15. Jon
FIFTEEN
Jon
The combat knife slices through the air inches from my throat. I twist, letting momentum carry the blade past as I pivot into my attacker’s space. One hand traps the wrist, the other drives the heel of my palm under the chin. Not enough force to cause damage.
Enough to make a point.
“Dead.” I release my hold on Razor. “That’s three.”
“Lucky counter.” Razor rubs his jaw with a grudging half-smile.
His dark eyes narrow, already calculating his next approach. In the short time we’ve been training together, I’ve come to respect his quick adaptability and focused intensity.
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” I step back, resetting my stance on the training mat. “You telegraph with your shoulder. Every time.”
Sweat drips down my spine, soaking the back of my shirt. We’ve been at this for nearly two hours, and neither of us show any sign of calling it quits. Across the training facility, Storm and Mac run shooting drills, the rhythmic pop of suppressed rounds punctuating our sparring session.
It’s only been a few weeks, but already, I see it—Storm’s voice carrying across the range, the easy rhythm of his movements syncing with Mac’s timing. Razor falling into step during drills without needing to be told twice.
The edges are starting to smooth out. Personalities clicking into place. The new dynamic forming its own shape.
Not a replacement of Charlie and Brett.
Just—something new that works.
Razor circles, danger radiating from his powerful frame.
Former Navy SEAL, he moves with that silent, deadly control—like violence lives just under his skin, waiting for an excuse to surface.
He’s a man who’s spent years perfecting the art of violence.
Every step, every shift of muscle, honed by years of breaking bodies and walking away.
His knife flips between his fingers—a nervous habit rather than showmanship.
“Again.” He drops into a fighter’s crouch.
I mirror his stance, watching for the tell I know is coming. Despite the exhaustion burning in my muscles, a familiar calm settles over me—the clarity that comes with combat.
This is simple. This makes sense. This I understand.
The attack comes faster this time. A feint high, then the real thrust low toward my kidney. I pivot, catching his forearm, using his momentum to throw him off balance. We grapple, a controlled chaos of blocks and counters. He’s good—better than good.
But experience trumps raw talent.
I lock his arm, twist, and suddenly he’s face down on the mat, my knee in his back, training knife pressed against his carotid.
“And four.” I release Razor’s arm and step back. He stays down a beat longer, breathing hard, then grabs my hand. I haul him up.
He winces, sweat dripping down his neck.
“Better.” I grab a towel off the bench and toss it at his chest. “You almost got me with the feint.”
“Almost doesn’t count for shit,” he mutters, toweling off.
“It does here. That’s the gap between dead and not-dead. You keep closing it.”
“Still feels like getting my ass kicked.”
From the doorway comes slow, sarcastic applause.
Storm leans against the frame, grinning widely, water bottle tucked under one arm. “Razor, are you seriously getting folded by Delta-Three again?”
“Step in the ring, I’ll fold you next.” Razor flips him off.
Storm strolls in, easy swagger, shirt damp, hair still wet from his last workout.
“You’d have to land a hit first. I watched that last round. I’ve seen toddlers move with more unpredictability.”
“Bite me,” Razor says, but there’s no real heat.
“Tempting, but you’re not my type.” Storm grins, takes a long drink, then jerks his chin toward me. “Besides, I know better than to throw hands with Jon unless I’ve updated my will.”
“Smart choice.” I grab my water, crack the cap.
The three of us breathe in the stillness—sweat cooling, adrenaline thinning, just the low hum of the ventilation system above and the distant clank of weights from the other room.
“You know, I was thinking about this earlier—something weird about our team setup.” Storm wipes his mouth, still watching me.
“Just one thing?” I give him a look.
He smirks. “Blaze has his callsign. Razor’s got his. Hell, even Mac’s stuck with his because, let’s be real, the guy’s built like a damn truck.”
“Dude’s a walking refrigerator with arms.” Razor chuckles.
“Exactly. And Jenny?” Storm asks.
“No one’s dumb enough to slap a name on her. She’d rip you in half.” I can’t help the cheeky grin. I almost want him to try to see the fireworks.
“You’re the only one who’s just… Jon.” Storm’s eyes stay locked on mine. “What gives?”
“Nobody ever gave you one?” Razor turns toward me.
“Plenty tried.” I twist the cap off and take a drink. Cold water, sharp in the back of my throat. “None of ‘em stuck.”
