Chapter 8 #2
Again, he was quick on the draw, eyes sharp and muscles taut, ready for the onslaught of unpredictable targets.
His finger squeezed the trigger rapidly, pouring out rounds like a torrent, the Glock barking in his hand.
He drowned out everything in his head with the noise of gunfire, the adrenaline pumping as every hit brought with it a rush of control, a sense of power that reminded him of who he was.
Each shot drilled into the target, the sound echoing like a symphony of destruction—a visceral release of pent-up energy and frustrations.
He gritted his teeth, his body coiling tighter as he transitioned from target to target, the bullets thundering through the air until his magazine clicked empty.
“Fuck!” he slammed the weapon down after clearing it.
Panting slightly, he observed the scattered targets, a mixture of satisfaction and the fierce desire to do even better boiling within him.
The missed shots stung like a wasp; they served as reminders that he wasn’t just firing for sport.
He, as always, was preparing for the real world, where every shot mattered.
He gathered the weapons he’d used, cleaned them. His hands moved on autopilot, allowing him to settle the resolve inside him as he locked everything he was on the target of his rage, the people who had fucked with Dwight’s family.
Payback is a bitch, motherfuckers, and I’ll be coming for you.
Accepting the challenge of what lay ahead of him, he double-checked everything was back in its place.
He climbed the stairs to the barn and ensured the range was locked up tight.
With kids now living in the compound, he refused to allow even the slightest chance that they might get access to the weapons cages.
Is six too young to start teaching weapons safety?
I’ll have to ask Zipper and Nemo.
Surely the two fathers on the team would know the answer to that question. In this world of controlled chaos, often survival was about more than just skill; it was knowing how not to panic when the shit hit the fan.
If she’s too young for guns, there’s always martial arts.
He made a mental note to call Aria Burnley’s teammate, Logan Winters, the former MMA dude turned Operator, who had to know the answer to that question.
He could build a shield around those he’d vowed to keep safe.
Glenna and Kelsey were now his to protect, period.
No more second-guessing; he wouldn’t let them down.
Not ever. He couldn’t rewrite their past, or bring Dwight back for them, but there was something he could do.
He could strive to carve out a space where they might find a shot at something better than what they’d be left with when Dwight had died for his country.
He could work toward a semblance of stability, perhaps even a fragile happiness for Kelsey and Glenna, despite the scars that life had etched upon them.
They deserved a chance at peace. Everyone did, especially those dragged unwillingly into a life steeped in pain.
Here, in this compound, in this sanctuary of war-fighters and controlled chaos, he could lend his strength to give them a fighting chance, however small it might seem in the grand scheme of things.
Settling back into the cart, he turned it toward the house. As the engine hummed softly beneath him, he offered a silent vow to the night.
They are mine to protect.
As far as he was concerned, Glenna and Kelsey had unwittingly joined his circle now. They were part of his life, no strings attached, and god help anyone who dared try to take them from him.
He parked near the trellis, the engine cutting off with a quiet hum, and stepped out, stretching his arms over his head. The night air carried the faint scent of jasmine and earth, a stark contrast to the acrid tang of gunpowder still clinging to his skin.
He moved under the archway and into the covered walkway that surrounded the courtyard. The kitchen windows were dark, as was the war-room, telling him most of the McKinleys had retired for the night —thank fuck—before his boots scuffed to a halt.
I should have expected that.
Colt lay sprawled in the hammock strung between two pillars in front of his apartment, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting on the curve of a fat cat curled against his chest. The feline’s purr rumbled loud enough to hear from three feet away.
“You look like hell,” Colt said.
Tyrone grunted. “You look like you’re avoiding your wife.”
That got a snort, and Colt shifted his arm just enough to peer up at him, the cat blinking lazily in protest. “Siobhán’s in the bath. I’m not disturbing that for anything.”
Tyrone crossed his arms. “Uh-huh. So you’re just out here… bonding with a cat or some shit?”
“His name’s Bandit.” Colt scratched behind the cat’s ears, earning a deeper purr. “And yeah. Sometimes a man needs a minute to appreciate the simple things.”
Preach.
Tyrone eyed the hammock, then the door to the guest suite. “Did someone check on them?”
Colt’s fingers stilled. “Glenna and Kelsey?”
“Yeah.”
“Chari tried to drop Kelsey off, but Glenna’s out cold. So, she took her back to Gunnar and Jorja’s instead.”
Tyrone exhaled through his nose. Good. That meant Glenna was sleeping, not pacing the floor or staring at the ceiling, drowning in the kind of thoughts that kept a person up at night. He knew that spiral well.
A light flipped on in Colt’s apartment.
“That’s my cue that my wife is out of the bath.” Colt sat up in one fluid motion, depositing Bandit unceremoniously onto the flagstones. The cat meowed in protest but immediately began winding around Tyrone’s ankles. “Hammock’s yours if you want it.”
Tyrone toed off his boots and settled into the woven sling, the ropes groaning under his weight.
The hammock swayed gently as he adjusted, finding the balance point where it cradled him just right.
Bandit took that as an invitation and jumped up, before plopping onto his stomach with the grace of a sack of flour.
“Christ, cat,” he muttered, but he didn’t shove him off.
Colt chuckled as he shut the door. “Sweet dreams, Zorro.”
“Fuck you, Radar, take your cat with you.”
“He’s Gunnar’s cat.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Tyrone alone with the night and the warm, vibrating weight of the cat. He laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the stars peeking through the gaps in the trellis. His gaze drifted to Glenna’s door. The lights were off. She needed the rest.
But his mind wouldn’t shut the hell up.
What kind of shape is she in?
How long before the nightmares start?
Will Kelsey sleep through them, or?—
Bandit kneaded his stomach, claws pricking through his shirt.
Tyrone hissed, but the cat just purred louder.
The hammock rocked slightly, and he let his eyes close.
For the first time in hours, the tension in his shoulders eased.
He wasn’t fixing anything out here. He wasn’t solving a damn thing.
But he was here if she needed him, and right now, that was enough.
The cat’s purr rumbled against his ribs, and his breathing slowed to match it. The night wrapped around him, as the compound’s usual hum dialed down to a whisper.
He didn’t sleep. Not really. But for the first time since Kelsey had traced his ink with her tiny fingers, his mind stilled. There were no false promises to a dying man, no blood on his hands, and no what-ifs or maybes. Just the stars, the cat, and the quiet, and it was enough.