We almost died for capitalism today,” Wheels informs her.
“You recovered a child.”
“Yeah, but capitalism paid us.” He lifts his shoulders.
Rachel points the spoon at him. “Go wash your hands before you touch my food.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wheels vanishes. Traitor.
Matt moves toward her, like gravity physically shifts in her direction every time they're in the same room.
Rachel barely pauses stirring the sauce before leaning sideways into him when he wraps an arm around her waist, and there it is again—that strange seamless thing they do.
No hesitation. No thought. Just instinct.
It’s mildly unsettling.
Matt kisses the side of her head. “You good?”
Rachel’s face softens. “Everything go okay?”
“Girl’s safe.”
Some of the tension leaves Rachel’s shoulders at that. “Good.”
I look away before the domesticity starts making me uncomfortable.
Bullet has already claimed his usual corner stool at the kitchen island, silent as ever while he scrolls through something on his phone. I take the seat beside him. Same stool. Same angle toward the room. My laptop bag lands at my feet while my fingers tap once against the granite counter.
Twice.
Rachel notices because Rachel notices everything.
Her eyes flick to my hand before she turns back to the stove. “You eat today?”
“Yes.”
“A protein bar doesn’t count.”
“It had peanut butter.”
“That’s not better.”
I shrug.
Matt grabs beers from the fridge while Wheels reappears, already stealing garlic bread off a tray Rachel hasn't even finished putting together.
She smacks his hand with the spoon.
He looks genuinely wounded. “You used to love me.”
“I did. Then you put ketchup on homemade lasagna.”
Bullet lowers his phone just enough to mutter, “That was hard to watch.”
“I was experimenting.”
“You committed a hate crime,” I tell him.
Wheels points at me with the piece of garlic bread. “See? This is what I mean. He’s been extra hostile for months now.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Instantly. Wheels freezes with garlic bread halfway to his mouth. Matt closes the fridge door slower than necessary. Bullet looks up from his phone with the expression of a man witnessing an incoming train wreck.
Rachel’s eyes narrow. “Raymond.”
“What?” Wheels asks, horrified. “I was kidding.”
I blink once at all of them. Then once more.
“Oh,” I say slowly. “You all still think I’m upset about Cindy.”
The silence somehow gets worse. Which is fascinating, honestly. Because from my perspective, the situation resolved itself months ago. Problem identified. Threat removed. Lessons learned. Done.
Rachel turns the stove off and faces me fully, crossing her arms. “Keaton, you worked seventy-two straight hours last week and slept in the Grayline office because you said your apartment felt ‘structurally irritating.’”
“It was quiet.”
“You installed a second security system after a woman cheated on you.”
“That was unrelated.”
Matt hands me a beer. “It absolutely was related.”
I take it but don’t open it. “Correlation does not equal causation.”
Bullet snorts into his drink. Traitor.
Rachel stares at me for another long second before her expression softens into something dangerously close to pity. “Honey…”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re getting weird again.”
“I was always weird.”
“That’s true,” Wheels says carefully around garlic bread. “But before, you were like…fun weird.”
I look at him flatly. “You once got arrested in Prague for stealing a police horse.”
“It was not stealing. The horse followed me willingly.”
Matt drags a hand down his face while Rachel laughs under her breath.
The sound settles something strange in the room.
Normal.
This is what normal looks like for us.
Combat boots by the back door. Guns locked in the safe downstairs.
Bullet silently judging everyone from his stool.
Wheels inhaling carbs like it’s an Olympic sport.
Matt pretending he isn’t emotionally attached to all of us.
Rachel holding the entire disaster together with wooden spoons and threats.
I finally open my beer.
For the first time all day, my brain isn't running five steps ahead. The job is finished. The girl is home. Every loose end has been handled.
Tomorrow's schedule is almost empty except for a few system upgrades at the office and a stop I need to make across town.
Callum Rizzoli has managed to lock himself out of something again. He hadn't given me details when he mentioned it earlier in the week, and I hadn't asked. Callum usually thinks his technology problems are more interesting than they actually are.
They aren't.