31. Jon
THIRTY-ONE
Jon
“Walk me through it again.” CJ’s voice carries no judgment, just the detail-oriented mind of a professional piecing together fragments of an operation to form a complete picture.
I lean back in the uncomfortable metal chair. Guardian’s debriefing room hasn’t changed since my first mission eight years ago—same gray walls, same surveillance cameras in each corner, same table designed to make you shift your weight every ninety seconds.
“Marcus had Aria at gunpoint.” My voice remains steady despite the images flashing behind my eyes. “He already discovered the documents I found in Wolfe’s office—proof of his involvement in organ trafficking, his role in Rebecca’s death. Evidence that would destroy him.”
Jenny nods, fingers tapping notes into her tablet. Across from her, Forest remains still, weathered face revealing nothing.
“He was aiming at Aria when the team breached the main entrance.” The scene replays in perfect clarity. “Multiple shots fired. Marcus took at least three to the chest. Dead before he hit the ground.”
What I don’t mention: the relief that flooded through me when Aria emerged unharmed. The savage satisfaction when Marcus’s eyes went blank. The way my hands didn’t shake, not even once, as I held Aria while her father’s blood spread across imported marble.
“And Wolfe?” Forest asks, the first words he’s spoken in twenty minutes.
“Marcus bludgeoned him in the dining room.”
CJ’s eyes narrow slightly, catching something in my tone, perhaps. He’s trained operatives to compartmentalize and report facts without emotion, but this mission crossed every line between professional and personal.
“The girl?” Jenny prompts.
“Hope,” I correct automatically. “Not ‘the girl.’ Not ‘the asset.’ Hope. A prisoner. She helped Aria escape and came with us during extraction.”
“Current location?”
“Staying with Aria at her apartment above the candle shop.”
Jenny’s eyebrow lifts fractionally. “Risk assessment?”
“Minimal.” I meet her gaze directly. “She’s traumatized but not dangerous. Storm’s been monitoring the situation.”
“Storm has been monitoring the situation,” CJ repeats my words, the slight emphasis suggesting he knows exactly what that means.
“He’s thorough.” I don’t elaborate further. If Storm’s growing interest in Hope mirrors my own complicated feelings for Aria, that’s his business.
“Ten casualties total.” Jenny scrolls through her report. “Marcus, Wolfe, and his men. No civilian losses beyond Marcus Holbrook.”
Ten men. Not a record for a Delta operation, but significant. I remember each face from the compound—security professionals, not street thugs. Men doing a job. Wrong side, wrong employer, wrong time.
“The evidence recovered from Wolfe’s office?” Forest asks.
“Secured in the vault.” I nod toward the floor, where three levels down, steel boxes hold enough information to destroy a dozen reputations in international banking.
“Financial records, medical files, surveillance photos. Marcus Holbrook was running a sophisticated organ harvesting operation in developing countries for nearly two decades.”
“And his connection to Wolfe?”
“Half-brothers.” The revelation still feels surreal, too convenient for fiction. “Same father, different mothers. Marcus recognized as the legitimate heir, while Wolfe was abandoned and disowned. Otherwise, no connection. Their businesses were independent of each other.”
“Wolfe’s motive?”
“Revenge, primarily.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Wolfe spent years documenting Marcus’s crimes. The second kidnapping wasn’t about hurting Marcus—it was about revealing the truth to Aria. Making her see who her father really was.”
“And did she?” CJ’s gaze sharpens.
Images flash—Aria facing down Marcus in those final moments, spine straight despite the gun aimed at her chest. Her voice unwavering as she rejected his demands, his threats, his manipulations.
“Yes. She saw everything clearly. Too clearly.”
CJ nods, understanding what I’m not saying. The trauma of those revelations won’t fade easily. The psychological impact of learning her father murdered her mother, trafficked in human organs, and built her entire life on blood money isn’t something that heals overnight.
“The official story?” Jenny asks, pragmatic as always.
“Already in motion.” CJ stands, signaling the end of the debriefing. “Marcus Holbrook died protecting his daughter from his estranged half-brother, a known criminal. Tragic family drama. Nothing about organ trafficking, nothing about Rebecca’s murder. The public record remains sanitized.”
“With respect…” Something in me rebels at the thought of Marcus’s legacy surviving intact.
