Chapter 19 The Re
THE REUNION
TORQUE
The staging area materializes out of the desert like a mirage that decided to get serious.
Camouflage netting stretches between rock outcroppings, hiding vehicles and equipment from aerial surveillance. A command tent hunkers against a cliff face, its tactical gray blending with the stone. Three SUVs, a supply truck, and—
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
A helicopter.
She’s a modified MH-6 Little Bird—the “Killer Egg,” compact and lethal, her rotors tied down against the desert wind.
Guardian HRS markings on the tail boom. The egg-shaped fuselage gleams in the light, the external bench seats folded against her sides visible even now.
Someone flew her in recently—the dust hasn’t fully settled on her skids.
“That’s our ride?” Sarah leans forward, studying the aircraft through the windshield.
“That’s our ride.”
“It’s—small.”
“She’s designed to fit where nothing else can. Twenty-seven-foot rotor diameter. The 160th flies these things through urban canyons with feet to spare.” I pull the sedan to a stop. Kill the engine. “She can carry six operators on the benches, plus two pilots. Perfect for what we need.”
Sarah’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You’re already in love with it, aren’t you?”
“Her. And yes.”
The ghost of a smile crosses her face. It’s small, fragile—but it’s there.
We made it. Whatever comes next, we made it this far.
Movement at the command tent. A figure emerges, tall and lean, gray hair catching the late afternoon light. Ghost. Even at this distance, the weight of his assessment is tangible.
“Ready?” I ask her.
She takes a breath. Squares her shoulders. The director sliding back into place—but different now. Softer at the edges.
“Ready.”
We get out of the car.
Ghost reaches us in six strides. His pale eyes move from me to Sarah and back again, cataloging everything—the truck stop clothes, the exhaustion, the something that’s changed between us since Seattle.
He doesn’t comment on any of it.
“You made it.”
“Barely.”
A micro-expression that might be relief flickers across his scarred face. Then it’s gone, replaced by command-mode assessment. “Status?”
“Costa’s dead.” I keep my voice level. “Phoenix got to him before the handoff. But she got the codes.”
Ghost’s eyes cut to Sarah. She meets his gaze without flinching.
“Both sets,” she confirms. “Mine and his. Torque has them memorized too. Redundancy.”
Something shifts in Ghost’s expression. Not surprise—Ghost doesn’t do surprise—but something close to approval.
“We’ll debrief fully inside. But first …” He glances over his shoulder.
The rest of the team is emerging from the command tent.
Brass first, tall and golden, his tactical vest strapped over a black T-shirt.
Then Fuse, moving more carefully than usual—favoring his left side, a reminder of the injury from the Chicago operation that’s still healing.
Whisper materializes from somewhere—I swear the man just appears out of thin air.
Halo, wiry and intense, tablet already in hand.
Thorne, silent and watchful, those pale eyes tracking everything.
And behind them, Cassie and Talia.
“Well, well.” Fuse’s voice carries across the clearing, though there’s less bounce in his step than usual. “The honeymooners return.”
“Miss me, big guy?”
“Like a hole in the head.” He reaches me first, claps a hand on my shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth, then winces slightly at the motion.
His grin fades as he takes in my appearance—the dress shoes, the pajama pants, the general air of someone who’s been through several kinds of hell. “You look like shit.”
“You should see the other guys.” I nod toward his midsection. “How’s the side?”
“Doc says another week before I’m cleared for field ops.” Frustration bleeds through his casual tone. “Which means I’m stuck playing command post backup while you idiots have all the fun.”
His eyes move to Sarah. The grin softens into something more genuine. “Director. Glad you made it.”
“Thank you.” Her voice is steady. Professional. But a slight tremor runs underneath.
Brass reaches us next, his arctic blue eyes doing their own assessment. “Torque. Director Vance.” A pause. “Interesting wardrobe choices.”
“Truck stop chic. Very exclusive.”
“I can see that.”
The others gather around. Whisper gives me a nod—which, from him, is practically a standing ovation.
Halo’s already pulling up something on his tablet, probably running calculations on our arrival time versus expected Phoenix response windows.
Thorne hangs back slightly, still the new guy, but his pale eyes miss nothing.
Then Cassie pushes through the wall of testosterone.
“Okay, enough.” She plants herself in front of Sarah, hands on her hips, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. “You look like you’ve been through absolute hell.”
