Chapter 17 Resolution
SEVENTEEN
Resolution
RIOT
The California coast appears through the helicopter windows like a dream.
After the mountains, the canyon, the frantic streets of Sacramento—after everything—the sight of the Pacific Ocean stretching to the horizon feels almost unreal.
Late afternoon sun paints the water gold and copper, and somewhere below, waves crash against cliffs that look nothing like the granite I climbed this morning.
“There.” I point through the windshield. “Guardian HRS HQ.” Home.
The Guardian HRS compound materializes out of the darkness like a promise.
From the air, it's a cluster of buildings spread across the hillside—main operations center, medical facility, residential complex, and the massive training facility that takes up more square footage than everything else combined.
The stadium-sized gym is lit up even at this hour, probably Reaper running some late-night drill.
Beyond the buildings, the PCH-1 winds along the coast, headlights tracing its curves like a river of light.
"It's beautiful," Sera says quietly. She's been silent for most of the flight, holding Rosie, processing. Now she's staring out the window with an expression I can't quite read.
"It's safe," I say. "That's what matters."
I've flown into this place a hundred times. But I've never been so grateful to see it.
Angel brings us down on the helipad behind the ops center. The rotors wind down, and for a moment, no one moves. We're all just breathing, processing, letting the reality of survival sink in.
"We're here." My voice comes out rough. "Everyone out."
CJ and Mitzy are waiting at the edge of the pad. Mitzy holds a tablet in her hand, her violet hair practically glowing under the floodlights. Her gaze moves over us—cataloging injuries, emotional states, the way Evie and I are still holding hands.
"You made it.” Mitzy beams at the women. "I was tracking you the whole way. Clean flight, no pursuit. The cartel is still searching Sacramento—they have no idea you're gone."
"Mitzy." My voice carries something like affection. "This is Evie. And Sera and Rosie."
"I know who they are. I know everything." Mitzy grins at me, and there's something infectious about her energy. "I'm the one who's been in Riot's ear all day. Sorry about the running, the shooting, and the general chaos. It's not usually this exciting."
"Ms. Sinclair. I'm glad you're safe." CJ's gaze moves over our group—assessing, cataloging, the same way Riot looked at Sera's house.
"Thank you. I don't—I'm not sure what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." His voice is surprisingly gentle for such a large man. "Let's get everyone settled, and then we can talk about next steps."
"Medical is standing by,” Mitzy says. “Family suite in the residential complex is ready—Sera and Rosie, you're in building three, second floor.
" She's talking fast, the way she does when she's been running on adrenaline and caffeine for too long.
"CJ wants a debrief in the morning, but for now, everyone needs to sleep.
Rosie, do you like dinosaur nuggets? I feel like you might like dinosaur nuggets. "
Rosie, who has been silent and exhausted since the helicopter, perks up slightly. "Dinosaur ones?"
"Is there any other kind?" Mitzy holds out her hand. "Come on. I'll show you where the good snacks are."
Sera shifts Rosie in her arms. "I should get her settled—"
"I've got it." Mitzy is already moving, gesturing for them to follow. "Building three is this way. There's food in the common room, and the kitchen is stocked. Evie, you're in the same building—unit 204—unless arrangements have changed?" Her eyes flick between me and Evie. "No judgment either way."
Heat floods Evie's cheeks. I fight a smile.
"Unit 204 is fine." Evie's voice is admirably steady. "Thank you, Mitzy."
"Any time." Mitzy herds Sera and Rosie toward the residential complex, still chattering about dinosaur nuggets and bunk beds and something about a movie marathon if anyone's interested.
Then it's just me and Evie, standing on the helipad in the California night, the hum of the compound settling around us.
"You should get that arm looked at." She's looking at the blood soaking through my sleeve.
"It's a graze. I've had worse."
"That's not reassuring."
I laugh—tired, genuine. "Come on. I'll get patched up, and then I'll walk you to your unit."
