8. Henry
Henry
The house is silent, but my head isn’t.
Emily has left for her room hours ago, but sleep doesn’t come for me. Leaning back on the couch, arms crossed over my chest, my eyes watch the flames flicker in the fireplace. Like the furnace, my mind burns.
The image of her fleeing up those stairs stays in my mind—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, fingers trembling like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hit me or kiss me again. Maybe both. Probably both.
I should’ve stopped it. Shouldn’t have let my hands find her waist, shouldn’t have leaned in like she was mine to take.
But I did. And for one reckless, scorching moment, I wanted her to be.
The weight pressing on my ribs now is familiar.
Restless energy claws at me, whispering in the voice of every soldier who’s ever drowned themselves in the battlefield to silence the noise in their heads.
Tonight is a sign that I’m slipping. I know it.
And I know the longer I stay here, the worse it gets.
The thoughts dance again and again in my mind until the fire dies out and the sun starts creeping through the windows, pale streaks of morning light crawling across the hardwood floor.
I grab a pen from the counter and scrawl a note.
Had to head out.
Won’t be around for most of the day.
Call if you need me.
– H
No unnecessary words. No explanation.
It’s better this way because I don’t know what to say. I’ve found out quickly enough that using words with Emily leads to more things, other things that have nothing to do with words but raw, wild desires.
I let the door close behind me and I stare at my truck parked on her driveway, praying it doesn’t wake her before climbing into it.
The early morning streets are empty, the town still stretching awake. Birds chatter in the trees. A breeze rattles through the leaves. My boots crunch against the gravel, every step pounding in rhythm with the thoughts I can’t shake.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.
I pull out my phone, dialing a number I haven’t called in months.
Drew picks up on the second ring. “Walker.”
“Put me on a mission.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “What?”
“You heard me,” I say, voice flat. “I need to get back in.”
Drew exhales through his nose. “Jesus Christ, Henry. This again?”
I don’t answer.
I hear him shift on the other end of the line. “I saw your last psych eval.”
I grind my teeth. “And?”
“And they won’t clear you.”
A sharp, ugly anger twists in my chest. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s protocol,” Drew snaps. “You lost it, man. Blew through enemy territory like you were untouchable, put three of your own guys at risk—”
“They’re alive, aren’t they?” I snap back.
A long silence.
Then, quieter, Drew says, “You’re not the same, Henry.”
I don’t respond.
He sighs. “The brass wants you to get back to yourself before they put a gun back in your hands.”
“I am myself.”
Drew doesn’t argue. Doesn’t need to. We both know it’s a lie.
“Give me another eval,” I demand. “If I pass, I’m back in.”
Drew mutters something under his breath. Then, reluctantly, “Fine. Be at base by noon.”
The line clicks dead.
The call ends, and I shove my phone back into my pocket and keep driving to the family house.
The house is already alive when I step inside. The scent of coffee lingers in the air. Logan and Grace are bickering over something at the kitchen table. Sarah stands at the stove, flipping pancakes like she wasn’t just grilling me about Emily a few days ago.
I don’t stop. I head straight upstairs, into my room, straight to the old wooden dresser in a corner. It creaks when I pull open the drawer, and my fingers find the photo album buried beneath old shirts and forgotten things.
I flip it open.
A row of faces stare back at me.
The squad. The people I fought beside. The ones who made it. The ones who didn’t.
Aubrey’s in the center of one of the photos, grinning that stupid, lopsided grin, red hair tied back, eyes alight with trouble.
Over the years, the team worked with a lot of professionals forced on us to get the job done: Conflict Resolution Specialists, Strategic Liaisons, Hostage Negotiators—most of these diplomatic experts leave the boys frustrated with their high-handedness and ability to work well with soldiers.
Not Aubrey.
She was smart and beautiful, and intelligent in many ways, and she can hold her own with the boys.
We worked with her three times over the past six years and it was always successful missions mixed with bouts of her blatantly flirting with me, so when we learned she was our local contact in Libya, now working as a Crisis Manager for Crisis Command Solutions.
