Chapter 7 The Refuge—New Mexico
THE REFUGE—NEW MEXICO
The porch creaked under Lark’s boots as she stepped out into the early morning light.
The silence was too loud. Too wide. Too… safe.
Which made her suspicious as hell. Lark didn’t do sheltered. While her life had moments of quiet, the next mission—the next tactical maneuver—always surrounded her.
Her gaze slid over the landscape—stark mesas in the distance, a crown of peaks behind them, dawn painting their edges in gold and copper. It was too pretty. Too still. Where was the danger? There was always something or someone lurking in the shadows waiting to add to the chaos.
But here? This patch of land? It felt… peaceful. As if someone reached inside her body and placed a hand over her trembling muscles.
It had to be the calm before the storm. That was the only explanation that made sense to Lark.
Air that smelled like pine and woodsmoke, with the faintest whisper of horses and hay—had to be an illusion.
She understood that the idea behind The Refuge was all about healing.
She valued what Brick, Tonka, Pipe, and the other men had created.
This place had given Kawan and his team so much both personally and professionally.
Needing to come here didn’t make anyone weak.
It made them human. It made them flesh and blood. It made them real.
And she was all those things.
But she couldn’t afford to bleed. Not today. Not until she found justice. And maybe not even then.
On the far side of the porch, Specs sat slumped in a battered wooden chair, her knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them. Her eyes were red. Her mouth drawn into a tight line. She wasn’t crying. And to Lark’s knowledge, she hadn’t.
Fuck. Even Lark had purged a few unwanted, but necessary tears. She wasn’t a cold woman. She had all the feelings that everyone else had. She even showed them now and then.
However, Lark had been hardened by life long before the military had ever gotten a hold of her.
Specs wasn’t built the same way. She was soft and sweet.
Like a marshmallow. Always warm and fuzzy.
Like a favorite blanket. But not anymore.
Now, she was coiled tighter than a rattlesnake ready to strike.
Lark’s chest cracked when she heard the quiet argument unfolding between Specs and Jupiter.
“You need to eat,” Jupiter said, crouched beside her, holding a plate she clearly had no intention of touching.
“You took my laptop.” Specs’ accusation landed hard. “I had a trace running, and you slammed it shut, and now we don’t know what the hell’s going on with that. It’s like you don’t even give a fuck.”
“Of course I care, Specs. But you haven’t slept since—”
“Don’t you even go down that road with me,” Specs interrupted Jupiter. “They counted on me to be their eyes and ears. They might be gone, but they still need me to do that.”
“I get it. Trust me, I understand,” Jupiter shot back. “But you’re no good if you’re barely breathing. Barely surviving.”
Lark turned away, unwilling to watch the pain bleed across Specs’ face and tumble from her lips. There was too much of it. In Specs. In herself.
They were the only two left.
Lark exhaled slowly, letting her arms fall to her sides as she looked out across the property. The land rolled gently, tucked between ridges and brush, sprawling like it didn’t have a care in the world. The corral was empty. A breeze teased her hair. Somewhere, a hawk shrieked overhead.
It was beautiful.
She wanted to hate it, but all she could do was resent how it made her feel. How it immediately wrapped her in the kind of warmth that let her know she was safe.
Her body was still sore from the building collapsing on it and the SUV chase. Her clothes itched. Her muscles ached. But it was the silence that tore at her.
It left too much space for memory. Too much space for regret.
She dragged in another breath, deeper this time. Trying to shake the images. The smoke. The names echoing in her head—Mina, Wes, Alvarez.
They were gone. And she was still here.
The door creaked behind her.
Lark didn’t turn.
“Beautiful morning,” a voice said gently. Female. Calm.
She rotated slowly.
A woman stood there—boots, jeans cuffed at the ankle, wearing a lightweight sweater that hung loosely over her frame. Sunlight kissed her cheekbones, her expression soft and open.
“I’m Henley,” she said, stepping out onto the porch.
Lark’s spine went stiff. Not from fear—but from instinct.
She knew who Henley was and what she represented.
She’d heard her name slip from Kawan’s mouth before during one of their many late-night, candid discussions regarding the retreat that saved him and his team numerous times.
