Page 6

5

They hit the third-floor landing.

More fighters, three of them, were scrambling to set up a blocking position. Didn’t matter.

Brawler hit first, dropping the first man with a brutal burst to the chest. The second barely had time to shout before Beast lunged off the stairs like a freaking missile, going airborne, slamming his powerful bulk into the fighter and dragging him down with a deep ear-splitting snarl. Lechuza finished him off with his Glock.

The third tried to bolt.

Shark popped him, and the man crumpled, gurgling.

Bondo still covered their six, his rifle a constant, thunderous presence, dropping anything that moved behind them.

Second floor. First floor.

They hit the lobby at full speed, Flash gritting his teeth. The rise and fall of her chest against his told him she was still there, still pushing through whatever agony was screaming through her body.

A man lunged at Dagger. “Tex!” he shouted, and with a one-arm throw, he yeeted Baxter to their LT. Baxter grunted when he landed on Tex’s shoulder, and Dagger grappled with the guy, his combat knife flashing. The hostile went down.

“I didn’t know this was a freaking relay race and I’m the baton,” Baxter called out, and even as the bullets were flying, everyone was laughing.

Tex didn’t break stride. “We’re going for gold, Baxter. Hang on!”

Tex’s grip on Baxter shifted as he adjusted the weight. Baxter grunted, arms swinging limply. “I don’t think I have a choice, Lieutenant,” he said wryly, as if he was having the time of his life.

The hospital doors exploded outward, the team spilling into the humid night, a deep rhythmic thump-thump-thump . Music to a team’s ears. Men burst from everywhere, the true ambush. The Blackhawk came in low and fast, a sleek, black angel cutting through the mist, blades whipping up a furious storm of dirt and shredded leaves. The chopper’s nose gun erupted, gunfire roaring through the night, tracer rounds cutting through the darkness like fireflies from hell, dropping bodies in its wake.

Brawler took point with Beast, clearing the open ground between them and the exfil. The final resistance came hard, panicked fighters desperate to stop them.

They moved through like a hammer, firing as they sprinted, the Black Hawk descending, a bastion in the malevolent green. Twister and Ndhlovu emerged from cover, their medic helping the injured Shadowguard toward the waiting helo in a stumbling sprint.

Gunfire chased them, rounds punching into the dirt. Brawler reached the chopper, lifting Beast in one powerful motion, the dog scrambling up into the cabin. He turned and gave cover fire as one by one Easy, Shark, and Bondo jumped inside. Tex handed off Baxter to Bondo, the big man easily hauling the kid in with minimal effort.

Dagger was next, then Flash, refusing to give up his charge. He grabbed the side of the door, muscles burning and flexing as he one-handed them through into the open bay, sliding to his knees, holding her warm, compact body tightly against him, his back a shield to the imminent threat.

Tex banged the side of the fuselage. “Go, go, go!”

The bird of war lifted, rotors carving through the night, their black angel beating the air like great wings, rising from the battle.

The jungle below turned to black. Flash exhaled hard, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t explain. They had her. They had them all. The chopper accelerated, banking right and heading for those city lights.

The mission was over.

So why the hell didn’t it feel over?

Her. That’s why.

Flash leaned into the Black Hawk’s cold frame, the vibrations deep in his bones, her warmth now tucked between his legs. His jaw was still tight, his arms not ready to let her go. “How are you doing?” he asked, understanding her trauma more than she could know. He’d lived it over and over again. She looked up at him, her golden eyes softer than before, not assessing, not hunting, but truly seeing him. Something quiet, something unspoken passed between them like an arc of electricity.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice steady but low. “For the respect you have shown me… and for the not exactly comfortable ride. You not only set me free but protected me along the way.” Her fingers flicked at the bandoliers crisscrossing his chest, a wry tilt to her lips, but there was something else there, too, not just teasing, not just deflecting, but something warmer, something more. He felt it, deep in his ribs, like an aftershock waiting to hit.