Sarah blinks. “I—”
“Come on.” Cassie takes her arm. “Talia and I have clothes that will actually fit. You can brief these idiots after you’re not dressed like a refugee from a gas station.”
Talia appears at Sarah’s other side. She’s smaller than Cassie, with sharp eyes that probably run probability calculations in her sleep. “Statistically speaking, proper tactical gear improves mission survival rates by—”
“Talia.”
“—significant margins. I’m just saying.”
Sarah looks at me. There’s uncertainty in her expression—the director isn’t used to being swept away by well-meaning women.
I give her a small nod. Go. It’s okay.
Something relaxes in her shoulders. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
Cassie shoots a look at the assembled men. “Try not to break anything while we’re gone.”
“No promises,” Fuse calls after them.
They walk toward one of the SUVs—Cassie, Talia, and Sarah, three women moving through a sea of operators like they own the place. Which, in some ways, they do.
“She’s different,” Brass observes quietly.
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yeah.”
“You too.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t push. That’s Brass—he sees everything, says only what’s necessary.
Fuse, on the other hand, has no such filter. “So. How was the honeymoon? Get any actual honeymooning done, or—”
“Fuse.” Ghost’s voice cuts through like a blade.
“What? I’m just asking.”
“Don’t.”
Fuse raises his hands in surrender, but his eyes are knowing. He sees it too. They all do.
Whatever. Let them see.
“Come on.” Ghost turns toward the command tent. “We have work to do.”
The command tent is cramped but functional. Folding tables covered in maps and equipment. Laptop screens showing satellite imagery. The hum of portable generators outside.
I give them the short version while we wait for Sarah. Costa dead. Phoenix assets inside the NRO—someone tipped them off about the meeting. The escape through Vegas, the flight to a small regional airport outside the city, the drive through the night.
I leave out the motel. The breaking. The confessions on the long drive through the desert.
Some things aren’t for mission briefings.
“Both of you have the codes?” Ghost asks again when I’m done.
“Both sets. Full redundancy. If one of us goes down, the other can still execute Hard Lock.”
“That was her idea?”
“Yeah.” Pride bleeds into my voice despite myself. “She’s not just an asset, Ghost. She’s a strategist. She thinks three moves ahead.”
Ghost’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture. Recalculating. Adjusting his assessment of the woman he assigned me to protect.
Good. She deserves it.
The tent flap opens, and the women return.
I look up.
And forget how to breathe.
Sarah’s wearing tactical pants that actually fit. A fitted black shirt that moves with her instead of drowning her. Boots—real boots, not gas station slip-ons.
But that’s not what stops me.
Her hair is up. Pulled back from her face in a loose twist, soft pieces escaping around her temples.
Not the severe bun of Director Vance. Not the controlled, scraped-back armor she wore in Seattle. Something in between. Something that says I’m still professional, but also I don’t have to strangle myself to prove it.
The queen pendant still glints at her throat. The wedding ring still circles her finger.
She looks like herself. The real version. The one I’ve been watching emerge over four days of chaos and confession.
“Better,” Cassie announces, clearly pleased with their work.
“Much better,” Talia agrees. “The boots alone improve her probability of—”
“Talia.”
“—surviving uneven terrain. What? It’s true.”
Sarah’s eyes find mine across the tent. A question in them. Is this okay? Am I okay?
I let my expression answer. You’re more than okay.
The tension in her shoulders eases. Just slightly.
“Shall we continue?” Ghost prompts, and just like that, we’re back to business.
Sarah takes her place at the table, and she’s different here too. Still professional. Still precise. But when she briefs the team on Costa—his initial refusal, his eventual agreement, the moment she found him dying in his hotel room—there’s something human underneath the competence.
“He gave me the codes with his last breath.” Her voice is steady, but not cold. “His wife’s name is Margaret. They were married for thirty-two years.”
Silence in the tent. Even Fuse has nothing to say.
“He died helping us,” she continues. “I intend to make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”
Ghost nods slowly. “Then let’s make sure it wasn’t. Halo. Show them what we found.”
Halo steps forward, tablet connecting to a larger screen. Images populate—satellite photos, topographical maps, thermal imaging.
“Ghostwater Dam,” he says, and the main image resolves into something that makes my pilot’s brain light up with equal parts fascination and alarm.
The facility is built into a canyon. Sheer rock walls rise hundreds of feet on either side. The dam itself spans the gap—a massive concrete structure with a control tower jutting from its face like a technological tumor. Below it, the canyon continues, narrowing into shadow.