Lark had always believed that while Kawan believed that to be true, she felt it to be a little over the top.
She’d worked with Kawan and his team on a dozen or more missions and they were the best of the best. The most elite.
They dealt with lose-lose situations as if they were everyday occurrences, and they certainly didn’t allow their emotions to get the better of them.
But Kawan constantly told her that The Refuge wasn’t just about people who got jittery and suffered from anxiety because of a past trauma.
It was about operators who couldn't sleep without checking the perimeter three times. About people who heard gunfire in every car backfire. About the ones who came back physically whole but mentally shattered, carrying invisible wounds that were just as deadly as any bullet. Intellectually, she understood what the scenic place represented. And how it helped. She understood better than most that The Refuge was a much-needed resort for many people, both in and out of the military. She’d never once belittled its services or the people who ran it.
She just never believed it was for… her.
“You must be Lark. Welcome to The Refuge,” Henley said.
The word welcome curled like barbed wire around her throat. It reminded her of too many well-meaning foster moms who offered casseroles and concerned looks, asking about her day, her feelings, her trauma.
And who never knew what to do when she refused to respond.
Henley’s eyes were kind. She didn’t crowd. She didn’t press. She stood beside Lark, leaning against the railing as they each alternated between staring at each other and the beautiful landscape.
“Kawan has told me a little about you,” Henley said after a long moment.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
Henley smiled. “Kawan doesn’t let things out often. He’s slow to process and even slower to share. However, it’s obvious he cares about you based on the way he lights up when he speaks of you.”
Lark wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she chose to say nothing—at least about Kawan and his comments. “I’m worried about Specs.”
Henley followed her gaze. “I understand why,” Henley said. “First thing will be to make sure she’s comfortable and supported.”
“She doesn’t need support.” Lark fisted her hands. “She needs answers. A target. Something concrete to focus her mind, and I’m not talking leisurely walks filled with endless scenery.”
“What she needs right now is rest. A solid breakfast. And space from what just happened.” Henley gestured toward the path that curved around the porch and disappeared into the trees. “Walk with me?”
Lark hesitated for a moment, but for reasons she couldn’t name, she followed.
At first, they moved in silence. The gravel crackled underfoot. The sun filtered through the pines, dappling the ground, and a horse whinnied in the distance.
Henley didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer platitudes. She walked like someone who didn’t need to fill every inch of air with noise, and usually, Lark valued and respected that. But in this moment, it drove her bonkers.
“Specs… she’s drowning. I know she needs to find a way through this, but one of those ways is for us to let her do what she does best. Otherwise, she’s gonna implode.
” Lark stared at Specs as she slumped in the chair while Jupiter rose, nodded to some other woman, and disappeared inside the building.
“You’re not wrong about drowning and imploding, but focusing on mission-oriented tasks right now for Specs isn’t going to be the thing that pulls her from the bottom of the pool,” Henley said quietly. “And it’s not helping you either. Not this time. Not in these circumstances.”
Lark’s jaw tightened. “I know how to function under pressure. I know how to keep moving. I always have. That’s what survivors do.”
Henley paused about thirty feet from the porch. She turned and smiled gently. “And when does that stop being enough?”
Lark blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You keep moving forward. I get it. One foot, then the other. Mission to mission. Loss to loss. I see that a lot here at The Refuge. It’s common and often necessary.
” There was no accusation there—just words strung together in a kind and compassionate manner.
They weren’t meant to hurt. Or judge. They just were.
“But eventually, forward stops becoming progress. It just becomes hiding. Running. Avoiding.”
“I’m not doing that,” Lark said. “I’m standing right here—facing what the world has tossed at me. I’ve always faced it. Head on. Eyes open. And more importantly—I accept it.”
“Maybe you accept that life isn’t fair. That life is filled with death, and that’s unavoidable.
” Henley tilted her head. “But that’s armor, Lark.
A shield to protect you from everything you’ve tucked behind it.
All your wounds might be patched up, but eventually, what little that holds them together will open, and you won’t be able to sidestep that pain anymore. ”