Then she delivered a mad, off-the-scale earthquake. “Don’t despair, my águila estrellada. Valiente Caballero Blanco.”

Flash’s breath caught. Her star-spangled eagle? Her brave white knight?

That punch to his gut had some concrete in it, hitting harder than it should have. He wasn’t a hero. Hell, knights were nothing but tin cans on horses with long poles. But hearing it from her?

It didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like a claim. She handed him his sidearm, her fingers brushing his, deliberate. Her touch, her humor in the face of her recent trauma, her words, were gifts he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Dagger snorted, and Flash shot him a narrowed look. His eyes said, yeah, she’s got your ticket, brother , while Lechuza continued. “My body will heal, but my mind cannot be breached unless I choose it to be so. From one warrior to another, they may try to take all that we are, destroy us from the outside, but they can never take our spirit. That will always remain with us…free, unfettered, and ours.”

Every single teammate in the chopper was riveted to her. His brothers nodded, Shark mouthing SEAL babe again, and Flash fell under this fierce woman’s spell just a little bit more.

“That’s my strong little owl,” Ndhlovu said, his voice weak but filled with affection.

The moment Lechuza saw him, she cried out, raw, broken, relieved, and scrambled out of Flash’s arms.

Flash barely had time to react before she stumbled forward, hobbling on unsteady legs, pushing through the pain like it didn’t exist.

“ O-voo .” Her voice was wrecked, barely a whisper against the thundering rotors, but it was enough.

Ndhlovu’s face, so damn controlled, so disciplined, cracked wide open.

Then she threw herself into his arms.

Ndhlovu caught her, pulled her in tight, his hands cradling the back of her head, whispering something low and urgent against her tangled hair that sounded like as one at the tail end. She clung to him, her fingers gripping him like a lifeline, shoulders shaking.

Flash turned away, giving them the moment they deserved. Exhaling, he ran a hand down his face before muttering to no one in particular, “We should’ve gotten here sooner.”

Dagger looked at Baxter. “You good?”

Baxter wheezed out a chuckle. “Oh yeah. Fucking fantastic.”

Because he needed the levity to distract him from all the heavy memories, the adrenaline rush to safety still jangling through him, Flash grinned and said, “Well, you lived. You get to cross that one off the bucket list.”

Baxter snorted. “Think I maybe should’ve gone for the lottery win.” Everyone chuckled as the engines roared, the pilots cutting through the air, the ground a blur as the jungle stretched out below, dark and endless.

Flash let out a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He looked at the woman asleep against the big Shadowguard’s chest. He trembled. One mission ending, another one beginning as his eyes caressed her. They had her. They had all of them. That was the job. But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Not for him, and sure as hell not for Herrera.

Caracas, Venezuela, Outside the Bar, Cruz Del Destino

The city hummed with energy, a vibrant mix of chaos and life pulsing through its streets. Neon lights flickered over cracked pavement, casting reflections in puddles left behind by the afternoon rain. Vendors lined the sidewalks, peddling everything from fried plantains to cheap cigars, their voices mixing with the honking of impatient taxis and the muffled bass thumping from nearby clubs. The air smelled of grilled meat, gasoline, and the ever-present tang of humidity.

Dagger scanned their surroundings as he and his brothers moved through the night, his mind never fully at ease. Caracas had a way of keeping a man on edge. Too many alleys, too many blind spots. Even off-duty, his instincts never shut down.

“What’s up with you and our fierce little owl?” Brawler asked. “She’s one of us, that’s for sure. No denying she’s a fighter. Gotta respect that, owls don’t make a sound when they hunt, but they never miss their mark.”

"Either you or that canine are putting on some pounds," Flash jabbed, completely ignoring Brawler’s question and comments as they neared the bar. The name snagged him, but he couldn’t figure out why. Ever since the chopper had touched down and the two Shadowguard and Baxter had been whisked off in ambulances, Dagger was experiencing nothing but a cold knot of rage, and it wasn’t tied to the mission.

