Chapter 4 Military Hospital, San Antonio, Texas #2
“What?” Her breath caught in her chest. “You can’t do that. Not yet. I need time to go through things. To examine every detail.”
“Not your problem anymore.”
“Don’t sideline me,” she pleaded. “I have to find out what happened to my team and why. I need access to files. To surveillance. I need to be able—”
“You and Specs are benched. I expect you to turn over everything within the next twenty-four hours.” He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, the echo of his boots vanishing into the sterile quiet.
Lark didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Only when Specs’ hand touched her arm a few moments later did she stir.
“We’ll figure it out,” Specs said quietly.
Lark thought about that message from Grady.
NOT SECURE. WAIT FOR INSTRUCTIONS. NEED TO TALK.
Yeah.
They needed to talk.
Hotel Luna Mar, San Antonio, Texas
Kawan didn’t know what was worse, hospitals or being told he had to take a couple of weeks off due to an injury.
Both were equally bad for different reasons.
One reminded him of his mortality, which he loathed.
The other just reminded him he wasn’t getting any younger, and that was simply depressing.
But give him a bland beige hotel room with buzzing lights, uneven AC, and four people crouched around a low coffee table like they were back on mission—now that felt more familiar.
Safer, somehow—regardless of how his thigh throbbed.
Specs sat cross-legged on the floor, tapping furiously at Jupiter’s laptop, dark circles etched under her eyes. Occasionally, she’d pause, glance up, rub her neck, and her gaze would dart around the room as if she were assessing the exits for a quick escape.
Jupiter leaned over her shoulder, muttering a string of encrypted jargon Kawan only half followed, but Jupiter seemed to get off on every single word.
Jupiter and Specs had already developed their own language. They stared at each other with fire behind their gaze—a look that was equal parts dangerous and sensual. They spoke to one another as if they were separate from everyone—as if no one could decipher their carefully crafted secret language.
Kawan might find it endearing if Specs wasn’t unraveling, and Lark hadn’t taken over every operational corner of his brain.
Lark paced near the window, arms folded tight across her chest, holding herself together with visible effort. Like if she relaxed even an inch, she’d shatter. Every once in a while, she’d roll her shoulder.
She hadn’t said much since they’d regrouped here, but the silence surrounding her had weight. Guilt. Pain. Grief. It touched them all, but it seemed to engulf Lark.
And Kawan couldn’t stop watching her.
“You sure it’s from Grady?” Kawan asked.
“Positive.” Specs never looking up. “Burner account. Encrypted chain that bounces through half a dozen proxies. Style matches past transmissions. Same phrasing, too. It's him.”
“I did a deeper dig,” Jupiter added.. “Looked at other things. Other sources. He left enough breadcrumbs for us to identify him.” He waved a hand across the laptop.
“He knew the line wasn’t secure but didn’t say anything that could be flagged.
If anyone asked, it’s his job to talk. Lark’s being forced on admin leave.
It could be about that, and if he’s smart, which he is, that’s what he’d say. ”
“What’s our play?” Kawan asked.
“We find a way to respond without anyone seeing it because we don’t need that kind of scrutiny,” Lark said without missing a beat. “Especially from Lorre.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Kawan said. “Having people see the response isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
We don’t know if Grady’s part of what went down or not.
Until we know what side of the fence he sits on, we need to keep him at arm's length. If that means playing both sides, then that’s what it means. ”
That earned a faint flicker at the corner of Lark’s mouth. Not a smile exactly, but not nothing either.
“Okay, then we respond cautiously,” Lark added.
“Let him know we received it. We could ask for a location. Somewhere public. Controlled. Nothing traceable. See if he responds. If he does, I guess we know he’s on the other side.
If he wants to chat on another channel, then we know we’ve got something… else.”
Specs was already typing.
“Do you believe Grady could be setting a trap?” Kawan asked.
Lark finally turned from the window. “Outside of this team, I don’t trust anyone right now. Not even him.”
Kawan studied her face in the hotel lamplight—shadows curling under her eyes, the set of her jaw rigid. She looked like a woman balancing on a knife’s edge. He could see the weight in her posture, the exhaustion stitched into her bones.
But beneath all that—she was still standing.
Still leading.
Still her.
“Message sent,” Specs said.
I’ll stay up,” Jupiter said. “Monitor responses. If something happens, I’ll let you know.”
“We can split watch,” Specs added, dragging the laptop with her as she settled into the armchair, hugging the device as if it were a security blanket. “Jupiter, I’ll take first watch and wake you up in a couple of hours.”
