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Thedarknesswrappedaroundme like an old friend. I'd positioned myself in the corner of Marked Kings Tattoo, chair angled for maximum visibility, minimum exposure. My Glock rested on my thigh, safety off, round chambered. Just another night op, except this time I wasn't in a war zone. This was Ironridge, and I was protecting something that scared me more than any combat mission ever had.

Someone who mattered.

I’d been super-busy the last few days, organizing protection for all the wedding suppliers. I’d probably spent a little too much time here, with Lena. But it wasn’t like I could help myself. And if I was honest, I cared more about this place and the people here than I did about some florist on the other side of town.

It was weird being here after hours. I didn’t really want to be here—much rather be nursing a whiskey and moaning to Thor about my feelings for Lena. But that wasn’t an option.

Duke's words kept looping through my head, each repetition stoking the fire in my gut. "Prospect heard two Serpents at Rosie's Bar. Said they're hitting 'that purple-haired floozy's tattoo shop' tonight. Want to send a message."

Floozy.

My jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. They didn't know shit about her. Didn't know how much she cared about the people she worked with. Didn't know she created memorial tattoos for grieving families, refusing payment more often than not. Didn't know she hid a heart the size of the whole fucking state under all that attitude and purple hair.

They just saw an easy target. The mouthy tattoo artist who wouldn't know to check her locks twice or vary her routines. Who walked through life like she was bulletproof because she'd never learned different.

But I knew better.

The building settled with a creak, and my hand tightened on the Glock's grip. Just the bones of an old structure cooling in the Colorado night, but my nervous system didn't discriminate. Every sound got catalogued, assessed, dismissed or filed as potential threat. The rattle of pipes. The hum of the ancient refrigerator in the break room. A car passing on the street outside.

This was what I'd become—a weapon pointed at shadows, forever waiting for the next attack. The therapist at the VA called it "adaptive hypervigilance." I called it staying alive. Keeping others alive.

Except I'd failed at that before.

Martinez. Rodriguez. Watanabe.

Their names carved grooves in my brain, worn smooth by years of repetition. My squad. My responsibility. My failure. Three good men dead because I'd missed the signs, misread theintel, made the wrong call. Their blood painted the inside of my eyelids every time I closed them.

I shifted position slightly, muscle memory keeping my sight lines clear. Outside, Ironridge slept the sleep of the small-town innocent. Streetlights painted amber pools on empty sidewalks. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell silent.

My phone screen glowed: 11:52.

I rolled my shoulders, shaking off the gathering tension. If anything came through that door, I'd handle it. That's what I did—handled things, fixed problems, eliminated threats. Clean and simple. No messy emotions. No complications.

The back door lock clicked.

The sound hit my nervous system like an electric shock. Every muscle coiled, ready. My breathing slowed, deepened. The Glock rose smooth as silk, barrel tracking toward the sound. Time stretched like taffy, each second expanding into an eternity.

This was it. Game time.

My finger found the trigger guard, resting light and ready. Whatever message the Serpents thought they were sending, they were about to learn a hard truth.

Nobody touched what was mine.

Then, there was a clunk. Something low and loud. Someone kicking a door?

My body moved without conscious thought, low and fast, Glock up, using Lena's work stations as cover. All of a sudden, I was back there. Kandahar. On that dreadful day in 2011. Back in the thick of it. The tattoo chairs became overturned Humvees. The supply shelves morphed into crumbling walls.

Another sound—metal crashing against concrete. Equipment falling. My heart hammered combat rhythm, that familiar thunder that meant stay alive, keep moving, eliminate threats. Multiple hostiles probable. Standard breach pattern suggested two to four operators.

I cleared the first corner textbook perfect, slicing the pie, weapon tracking with my eyes. The main floor stretched empty, amber streetlight painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. General Sparkles watched from the wall, unicorn eyes accusing. Should've prevented this. Should've seen it coming. Always my job to see it coming.

More noise from the back—purposeful movement, not random destruction. They were heading deeper into the shop. Toward the storage room where Lena kept her expensive equipment. Where she'd shown me her specialty inks, face lit up with passion as she explained pigment properties.

Focus. Move.

I flowed between stations, each step calculated for minimum exposure. The tiled floor felt wrong under my boots—too smooth, too clean. Should've been dirt and debris. My brain kept trying to reconcile the competing realities, sending conflicting signals that made my hands shake.

Bad sign. Very bad.