Brawler rolled his eyes. Flash deflected when he didn’t want to deal with his own shit. Damn. Was he doing the same?

Brawler sighed, then let it go. "What? This?" He stuck his backside out with exaggerated flair. "This is a red, white, and blue ass."

That earned a round of laughter. Tex shook his head, while Easy smirked and Shark took the opportunity to slap Brawler’s ass with a sharp whack . “That’s a fine, big ass.”

“Maybe Flash has a touch of the little green monster,” Twister suggested, his grin sharp.

Flash scoffed. "Jealous? Of Brawler’s ass?” “Ha, but I see your point, Christian. It does stretch from sea to shining sea.”

Brawler burst out laughing. "At least I have one, bean pole."

The bar loomed ahead, a two-story dive with metal shutters halfway pulled down over the windows. Flickering neon bathed the wet pavement in ghostly light, the glow cutting through the dark like a fork in the road, two paths, two choices, no turning back.

The bass-heavy music inside vibrated through the ground. A mix of locals and foreigners crowded around, their voices rising over the music. Dagger’s gaze flickered over the patrons, assessing. Possible threats? No one obvious. But he didn’t like the look of a few men lingering near the entrance, watching too closely. Herrera’s lookouts? Spies?

They stepped inside, the heavy scent of alcohol, sweat, and fried food hitting instantly. His stomach grumbled. The place was dim, a haze of cigarette smoke clinging to the air like a bad memory. A row of battered tables lined the walls, while a long, scuffed-up bar dominated the far side.

Then he saw her.

Quinn.

What the actual fuck was she doing here? In this city?

His whole body locked down, tension roaring through him at the thought of his nephews losing another parent. His fingers twitched, itching to grab his phone, to book the first goddamn flight out of here for her shapely ass. To get her gone.

To get her safe.

He wanted to drag her outside, shake some sense into her, demand what the hell she thought she was doing here when Elijah and Ezra needed at least one parent who could be there for them. The sheer recklessness of it exploded inside him, a wildfire of rage and something darker, something deeper, clawing at his chest.

Then he took in who she was with.

A man and a woman.

The man was hard, sharp-edged, built like a weapon. Military, maybe former. Not a SEAL. Too much lone-wolf arrogance for that. A Delta a-hole, maybe. The kind of guy who operated alone and liked it that way.

The woman was forgettable, fading into the shadows of Quinn’s blazing, impossible presence.

Then he saw it. The glass in front of her. It stopped his heart cold. It was clear, colorless and damning, sitting within reach. Tequila? His mouth dried. His gut dropped.

No.

No.

It took everything inside him to stay rooted in place, to fight back the primal instinct to close the distance and knock the fucking thing off the table.

Because if she was drinking, if she’d fallen back into that hell?—

That wasn’t just failure. That was blood on his hands. His pulse thundered, his vision narrowing, the rest of the world fading until there was only her.

Her curls, geezus.

They were, in a tight bun, a stunning blend of honeyed gold and deep toffee brown, each ruthlessly imprisoned strand catching the light like burnished copper. The lighter highlights danced around her face, emphasizing the sharp fire in her gaze, while the warm toffee hues wove through the darker strands, adding depth, contrast, and something untamed, fighting for release.

But her features, mercy , they wrecked him.

Her jaw was tight, set in that stubborn way that meant she was holding everything in, fury, pain, a thousand things she’d never say out loud. Those sharp cheekbones were hollowed just enough to show exhaustion, the same kind of bone-deep weariness that ran through him post mission. Her lips, full, lush, but pressed into a thin, rigid line, reminded him of every argument, every fucking fight, every time she’d looked at him like he was the villain in her story. He still couldn’t stop wanting to kiss them, soften them, devour them.

Like he was the reason she had nothing left.

His gut twisted, tight and brutal, and all of it, the rage, the unfulfilled attraction, the exhaustion, the constant goddamn battle, collided inside him. The weight of her distrust, her anger, the way she punished him with every breath, every glare, every cold, bitter word.

