Page 11

Laughter rippled through the yard. Blitz and Bree were by the folding table debating salsa heat levels.

Buck and Maritza had already claimed the hammock with a plate of elote between them.

D-Day had one hand on Helen’s lower back while they talked in the way honeymooners did.

Professor was building a tower of grilled vegetables for Julia, who looked like she was plotting world peace with a glass of white wine in hand.

Right before everything was ready for serving, the fire crackled low, someone popped a beer. But it was the soft drum of hooves over dry dirt that turned every head.

Zorro didn’t bother looking up from the grill. Just smirked and transferred the steak to a waiting plate. “Bear’s here.”

The kids were already scrambling toward the gate, voices high and eager.

Beyond the backyard fence, a tall Paint horse stepped out of the afternoon sun, its coat a patchwork of black and white, and atop it, easy, effortless, Bear rode like a man who never forgot his roots.

Bear dismounted with his usual grace, calm, slow, like the horse was an extension of him.

Bear gave a soft whistle and Flint trotted in behind him, head high, then, a quiet word to the horse in his native tongue, hand brushing over its flank. He tied the loose lead near the fence post as the kids reached him.

“Did you ride all the way from Sleeping Wind?” Fifi, one of his two horse-crazy nieces shouted, breathless. Zorro knew Bear would be giving every single one of them rides on that beautiful Paint.

Bear just tipped his chin, lips twitching like he might smile.“I did. Maybe after dinner, your dad will let me take you and Cami back for a grooming session.”

Flint barked once like he agreed.

By the time Bear stepped through the side gate, Zorro had already popped the cap on a beer and handed it over.

“You can’t help yourself, can you? Have to outshine their uncle with your horsey ways?”

Bear nodded, then flashed a rare grin. “You have your own horsey ways…like connected to ass.”

“Are you calling me a horse’s ass?”

Bear shrugged, nudged with his chin. “If the horseshoe fits, amigo .”

He laughed, then it abruptly cut off as he turned to find Joker was walking toward him with an envelope.

Zorro saw it before LT even said a word. Something in the way Joker’s shoulders squared, the seriousness that didn’t fit the music or the laughter or the beer sweating in his grasp.

Joker didn’t smile, just handed him the envelope and said quietly, “Thought you should be the first to know. Leite signed it. I submitted it. Pentagon fast-tracked it.”

Zorro took the envelope, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with paper. He didn’t open it right away.

“What’s it for?” Javi asked beside him, voice still light but now edged with curiosity. His father came out of the house, approached, the look on his face making Zorro’s chest tight. Somehow his father always knew what he was up to.

Joker answered, not breaking Zorro’s gaze. “Navy Cross.”

The music didn’t stop. No one gasped. But around the yard, heads turned. Maritza sat up. Julia lowered her wine. Dani’s smile froze. His father clapped him on the shoulder.

Zorro didn’t speak. Just stared down at the envelope, thumb resting against the seal.

“It’s not about medals,” he said finally.

“I know,” Joker replied. “That’s why you earned it.”

Zorro exhaled slowly. Then handed the envelope to his mother without a word.

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.”

But he looked out at his family, his brothers, the laughter and light, and for once, it felt like enough.

Luxom, Philippines, three weeks later

The fan turned lazily above Everly’s bed, stirring humid air thick with exhaustion and unspoken grief.

After six months in the Philippines, Everly Quinn was burned out, and now, in seven days, she was expected to stand before a global audience and deliver a tribute to the man she once called husband.

Her phone lit up. Tiffany D’Alessio.

Of course.

“Caroline Devlin dropped out,” Tiffany said. “Family emergency. You’re our keynote now.”

Everly sat, stunned. “The week I’m already delivering Rob’s tribute?

” The thought of Madeline, Rob’s former assistant and her co-collaborator on the tribute, tightened something in Everly’s chest. Together they’d crafted a carefully polished version of a man whose legacy Everly could no longer carry without shaking.

“You’re the only one who can do it,” Tiffany said gently. “You’ve earned it.”

She gave Tiffany a hollow yes, promising to review the revised agenda. But when the call ended, her thoughts veered sharply, not toward Rob, but toward another man. The one who kept surfacing in dreams, in memories, in heat she couldn’t shake.

Zorro.

Mateo Martinez.

He was impossible. Dangerous wrapped up in healing hands.

A medic who could save a child in a war zone, even as blood soaked his shirt. A warrior who smiled like sin and bore his grief with quiet grace. He’d unsettled her in Niger, challenged her in the Philippines, and now lived under her skin in a place she couldn’t reach, much less deny.

He was both protector and storm. Stillness and fire.

How could those contradictions exist within one man? What kind of soul did it take to carry both death and life so seamlessly inside himself, and remain quietly intact? Could she continue to resist his pull?