Medical takes fifteen minutes. The graze is nothing—cleaned, bandaged, forgotten before the nurse finishes taping it down. The cut on my forehead takes another five minutes and two butterfly strips.
Evie waits in the hallway. When I emerge, she's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like she's about to fall asleep standing up.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself." She pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me. "How bad?"
"Told you. Nothing serious."
We walk through the compound in comfortable silence. Past the ops center, past the training facility—she pauses, eyes going wide.
"Is that—"
"Climbing wall." I grin at her expression. "Runs the entire length of the building. Three hundred feet of artificial rock, multiple routes, difficulty ratings from 'my grandmother could do this' to 'basically impossible.'"
"It's huge."
“Forest Summers designed it. He created Guardian HRS, and he's got a thing for rock climbing—says it's good cross-training for the job." I watch her face, the hunger in her eyes. "You should check it out tomorrow. Once you've slept."
"I might never leave."
"That's the idea."
We reach the residential complex. It's a cluster of buildings around a central courtyard—clean lines, good lighting, the kind of purposeful design that says safety without screaming military.
Building three is the closest to the training facility.
Evie's unit is on the second floor, at the end of the hall.
I stop at her door.
"This is you."
"This is me." She doesn't reach for the keypad. Neither of us moves.
"Jon."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For everything." She steps closer. Close enough that I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the dried tears on her cheeks, the way her lower lip trembles just slightly. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come to that cabin."
"You'd be dead." The words come out blunter than I intended. "The men who were guarding you—they had orders. Another day, maybe two, and—"
"I know." She presses a finger to my lips. "I know. That's why I'm thanking you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I want to." She replaces her finger with her mouth.
The kiss is soft. Tender. Nothing like the desperate heat of the crevice, nothing like the frantic relief of surviving together. This is something else—slower, deeper, a promise instead of a plea.
When we break apart, we're both breathing harder than we should be.
"I should—" She gestures at her door. "Sleep. Shower. Something."
"Yeah." I don't let go of her hand. "Me too."
We stand there for another moment, neither of us willing to be the first to walk away.
"Jon."
"Yeah?"
"When you told Rosie you were my boyfriend." Her eyes find mine. "Did you mean it?"
The question hangs in the air. I think about all the ways I could deflect, all the jokes I could make, all the armor I could slide back into place.
I'm tired of armor.
"Yeah." I lift her hand, press a kiss to her palm. "If you want me."
Her smile breaks across her face like sunrise.
"I want you." She kisses me again—quick, fierce. "Now go sleep before you fall over."
We stand there for a moment. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable exactly, but full of something neither of us seems to know how to name.
Everything that happened in that crevice hangs in the air between us.
The heat of it. The rawness. And now we're standing in a hallway like normal people, and I have no idea what the rules are.
“So,” I clear my throat. "I'm just down the hall. If you need anything."
"Okay."
"Anything at all. Even if it's just—" I run a hand through my hair. "I don't know. If the nightmares hit, or you can't sleep, or you want company."
"Okay."
"Listen." I take a breath. "When this is over—when Harmon's in custody and you've testified, and everything settles—I'd like to take you somewhere. Dinner. A real date. Something that doesn't involve running for our lives."
The offer catches her off guard. After everything—the chaos, the adrenaline, the impossible intimacy of that crevice—this feels almost quaint. Me asking her on a date. Like we're normal people who met at a coffee shop.
"I'd like that," she says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We're both standing there smiling like idiots. Neither of us moves.
"Okay." I nod like an idiot, a big grin on my face. "Good. That's—good."
"Good."
More nodding. More standing. This is excruciating.
"I should—" I gesture vaguely down the hall. "I'll find you later. We can—there's a deck. It's nice at sunset."
"That sounds nice."
"Good. Okay. Good."