The last thing she’d ever said to him. …I want you gone from our life. I never want to see you again. That is what I want, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.

It had gutted him.

Like a blade, twisted deep. Like an explosion at close range.

Standing here now, watching her, watching this woman who was the mother of Brian’s sons, the widow of his brother, the only woman he had ever wanted the way a dying man wanted air?—

That couldn’t be all that goddamned mattered.

Brian wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want his family ripped apart, tangled in bitterness and blame. It sure as hell wasn’t what Elijah and Ezra needed.

But more than that, Quinn deserved better. He wanted that for her.

If she had that drink, if she let that glass touch her lips, then every hard won moment of her fight would be lost.

He’d be the one to blame.

His fault. All his fucking fault.

This was on him to fix.

Maybe, somewhere in the wreckage of it all, he could fix her, too.

Dagger noted how Quinn shivered like someone had just walked over her grave, and her eyes came up, searching the bar for…danger. Those whiskey-colored eyes slammed into him, always an impact and as deadly as a supersonic round. They pierced him, and for a moment she just stared at him.

Like a slow-moving explosion, the fire ignited in her eyes, expanding out until she was engulfed in the kind of anger he still wrestled with, detonating at the apex of her rage, the incredulous shock, the invasion of her privacy, and the quickly hidden fear. She rose, her chair sliding along the scuffed wood floor with a furious scrape. Her chin came up and she moved like a shot from a gun straight to her bullseye…him.

In purposeful strides, she marched up to him, toe-to-toe close, her face contorting as her words tinged with fire rang out. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said succinctly. Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “Are you following me now? Keeping tabs? Waiting for me to screw up so you can swoop in and play the goddamn hero again?”

The accusation hit him harder than a punch. His eyes flicked toward the glass on the table. She followed his gaze, and she growled low in her throat. “It’s club soda, you judgmental jerk.”

Even as her words sunk in and relief washed through him, he still had a niggling doubt. Before he could respond, the man she’d been sitting with stepped up.

“Quinn, is there a problem here?” His voice was smooth, calculated.

Dagger locked eyes with him. Yeah, Asshole. Delta asshole. The Army’s golden boys thought they were a cut above everyone else, but in Dagger’s experience, they were just another version of the same game, one with tighter leashes and bigger egos. Brothers-in-arms, yeah, but no brotherhood. Discipline without adaptability. A scalpel instead of a hammer. Fine for a clean job. Worthless when the plan went to hell.

He stiffened, his shoulders squaring. I really need to punch someone right about now and you have a punchable face. Every one of his teammates shifted imperceptibly, ready to restrain him the moment he moved as if he would dishonor his LT by starting a fight in a bar with a man who had no understanding who SEALs really were.

"Mind your own fucking business," Dagger said, his voice a lethal warning.

The man hesitated. He wasn’t used to being dismissed, especially not by a man who carried himself like a threat. But something in Dagger’s stare made him back off.

“David, please. I can handle this myself,” Quinn said. The DA, Delta Asshole, retreated.

Dagger pulled Quinn aside. His grip firm but not punishing. Then he let loose.

“Following you? Dammit, Quinn, I’m not a stalker.” Fuck if that didn’t hurt. What kind of terrible opinion did she have of him? Responsible for her husband’s death, not fit for her nephews, and now he was a skeevy pervert? “I’m here for work. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Work?” The heat in her voice faltered, replaced by something wary. “ So, we just happened to land in the same place at the same time?” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Of all the bars in Caracas.” She shifted.

“You’re leaving.” His words came out hard. Absolute. Caracas was a goddamn powder keg, ready to blow at any second. Herrera’s insurgents were moving in the shadows. His team was here for a reason. She was not supposed to be here.

Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not staying here, Quinn. It’s not safe.”

“Oh, is that so?” She crossed her arms, the fire in her eyes burning hotter. “What, exactly, do you think you’re going to do about it?”

“I’ll put you on a flight myself.”

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Try it, Dagger. I dare you.”

His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

She wasn’t fucking listening. But when did she?

