Page 17 of Zorro

His mom took it in silence. Kissed his cheek again. “Your heart is so warm, Mateo. That’s what makes it so brave.”

His throat tightened. He turned back to the grill. “Somebody better tell Gator he’s burning the damn corn.”

From the far side of the yard, Gator yelled, “Blasphemy!”

Laughter returned. The moment passed. But the weight didn’t.

It never really did.

Zorro didn’t look at the envelope again. He just stood there, smoke curling around him like incense, the fire of the grill flaring slightly under the open lid. The laughter had faded into something quieter now. The kind that hung when something special passed through a backyard.

Zorro wiped his hands on a towel and turned slowly, taking in the faces around him. His teammates. His family. His blood.

“I wasn’t alone in any of it,” he said quietly. “You were all there. This medal?” He held up the envelope with a wry twist of his lips. “This thing’s got all your names on it.”

He paused, jaw tight. “Heroics can kiss my ass. This is the job.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then Blitz raised his beer. “To the job.”

The others echoed it. Beers clinked together, hard and sure. Dani passed around glasses like it was instinct, Javi whooped and gave a loud, “Damn right!”

As the backyard gathering settled, Claire Martinez, Zorro’s soft-spoken but steel-spined mother, stepped forward and stopped the toasts. With ice-blonde hair and Nordic cheekbones, she didn’t look like the Puerto Rican matriarch of the Martinez clan, but her authority was undeniable.

“Not so fast,” she said to Joker, then nodded. “Read.”

Joker pulled out a folded document and read aloud:

“Petty Officer First Class Mateo Martinez distinguished himself by acts of extraordinary heroism…despite sustaining a gunshot wound, Martinez rendered lifesaving aid to multiple wounded personnel, shielded two hostages under direct enemy fire, and delivered a child under extreme combat conditions…directly responsible for the preservation of seven lives….”

No one spoke as the words sank in.

Zorro blinked against the sun, or maybe the weight of it all, then cracked the moment open with a grin. “If Gator didn’t ruin the corn, we’ll call it a win.”

Laughter broke the tension. But everyone knew two Navy Crosses didn’t come easy. The moment left its mark.

Then Joker stepped onto the stone ledge.

“Team Alpha,” he called. “As of next month, we’re headed to Rio de Janeiro.”

More cheers. Blitz groaned theatrically. Gator muttered something about fast-roping through hotel skylights.

Joker continued, “Joint tactical exchange with BOPE. Three weeks. Spouses welcome. We’ll also be attending two conferences: the Sovereign Edge Summit on leadership and the White Line Symposium on trauma medicine. Zorro, you’re a panelist.”

Zorro groaned. “Of course. Voluntold.”

They would be staying at a luxury hotel in Ipanema. Rooftop pool. Award-winning chef.

“Swim trunks not optional,” Joker added with a pointed look at Zorro.

Laughter rippled again. But beneath the banter, the team shifted. Operational focus clicked in. The next mission had begun.

Joker clapped Zorro on the shoulder. “You good with being the face of battlefield medicine?”

Zorro took a long pull from his beer. “I’d rather be in the back with a med kit and no cameras.”

“Too late,” Joker said. “You’re already a walking legend.”

Zorro didn’t smile. “That’s exactly how you get people shot.”