I back away, nearly tripping over my own feet, and I'm biting my lip to keep from laughing because I may be lethal, competent, and dangerous. A man who killed people today without blinking. But I’m still fumbling a hallway goodbye like a teenager after a first date.
Evie does that to me.
Lightens the weight of the world.
"Jon."
“Yes.” I stop.
"Thank you. For everything."
Something softens in me. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know. I wanted to anyway."
A small voice echoes from somewhere deeper in the building: "Aunt Evie!"
I turn to see Rosie running toward me, Mitzy trailing behind with an amused expression. The little girl skids to a stop, her face smeared with what looks like chocolate.
"Mitzy has a room with BUNK BEDS," she announces. "And a TV. And she said I can watch movies until dinner."
"That sounds amazing, Rosebud." Evie squats down to the little girl’s level.
Rosie's attention shifts to me. She studies me with the intense scrutiny only a six-year-old can manage.
"Is the gunman really your boyfriend?"
The question catches me completely off guard. Behind Rosie, Mitzy is grinning like this is the best entertainment she's had all week.
"I—what makes you ask that?" Evie looks flustered.
"You keep looking at each other." Rosie's tone suggests this is obvious. "And he held your hand on the helicopter. Mommy says when boys hold your hand and look at you like that, it means they like you."
"Your mom sounds pretty smart."
"She is." Rosie nods solemnly. "So is he?"
“I think so.” Evie laughs.
Rosie considers this. Then she nods, apparently satisfied with the uncertainty. "If he is, he should bring you flowers. That's what Mommy says boyfriends do."
"I'll let him know."
"Can you teach me to climb rocks like you?"
"Rosie." Sera's voice comes from down the hall, fond and exasperated. "We talked about this. One life-threatening skill at a time."
"But Mom—"
"Dinner first. Then we'll discuss." Sera appears behind her daughter, looking cleaner and calmer than she did an hour ago. Someone found her fresh clothes. "Evie, there's food in the common room. You should eat."
"Coming." Evie lets Sera lead her down the hallway, Rosie chattering about bunk beds and dinosaur nuggets and whether the gun man would be a good boyfriend. She glances back once, just before turning the corner, and mouths ‘later’ to me.
I turn and head to my temporary quarters, but CJ catches me in the hallway before I reach my door.
"Riot. A word."
He's waiting in the shadows—a habit from his field days, I think. Never stand in the light if you can help it.
"Boss."
"Good work tonight." His voice carries the weight of someone who's seen enough operations to know how badly this one could have gone. "Frost says you held off eight hostiles for nearly ten minutes before backup arrived."
"Twelve minutes." But who's counting.
"Twelve." He nods. "That's impressive, even for you."
"I was motivated."
His eyes sharpen. Whatever he's looking for, he finds it, because his expression shifts—not quite a smile, but close.
"Harmon's going down." He changes the subject with characteristic abruptness. "The evidence is airtight. Between the license plate, the FBI corruption, Moreau's death—he's done. Six months, maybe less."
"And the agents?" I ask.
"Derek’s in a secure wing at Mercy General under twenty-four-hour guard.
Between the gunshot wounds you gave him and the federal indictment, he’s never seeing the sun again as a free man.
Travis is already in Yates's custody at a black site. He’s singing like a canary, trading Harmon’s head for a life in a high-security witness unit instead of a shallow grave. They're both finished."
"And the cartel?"
"The ones who attacked tonight are dead or scattered. The organization will regroup. They lost their political cover. We've cut the head off the snake." He pauses. "For now."
"For now is all we ever get."
"True enough." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Get some sleep. Debrief at 0900."
I nod and turn toward my unit. Then I stop.
"CJ."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for sending me."
He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than I've ever heard it.
"You're one of us. We take care of our own." A pause. "And something tells me she's one of us now too."
I think about Evie on that cliff. In that crevice. Standing in a bedroom with a six-year-old, trusting me to hold the line.
"Yeah," I say. "She is."