“You can’t strong-arm me into going anywhere. You’re not my keeper. I have a job here,” she continued. “The US government doesn’t just hand out embassy contracts to anyone, you know.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. Dammit, he could chew glass, and at the same time, he felt justified in all those times he’d chastised a dismissive Brian that Quinn was capable of so much more. So, he couldn’t tell her to leave if this was official State Department business. If that was the case, it was his duty to warn her. Because she had no idea what kind of danger she was in.

“Quinn, Caracas isn’t Virginia Beach. This place is a goddamn war zone just waiting for a spark.” His voice dropped lower. Measured. Dangerous. “You won’t want to be anywhere near the blast radius when it happens.”

She tilted her head, arms still crossed. “You really think that I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“No, that’s not?—”

“I have security.”

Security. His gut tensed.

“David Langford is former Delta, and Aegis Force Solutions, his company, is handling the security detail for the embassy project.”

The name hit him like a punch to the ribs. A private military company, known for using subpar security operators, slapping a price tag on their skills, and selling them to the highest bidder. They were glorified mercenaries, corporate-owned, loyalty bought and paid for.

“Aegis Force Solutions,” Dagger repeated, slow and deliberate. Behind him, the team started murmuring. Quinn’s eyes flicked toward them, then back to him, looking hard-pressed, not just by one SEAL, but by seven more. “So, you’re putting your life in the hands of a bunch of mercs playing rent-a-cop?”

Brawler scoffed. “Yeah, because he’s got such a great track record.”

Shark shook his head. “Langford? He’s a goddamn goatfuck in the making.”

Easy snorted. “Yeah, figures. He’s running his own show?”

Flash let out a low whistle. “ Christ . Hope you got a refund clause, and your life insurance is up-to-date.” Twister pulled a face and nudged Flash, who shrugged.

Quinn’s expression didn’t change, but her crossed arms tightened. A flicker of tension in her jaw. Dagger knew that look. Something had just landed.

But then she lifted her chin. “They’re professionals.”

“They’re mercs,” Dagger shot back. “Langford? He’s not running a goddamn charity, Quinn. He’s running a business. One that only cares about the bottom line.”

Tex finally spoke, voice even, measured. “You know what makes us different, Quinn?” he asked. “When we fight, we fight for something bigger than ourselves. It’s not about money. It’s about the man next to you. About duty.” His blue eyes pinned her. “These guys? They fight for the highest bidder. You really trust them to put their lives on the line for yours?”

She hesitated. Not long. Just a second. A breath. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. Dagger did and it was enough for now.

But just as fast as it came, it was gone. Quinn’s jaw set, her arms uncrossing, and she squared her shoulders. “Yet,” she said coolly, “he’s been hired by the State Department.”

Flash scoffed. “Right, ’cause State’s never made a shit decision before.”

“Yeah?” Dagger pressed. “How many times has the government fucked up picking the right people?”

Quinn’s fingers twitched, her weight shifting ever so slightly, like she was about to step back, but caught herself.

There it was again. A crack in the wall.

But then she squared up again, shaking her head. Writing them off. Writing him off.

“Of course you’d be difficult about this, Dagger,” she said, exasperation creeping in, “but I didn’t think you’d be this arrogant.”

The energy shifted.

Brawler’s laugh was short. Sharp. Dangerous. “You don’t get to say that.”

Quinn’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

Easy sighed, running a hand down his face. “Geezus, Quinn. That’s unfair.”

“Unfair?” Her voice was sharp, but Dagger caught it, just the faintest shake in her hands.

Easy nodded, his usual lightness gone. “Dagger is one of the best men I’ve ever known. When the chips are down, when the lead is flying, he’s the one standing between us and whatever’s coming, a shield at our backs. Every. Single. Time.” His voice was quiet but firm. “So, you don’t get to judge him. Or us. Not after everything.”

Brawler wasn’t so soft about it. “All we’re trying to do is make you aware of the shitstorm you’re walking into. But go ahead. Act like we’re the problem.”