“You? Quiet. Unshakable. Intimidating as hell. No callsign?” Storm tilts his head. “That’s just—unsettling, man.”
“Don’t.” I point my bottle at him, voice low but clear. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying… It’s a missed opportunity.” Storm’s grin sharpens.
“Try giving Jenny a nickname,” I say. “If you survive that, we can revisit the topic.”
Razor laughs.
“Hey, I like living.” Storm’s brows pinch together, thinking. “I’ll start with something easier. Like poking a bear with a short stick.” He’s still smiling. Still thinking.
“I suggest you don’t…” I know damn well he’s not letting this go.
“Sounds like a challenge.” Razor chuckles.
“It’s not.” I glance between them. “You try and stick me with something, I’ll make you regret it.”
“Alright, alright. Damn.” Storm whistles low, hands raised in mock surrender.
But he’s still smiling and already filing through options, as if a challenge’s been issued, whether I meant it or not.
And just like that, the room feels different.
The rhythm between them—the joking, the shots thrown and caught without flinching—it’s starting to land.
Not forced. Not artificial.
Just—settling.
The team is starting to click, and that should feel good. It should feel like progress, but something in me resists because it’s happening too fast. Faster than I thought it would.
Storm with his constant grin and restless energy. Razor running sharp with something to prove. They’re filling the space where Charlie’s quiet steadiness used to be. Where Brett’s dry, bone-deep loyalty used to hold the line beside me.
They stepped away. Left Guardian HRS to start their next chapter—family, peace, and an everyday life. They earned it, but I’m still here.
Still carrying the weight.
Still watching the gaps close around me as if the shape of this new team was always meant to form.
“Earth to Jon.” Storm’s voice breaks through, a hand waving casually in front of my face. “You in there?”
I blink, drag my thoughts back. “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Just thinking we should wrap it up. After-action review in fifteen.”
“Copy that.” Razor’s already tugging on his shirt.
Storm lingers half a second longer, gaze steady. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Just nods once, then follows Razor out.
I roll my shoulders, working out the lingering tension. The facility hums around me—the sound of professionals honing their craft. The steady rhythm of gunfire from the range, the distant clack of keyboards from the tech hub where Mitzy’s team works their magic.
My phone vibrates in my gym bag. A message lights up the screen, bringing an involuntary smile to my face. The sight of Aria’s name triggers something warm in my chest.
“Hey.” I press the phone to my ear, suddenly aware of how much I’ve missed her voice today.
“Jon.” My name in her mouth carries a tension that instantly puts me on alert. “I need a favor, and I completely understand if you can’t, but I’m kind of desperate.”
“What’s wrong?” I’m already moving toward the Delta team’s bullpen.
“My father.” The two words carry volumes of complication. “He demanded I come to his office at seven tonight for some ‘urgent business discussion’ that can’t wait, but I managed to negotiate dinner at Mastro’s instead. I—I don’t want to face him alone.”
I pause by my locker, weighing the implications of what she’s not saying.
Marcus Holbrook—billionaire, power broker, and Aria’s father—remains unaware of our relationship.
Aria’s choice, and one I’ve respected, though the secrecy sits uneasily with me.
Asking me to join her represents a significant shift in her approach to our relationship.
“What do you need?”
“Come with me?” A pause, then, “I know it’s last-minute, and probably crossing all kinds of lines since I’ve been keeping you secret from him, but?—”
“I’ll be there.” The decision comes without hesitation. “What time?”
The relief in her voice is palpable. “Seven, at Mastro’s. God, thank you. You have no idea?—”
“Aria.” I cut through her stream of gratitude. “It’s fine. I’ve got your back. I’m just surprised you want me there, given how careful you’ve been about keeping us separate from your father.”
“I know. But after today…” She sighs with a heaviness I want to lighten. “I rejected his business expansion plans for the shop, and I’m done hiding parts of my life from him. It’s time.”
“Whatever you need, it’s yours.” Her words send a rush of pride through me.
“That’s why I—” She stops herself. “That’s why you’re you.”
The unspoken words hang between us, a bridge neither of us is quite ready to cross. Not yet. I smile into the phone.
“I need to clean up. I’ll meet you at the shop at six?”
“Perfect. And, Jon? Brace yourself. He’s… Well, he’s Marcus Holbrook.”
“I’ve faced worse.” I keep my tone light, though we both know it’s not entirely a joke.