Page 111

He almost spit out his coffee. “Oh, it’s on,” Vice said. “Sir, we’ve got a Code Grace. Deploy the tactical muffins. Copy that. Cinnamon swirl and direct eye contact.”
It degraded from there. Grace glanced around the table. The banter. The ease. The scars that still lived in their silences but now had space to breathe.
She saw them then.
Really saw them.
Taylor “Trigger” Stone still looked like he could neutralize a threat with a raised eyebrow. His blue eyes missed nothing, and his shirt hugged his arms in ways no respectable man needed at a brunch table.
Anton “Vice” DeLeon was the devil in a linen button-down, golden skin, ink on his fingers, and a voice like slow jazz under moonlight. He winked at the server before she even took their order.
Devon “Hitch” Klein was granite and fog, broad-shouldered and silent, the kind of man who didn’t need volume to be heard. His presence anchored the group like a deep ocean current, constant, unseen, impossible to fight.
Jace “Hook” Milner was already halfway through a second pastry, sugar dusting his hoodie like stardust. His curls were a mess. His eyes gleamed with mischief and memory and too much caffeine.
They weren’t just operators.
They were survivors.
She blinked fast and sipped her coffee to hide it.
Vice caught the shift anyway. “Don’t cry,cariño. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
“It’s allergies,” she lied.
“To what?”
She smiled. “Sentiment. Testosterone. Excessive tactical flirtation.”
Hook leaned over the table, eyes wide. “So, like… all of us.”
Nash laughed under his breath, his arm now resting along the back of her chair, warm and steady.
“You’re good for him,” Trigger said suddenly. Not loud. Not warm. Just… truth.
Grace met his eyes.
“So are you all.”
Four special operators cleared their throats, big men shifting in their chairs.
They were halfway through muffins and second coffees when Hook wiped cinnamon sugar off his hoodie and leaned back like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.
“Okay,” he said. “Tell her the one about the chicken coop.”
Grace blinked. “Chicken...coop?”
Across the table, Vice groaned. “You’re never letting that die, are you?”
Trigger didn’t look up from his coffee. “It’s part of your legacy, man. Own it.”
Vice turned to Grace, all solemn intensity. “We’re in Syria. Pre-dawn op. Silent approach. Tier One-level precision. I breach the far compound door like a professional.”
She nodded, trying not to smile.
“Clear left. Clear right. I roll into the courtyard like something out of a movie. I go down.Hard.”
Grace raised a brow. “Enemy fire?”