The boys teased me about her. Maybe it’s written in the stars, eh? Aubrey’s got it bad for you, Walker. Are you blind or just stupid?
I ignored them because I thought it didn’t matter. Until the night she died for me.
We were supposed to be in and out—quick extraction of a high-value target – a scientist with crucial information–stuck in a remote village in hostile territory.
Aubrey is attached to the mission to help us understand the local Ghadamès language and lead us through the labyrinth of shortcuts.
We found the target, neutralized the guards, and secured the perimeter.
Then it all went to hell.
An ambush. An entire unit of insurgents. We fought back, outnumbered, outgunned.
And then the woman we were extracting pulled a gun on me.
Aubrey shouted my name.
And when she tried to wrestle the gun away from her, she was shot.
Blood gushed from her chest. The sound—God, the sound—gurgling, choking.
I shot the scientist and carried Aubrey through enemy territory, shoulder bleeding, dodging fire, fighting like hell. But by the time we reached the rhib—
She was gone.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts as I snap the album shut and shove it back into the drawer.
If I’m going to pass this psych eval, I need to bury this. I take a deep breath, grab a bag, throw in a few essentials, and head downstairs.
Sarah looks up from the stove when I walk into the kitchen. “You look like you’re about to deliver bad news.
Grace pauses mid-bite of toast. “Going somewhere?”
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Base. Back by evening.”
Grace frowns. “I thought you weren’t allowed back yet.”
I ignore her.
Sarah studies me. “Have you been called up?”
I stiffen. “No.”
Her brow lifts. “Right.”
Logan, ever the politician, sips his coffee, staying out of it.
Sarah, on the other hand, pushes her chair back and stands. “Henry.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t.”
Her eyes soften. “You know you don’t have to do this any longer right.”
I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. “Yeah. I do.”
Grace watches quietly, something unreadable in her expression.
For once, she doesn’t say anything.
I nod at them, then step towards the door before anyone else can try to stop me, ruffling Grace’s hair and ignoring her sigh on my way out. My fingers dip into my pocket, grabbing my phone to dial Chief Tom while approaching my truck.
He picks up instantly. “Walker.”
“I won’t be able to watch Emily today, I’m heading to base.”
He doesn’t sound surprised. “For another psych eval?”
“Yeah.”
Tom exhales. He doesn’t need to say much for me to know how he feels. He’s always believed that it’s time for me to put the weapons down and find a quiet life for myself and I’ve never been sure a quiet, mundane life with a picket fence home, wife, and kids running around is something I’m made for.
“Are you sure about this?”
I open the driver’s side door, hesitating. “I can’t sit around here forever.”
“Maybe not,” Tom says. “But you should know—we’d love to have you home. You can have a life with all of us here if you want..”
Something in my chest tightens, and I shake it off quickly. “Just put someone on Emily.”
Tom sighs again. “Good luck with the eval, son.”
The call ends.
I slide into the truck and grip the steering wheel.
One way or another, today will tell me if I still belong in the world I left behind—or if Emily Carter is becoming the reason I don’t.
***
It’s been three days.
Three long, restless, and frustrating days since I walked out of that damn evaluation room after trying to convince a bunch of shrinks that I was ready to be redeployed.
I still don’t know if I passed.
And in those same three days, I’ve barely seen Emily.
Not for lack of opportunity.
She’s there—working at the hospital, grabbing coffee at Maggie’s Café, talking to people in town—but every time I glance in her direction, she’s already turning away. Keeping her distance.
Avoiding me the same way I’ve been avoiding her.
A series of near-misses—her car pulling out of the driveway just as I turn onto her street, her stepping into Maggie’s Café right as I step out, her lingering a little too long at the hospital when she knows I’m checking the perimeter of her house in the evenings.
It’s better this way.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Even if it feels like something’s off, like I left something unfinished the night we sat by the fire, like I’ve been holding my breath since I walked out of her house the next morning without seeing her.
Now, standing in Chief Tom’s office, I shove all that aside.
There’s a bigger problem to deal with.
