Chapter 8
He’d been in the war-room for hours. His eyes stung, his ass hurt from sitting, and he knew the guys were the same.
Hell, Remi had only left a couple of minutes ago to have dinner with Serena and Ember.
The war-room was finally silent, and in that silence, Tyrone leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table.
Each joint popped in testament to the long hours he spent hunched over reports, court filings, and even an unredacted copy of Dwight’s service record that Gunnar had managed to get his hands on.
I don’t even want to know how many favors he needed to call in for that.
He took a sip from his mug then grimaced at the stale coffee taste.
“Jeez, that’s shit.” Across from him, Colt stood like a statue, his eyes glued to a stack of folders, exuding the kind of unyielding intensity Tyrone had come to expect from him—methodical, calculated, and slightly intimidating even when he was just standing there.
“You tapping out, Zorro?” Colt’s voice broke through the fog of his thoughts, carrying a teasing note that barely concealed the undercurrent of concern swirling beneath the surface. Sometimes it felt like the guys could read him like an open book, and it made him shift in his seat.
“Yeah,” he pushed himself up with a groan. “I wanna check in on Kelsey and Glenna, then maybe I’ll hit the range for a round or two. If I don’t move, I’ll be stiff as a corpse tomorrow.”
Colt snorted. “I feel that in my soul, dude.”
With a nod signaling the finality of their exchange, he turned and made his way toward the door.
“See you tomorrow, Radar,” he called over his shoulder.
As he stepped outside, twilight had fallen, and long, ghostly shadows stretched across the courtyard.
Voices bubbling with the uninhibited joy that only children could express caught his attention. He followed the sound under the arched gates and around to the terrace. Jules and Kelsey ran around, burning off energy as if their bodies knew bedtime was coming up fast.
“Kelsey.” He glanced around searching for Glenna, but it was Jules’s mom, Chari, who sat at the table with an e-reader in her hand.
Kelsey turned, her face lighting up at the sight of him. “Uncle Zorro!” she squealed, “we’re gonna catch fireflies!”
“Are you?” He crouched to her level. “That sounds like fun.” He searched Kelsey’s face for any hint of distress or unease.
But she seemed happy, her eyes gleaming with innocence, a bright candle in the darkness of her past. “Where’s your mom, little explorer?
” he asked, curiosity and protectiveness mingling within him.
Kelsey’s arm stretched out toward the direction of the guest suites, her tiny finger pointing like a compass leading the way. “Sleeping. She’s really tired.”
Tyrone nodded. Of course she was. Hell, he needed rest just thinking about all that she’d already gone through.
But a part of him—the restless, stubborn part—craved to check on her, to maybe sit with her while she slept, reassure his own mind that they were all safe behind the fortress walls that were the Four X’s compound.
Instead, he lightly ruffled Kelsey’s hair, feeling the soft strands tickle his palm, a brief connection that made him smile.
“Make sure the fireflies don’t get away, okay? ”
Kelsey nodded solemnly, as if she were making a pact with him.
“And don’t forget to name them,” Chari added from her spot, her voice teasing. You’ve got fifteen minutes, girls, then it’s bath time.”
“Yeah!” Jules pitched forward excitedly, “Mine is Mr. Twinkles.”
Tyrone chuckled at their exuberance. “Good choice, Jules,” he replied, the laughter breaking through the boundaries he sometimes found difficult to navigate. “I’m going down to the range, Chari. You ladies need anything before I leave?”
“Levi will be here in a few minutes,” Chari shook her head, “so we’re good.”
He tipped his fingers to his forehead and headed toward the parking area.
Normally, he’d run through the vineyard to the range, but sitting all day had made his knees ache and his back hurt.
Running, frankly, sounded like it would suck, and he wasn’t in the mood for sucky shit tonight.
He snagged the keys to one of the golf carts lined up neatly near the trellis and climbed in.
The low hum of the cart barely broke the night’s peace as he navigated through the winding paths of the estate.
The net-covered vines stretched out around him was a breathtaking sight that never failed to ease something inside him.
Who knew a refurbished nunnery in Italy could become home to a bunch of former Operators who weren’t quite ready to give up the fight?