“Sounds good.” Jupiter stretched his arms over his head.
Lark stood and looked at Kawan. “You good for the night?”
“Doctor gave me the all clear. Just told me not to run a marathon or do any squats for the next few weeks.”
“Guess that means you're grounded from the gym.” She seemed to be trying for lightness, but fatigue clung to her words.
“Come on,” he said gently. “You need to relax.”
She took his hand. Then limped him across the hall, where he pulled out a key card and waved it in front of the handle.
“Why are you taking me to your room?”
“Because if someone doesn’t keep an eye on you, you won’t rest at all.” He opened the door and lowered his chin. “In you go.”
She hesitated for about ten seconds before stepping inside.
The room was small. Neutral walls. One bed.
A chair. A little table where a room service menu was still folded open.
He gestured for her to sit, but she shook her head and wandered to the far corner, near the window, arms hugging herself again. “Feels different,” she murmured.
“What does?”
“Being out of the field. In a hotel. Not under gunfire.” Her voice cracked slightly. “It’s too quiet.” She wiggled her fingers. “I don’t do silence well.”
He didn’t push. Just dropped onto the edge of the bed, letting the stillness stretch.
The thing about Lark was that she wasn’t exactly who she thought she was.
Yes, she was as tough as nails. She was a force to be reckoned with.
A true leader. The kind of woman who commanded respect.
Not because she demanded it. But because she’d earned it.
She was all the things she’d fought tooth and nail to become and expected the world of covert ops to see.
But she was so much more than what she wanted the world to witness. To respect. To value. Behind the tough exterior was flesh and blood. There was a woman who resided there. A woman who felt things. A woman who cared. A woman who loved.
Even if she didn’t want to admit it.
“You don’t do a lot of things well,” he said. “But neither do I.” He leaned back, studying her. Studying the woman, not the warrior.
He knew both well. At least, he liked to believe that.
“You break rules well,” she said softly.
“Why are you stuck on me and rules? I’m not some reckless cowboy who’s incable of following a direct order.” He reached up, tugged at his ponytail, and ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t break a single one regarding coming back to get you in South America, so let that one go.”
“You remember Caracas?” she asked suddenly.
“Which part? The hotel with the rats, or the alley shootout with the guy in the chicken costume?”
“The chicken—” Her mouth twitched. “Poor Moose was traumatized.”
“That bastard had good aim, even wearing that feathered costume.”
“I still have the scar on my calf.” She laughed. “Moose wanted to name that damn scar. Said it reminded him of Cluck Norris, which I thought was weird—why the scar and not the man shooting at us?”
“Moose doesn’t name bad people,” Kawan said. “ And especially not after his beloved Cluck. God, even I adore that chicken. One of my favorites, next to Mrs. Doubtfire, now that’s a sweet old chicken.” He stared at her profile. “What made you think of that?
A long beat passed between them.
She turned toward him, arms still crossed. “Most people saw an uptight, crazy person. You—and your team--were the only ones who didn’t look at me like I was insane back then.”
“That’s because we knew you were.” He shrugged. “Didn’t bother us—especially me.”
“Why?”
“Because I was worse.”
“We lost a few good people on that mission.” She stepped closer and sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
“I didn’t cry. Not once. Not at the field hospital.
Not at the evac point. Not when we landed.
Not at the base.” Her jaw trembled for the first time.
“I couldn’t. I didn’t have time. I had to keep it together. ”
“Pain isn’t always something to cry about. I get that,” he said. “This is different, and you don’t have to hold it together. No one is keeping score. Least of all me. Trust me when I say I’ve shed more than my fair share of tears.”
She stared ahead for a long beat.
“I didn’t hear them die, Kawan. But I heard their fucking silence, and that’s worse. I keep playing it over and over and over. And that deafening quiet of them not responding is louder than the explosions.”
He didn’t speak.
Just turned to her and opened his arms.
Lark hesitated… then folded into him with a big sigh.
The first sob was silent. Just a tremor against his chest where her forehead landed. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. And then the dam broke.
Kawan held her tightly—careful of her ribs and shoulder—cradling her, and he wouldn’t let go. Her pain poured out in fractured breaths and quiet tears. No dramatics. No hysteria. Just raw grief.
Pure and unfiltered.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to fix it. He just let her feel it. Let her break, knowing she needed to fully shatter in order to put herself back together again.
Because that was who she was.
Eventually, her breaths evened out. Her head rested against his shoulder.
And in the stillness, he whispered the truth he hadn’t said aloud in years, “I’m not letting you go through this alone.”
She didn’t reply.
But she didn’t pull away either.