“I want everything you’ve got on the Black Talon gang,” I say, planting myself in front of his desk.
Tom raises an eyebrow. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
I don’t have the patience for his sarcasm today.
He sighs, reaching for a thick folder on his desk. “This is the most recent intel.” He slides it toward me. “Knock yourself out.”
I take the file and move to the far corner of his office, dropping into the chair and flipping it open.
The pages are packed with surveillance photos, crime reports, and witness statements.
The Black Talons aren’t some random street gang—they’re organized. Ruthless. Smuggling, arms deals, drug running. Connections that stretch farther than I like.
The name Caleb Vance keeps coming up.
A former lieutenant of the gang, recently found dead in a motel outside of New York. Shot twice in the chest, execution-style. He was the one Emily treated in the ER—the one who had the damn flash drive.
If they think she has it…
I exhale sharply. This is worse than I thought. A buzz starts in my mind. What’s their next move? How do I make them back off?
Tom watches me from his desk, arms folded. “You’re in a hurry to shut this down.”
I don’t look up. “Of course I am.”
“No, you’re in a hurry because you’re running.”
That gets my attention. My head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
Tom leans back, completely unbothered. “You do this every time something unusual happens in your life.” He gestures vaguely at me. “Instead of dealing with it, you throw yourself into whatever mission you can find.”
I grit my teeth. “This isn’t about me.”
“No?” He plays with his fingers. “Tell me, Walker. If the fire at your heels isn’t the Black Talons… what is it?”
I slam the file shut and push off the chair. “Thanks for the paperwork.”
I turn for the door, but before I can reach it, one of the dispatchers bursts in, breathless.
“Chief, we’ve got a fire at Maggie’s Café—small electrical fire, but—”
I don’t hear the rest.
The world tilts, and suddenly, I’m moving, running straight to my truck. I jump in and drive like a man possessed.
Ten minutes later, the vehicle skids to a stop outside the café, tires screeching. Smoke curls out from the second-story windows, flames licking at the roof.
A crowd has gathered, voices a mix of panic and hushed murmurs.
I jump out, pushing through the bystanders. “Anyone still inside?”
A man near the entrance—Rick, one of the waiters—nods frantically. “Everyone got out, but—Travis—he was upstairs grabbing something when the fire spread—”
That’s all I need to hear.
Without thinking, I bolt for the entrance.
“Walker, WAIT—”
I ignore Tom’s voice, shoving through the door and straight into the thick heat.
The smoke is immediate, heavy and cloying. My eyes sting, lungs tightening. Flames crawl up the walls, flickering shadows twisting across the room.
I move fast, instincts kicking in.
“Travis!” I shout, voice hoarse.
A cough. Faint, but there.
Upstairs. I take the stairs two at a time, the heat pressing in. The wood creaks beneath my boots, threatening to give way. At the end of the hall, Travis is slumped against a doorway, coughing hard.
I reach him in seconds.
“Can you walk?”
His eyes are wide, dazed. “I—I don’t know.”
I don’t waste time. I haul him up, throwing his arm over my shoulder.
We move fast—faster than I should, considering the damn building feels like it’s about to collapse.
The stairs groan under our weight. The moment my boots hit the bottom, part of the ceiling gives way behind us with a deafening crash.
I push forward, putting one step in front of the other and hoping nothing crashes on us and soon we’re out the door. The second we’re outside, hands grab Travis, pulling him from me. I can barely register the clapping, the murmurs of hero and damn good man.
I don’t care.
Because my eyes are already on the one person in the crowd that’s making my heart hammer—Emily.
She’s standing near the back, arms wrapped around herself. Her face is pale, eyes locked on me like she’s seeing something she doesn’t know how to process.
Like she wasn’t sure if I’d come out.
Like she cared.
I exhale.
For the first time since I ran into that fire, I feel my heartbeat start to settle.
I shouldn’t care about that.
But I do.
Too much.
I turn away because if I meet her eyes again, I might not be able to keep myself from crossing the distance, from doing something I can’t take back.
I might not be able to remind myself that this isn’t real.
And I have no idea what to do with that.