“The files remain sealed.” CJ’s tone allows no argument. “For now. Ms. Holbrook has enough to process without the added weight of public scrutiny. What she chooses to do with that information later is her decision.”
He’s right, of course. Aria needs time to grieve, to process, to rebuild before facing the inevitable media circus that would follow such revelations. The truth hasn’t disappeared—it’s just been contained.
“Understood.” I stand, muscles protesting after hours of debriefing.
“She’s going to need more than protection.” His voice drops. “She’s going to need someone who sees her clearly. Not as Marcus Holbrook’s daughter. Not as a client. As herself.”
The insight catches me off guard. CJ doesn’t do personal advice or emotional counseling. He trains operatives to complete missions, not to navigate relationships.
Before I can respond, he’s gone, the door closing behind him with quiet finality.
“You’re compromised.” Jenny waits until his footsteps fade down the corridor before speaking. There’s no accusation in her tone, just a statement of fact. Jenny doesn’t judge. She assesses.
“Yes.” No point denying what we both know.
“How are you handling it?”
I consider the question. Am I handling it?
The protective instincts that flare whenever Aria’s out of sight.
The way my heartbeat synchronizes with hers when she’s near.
The constant awareness of threats, exits, angles of fire—not because it’s protocol but because I can’t bear the thought of failing her again.
“I’m functional.”
“That’s more self-awareness than I expected.” Jenny almost smiles.
“I’m evolving.”
“Clearly.” She stands, gathering her tablet.
After the debrief, I head to the evidence room. It hums with climate control systems keeping paper and digital archives at optimal preservation temperature. I sit surrounded by boxes labeled with Wolfe’s precise handwriting, each containing pieces of Marcus Holbrook’s carefully constructed facade.
Photos spread across the metal table. Marcus at private airstrips, shaking hands with men whose faces appear on international watch lists.
Medical facilities in abandoned warehouses.
Financial records show millions flowing through shell corporations.
Witness statements from those who survived his enterprises, their testimonies damning even in clinical translation.
And Rebecca. Aria’s mother.
Her autopsy report lies open before me, the medical examiner’s findings precise and cold. Blunt force trauma to the head. Defensive wounds on forearms. Time of death estimated between 11 PM and 2 AM.
Police reports document a tragic accident. A fall down the stairs. A grieving husband, too distraught to be questioned extensively. Case closed.
Bank records show payments to the lead detective, the medical examiner, and two key witnesses. Marcus’s signature on each transaction, not even bothering to hide his tracks. The arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.
I trace the timeline meticulously. Rebecca had been planning to leave Marcus. She discovered something about his business dealings—possibly the organ trafficking operation—and reached out to Wolfe, her former lover, for help.
Marcus found out. Eliminated the threat. Covered it up with money and influence. He then raised their daughter—or possibly Wolfe’s daughter—in a home built on that foundation.
“Heavy reading.”
I look up to find Jenny in the doorway, two coffee cups in hand. She crosses to the table, setting one beside me.
“Anything new?” she asks, leaning against the edge of the table.
“Nothing we didn’t already know.” I close the autopsy report, unable to look at it any longer. “Marcus was a monster wearing a three-piece suit.”
“And Wolfe was a monster trying to avenge a monster.” Jenny sips her coffee. “Leaving Aria caught between them.”
The simple summation captures the grotesque symmetry of the situation. Two damaged men destroying everything in their path, including the woman they both claimed to love.
“How much does she know?” Jenny asks, her gaze falling on Rebecca’s autopsy photos.
It’s a legitimate question.
Standard protocol involves information management for civilians, protecting them from details that might cause additional psychological trauma without tactical benefit.
But Aria isn’t any civilian.
“Everything.” I gather the documents into a folder, decisions crystallizing. “Wolfe exposed the truth.”
Jenny doesn’t argue further. Instead, she asks, “What will you tell her about Guardian HRS sealing the records?”
This gives me pause. Guardian HRS operates in shadows by necessity. Our methods, our reach, our influence—all carefully obscured from public view. The standard protocol would be to maintain that separation, limiting civilian awareness of our capabilities.
But again, Aria isn’t just any civilian.
“She deserves to make informed choices about what happens next.” I stand, tucking the folder under my arm.
“Just because Marcus is dead doesn’t mean his operation shut down.
If it becomes a media circus, all his contacts will go to ground.
If we keep things quiet, it allows us to take them down ourselves. ”