Quinn squared her shoulders. “This isn’t about?—”

“Bullshit,” Brawler snapped. “You’d rather eat shit before taking our advice.” His eyes narrowed. “You blame us. You blame him. For Brian.”

The words landed like a goddamn explosion.

Quinn actually rocked back a step. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Dagger took that one like a fist to the ribs.

Brawler wasn’t done. His voice was raw now, all the anger, all the loss from losing Brian came out. It was clear he was fed up with Quinn’s blame without a single word back. “You think we didn’t die that day, too? A piece of us went with him. For our brother? For Kade? It was way more than a piece.” His jaw flexed, the muscle jumping in his cheek. “I’m not going to swallow my words because you're his widow, and that means something. You’ve suffered. We all know that, but it’s not his fault. It’s not our fault. It’s fucking war. Dagger’s taken your shit for long enough.”

Dagger sucked in a slow breath. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected them to fight for him. He’d spent so long carrying this, so long believing that he deserved every ounce of Quinn’s hate, that it had never occurred to him that his team didn’t see it that way.

Her chest rose and fell too fast. She was trying to hold it together, but he saw it, saw the way her fingers curled like she needed something to anchor herself. Blinking rapidly, her eyes filling, she swallowed hard.

Brawler exhaled sharply, voice lowering but no less brutal. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it. If it wasn’t for those kids?—”

“Brawler.” Tex’s voice sliced through the air.

Brawler clenched his jaw. His fists were tight at his sides, his shoulders rigid. But he didn’t say another word. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Dagger filled the gap. “You go ahead and trust them.” His voice was low, deadly. “Because I don’t. I’ve seen how these private military companies operate. When shit hits the fan? They don’t stay. They survive. At any cost.” He closed his eyes, working to keep his composure over this. “You have my cell number. If you need me…need us, we’re only a request away.”

“That won’t be necessary. You’ll be deployed and out of the picture.”

“We’re right back to that,” he bit out. “Me out of your life.” The hurt seeped in again, adding fuel to the fire, like acid in his veins, the mix pushing away all that wonder at her accomplishment.

Something flickered in her expression. Just for a second. A hesitation. A breath she didn’t take. Then she blinked, her shoulders squaring like she was slamming a door shut. “There’s so much you don’t understand. I wish?—”

His restraint snapped.

“You wish?” His voice was raw, something dangerously close to broken. “You wish, Quinn?” His throat tightened, his voice gruff. “You want to know what I wish?” He leaned forward and her eyes widened, caught in the intensity of his stare. “I wish that you would understand that I could never abandon my nephews," he ground out. "They are all I have left of Brian. How could you even think I would agree to that?"

She inhaled sharply, but he wasn’t done.

“I wish you’d pull your goddamn head out of your ass and see how much I care about you. I wish you knew what it’s like, watching you fight alone, watching you rip yourself apart, knowing I can’t do a goddamn thing to stop it.” He had the overwhelming urge to touch her as if his skin could penetrate hers and she would finally get it. “You think I wanted this? To see you drowning, knowing I can’t be the one to pull you out? I would have moved heaven and earth to save Brian. We all would have died for him. But you…you keep punishing me like losing him wasn’t enough.”

His fists clenched at his sides, his breathing sharp, clipped. Every single patron in the bar was watching now. The weight of their gazes pressed down, murmurs spreading through the crowd.

His assessment had been wrong, a gnawing part of him now knew the truth. She wasn’t something to be fixed. He could fight a thousand battles, tear down every goddamn wall, but at the end of the day, she had to be the architect of her own transformation.

Because if she didn’t change, if she kept pushing him away, if she truly meant what she’d said?—

He would lose.

Kade "Dagger" Hollis didn’t fucking lose.

His pulse slowed. His mind sharpened. The chaos inside him silenced, focused.

Quinn was the enemy in his scope, and a marksman never missed.

“So, fuck you, Quinn. Bring it on. I am always ready for war.”