Sarah grunted, pivoting on her heel and throwing a cross that popped loudly against the pad.
“Good!” Ghost praised.
She looked strong. Her bruises were long gone, faded into bad memories. Her posture was different—head up, shoulders back. The glow of freedom had replaced the pallor of fear.
I sat on the porch, knitting a new scarf. The yarn was a soft blue. Sitting next to the yarn ball was the satellite phone.
Richard had accepted a plea deal. Once the military intelligence boys started digging into his “business,” they found enough dirt to bury him for three lifetimes. He was currently in a federal supermax, nursing an arm that would never quite heal right. Beatrice had lost the estate to asset forfeiture. She was living in a motel in Jersey, working at a diner.
Sarah walked up to the porch, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel. She took a sip of water.
“Ghost says I have a mean right hook,” she smiled, breathless.
I sipped my tea. “It runs in the family.”
She sat down on the steps next to me.
“Are you ever going to tell me?” she asked. “About… everything? About what you did in Panama? In Kabul?”
I stopped knitting. I looked at the roses.
“One day,” I promised. “When you’re ready. But for now, know this: You are safe. The unit is watching. And your mother is watching.”
“I know,” she said. She rested her head on my knee.
The Iron General had retired again. The vest was back in the wall. The gun was cleaned and stored.
But the doctrine had changed.
We weren’t hiding anymore.
I looked up. A hawk circled overhead, hunting.
My personal phone buzzed on the table.
I picked it up. It wasn’t a distress call. It wasn’t a mission update.
It was a text from Sarah, who was sitting right in front of me.
Thank you for saving my life.
I looked down at her. She squeezed my hand.
I smiled. I deleted the message history, wiped the cache, and locked the phone.
Just in case.
Old habits die hard.
The End.