He parked the golf cart outside what looked like an old barn that used to house the grapes, pushed open the metal door, and walked past the wine vats to the metal door that led underground to the purpose-built firing range.
As he made his way into the firing range, the layers of rage he’d struggled against all day slowly receded.
This was one of his favorite places in the compound.
Here, there were no distractions, and he could allow all the niggles and worries to fade away, because it was just him and his weapons running through routines he’d crafted and created over the years until they were second nature.
Here in this place, he didn’t have to think about anything but hitting the next target.
WEAR EAR PROTECTION, ASSHOLES!
Every damn time he saw the massive sign on the wall, he smirked.
There was something about having the ability to drive the cool-headed Grizzly up the wall enough that he’d order a sign made to hang on the wall that never failed to cheer him up.
Aside from his brothers who’d been born knowing which of Gunnar’s buttons to press, there were very few people who’d managed to make him lose his fucking mind.
Hah, and I did it in less than a week.
His eyes narrowed, locking onto the row of rifles that stood at attention along the wall. These were tools of his trade, instruments of precision forged for one purpose—war.
Tyrone strode over to the M4A1, its trusted frame worn yet dependable. He pulled on a tactical vest, retrieved a fresh magazine, and slammed it home with a sharp “click.” A sense of satisfaction coursed through him as he racked the charging handle, the rifle responding with a resounding ka-chunk.
At least this shit makes sense.
When the world was out of whack, ‘trust in your weapons and your team’ were two of the fundamental elements of staying alive. He knew it…there were just days when he needed the reminder.
Setting his sights on the target downrange, he took a steadying breath, then shifted his weight, grounding his stance in the familiar spot. He squeezed the trigger, feeling the rifle kick back against his shoulder as the first round ripped through the air.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he muttered to himself as the paper target jerked slightly, a hole marring its center.
He was on a roll, each shot landing true, rhythm and speed merging in a dangerous dance as he kept firing.
The rounds flew like lightning, a cascade of sound erupting from the barrel.
His focus was unwavering until it slipped; he felt that gnawing tension in his gut as he squeezed the trigger one too many times, a shot going wide, the bullet tearing into the edge of the target.
“Fucking hell—get it together!” He swore under his breath, his pulse spiking with frustration. He wiped the sweat from his brow, aware that every miss was a failure, a chance for the enemy to strike first.
Quit fucking up, dumbass.
He refocused, re-aimed, and pulled the trigger again, this time connecting with ruthless accuracy.
“That’s better,” he growled, a grim satisfaction sparking as he blasted through the remaining rounds.
Once done with the M4, he set it down and reached for the sniper rifle—a customized MK12.
This baby was precision incarnate. He moved to the outdoor area of the range as he fondled the weapon’s sleek body, checking the optic for calibration.
This felt more like an extension of himself than a weapon.
He slid into a prone position on the ground, the gritty surface digging into his forearms.
Lining up the crosshairs with the distant target, he steadied his breath. A quick scan of the windage, a mental check of distance, and then he squeezed the trigger. The explosion of sound split the air, and a second later, he observed another hit.
“Not bad.”
But it wasn’t enough. He quickly recalibrated, loading another round and centering his focus with relentless determination as a second shot tore through the target with precise ferocity.
As he continued, the rhythmic cadence of his trigger pull became a mantra of focus, breathe, pull, until he went back inside and sent the sniper rifle back to the rack, the satisfaction of a job well done tingling in his fingers.
Switching gears, Tyrone moved to the Glock 19 secured in its holster. He stepped toward the moving targets lined up against the far wall. This was a different game entirely, the stakes raised by every unpredictable movement of the dummies swinging back and forth on their tracks.
“All right, let’s see what you’ve got, motherfucker,” he growled under his breath. The flicker of adrenaline pulsed through him, the call of the hunt echoing in his head. The first dummy swung into view; he fired, and two rounds found their mark dead center.
“Shit yeah,” he whispered to himself, feeling the rush of euphoria that came with hitting a target on the fly.
But that high came crashing down as the next target swung too fast; as he pulled the trigger, the shot went wide.
“Damn it! Focus!” Bathed in frustration, he reloaded with a quick deftness, inserting a new magazine with practiced ease.
Keep moving.
Don’t dwell on the fuck-ups.