Marcus exhaled, a laugh folded inside the sound. "Barely."
Alex stood nearby, watching it all like he wasn't sure where he belonged in the crush of emotion. Then, Mom turned to him. "Come here."
Alex let out a quiet, shaky breath when she hugged him and leaned in like it broke something open inside.
Our attorney gathered her papers into her briefcase. "Now, you walk out those doors as free men. The press will be rabid, but you're not required to say anything. Also, be aware this isn't entirely over. You will likely receive subpoenas to testify in congressional hearings."
I nodded, but the words sounded distant. My focus was on the warmth of Alex beside me. They had tried to silence us, but it didn't work. We were survivors—witnesses.
For the first time since that night on the beach in Tahiti, I imagined there would be a tomorrow.
Chapter twenty-four
Alex
Inearlytrippedonthecourthouse steps as we emerged into the open air for the first time as pardoned men, not prisoners. The sky hung low and bruised above us. Rain had swept through earlier, leaving behind that particular Northwest scent—evergreen and mineral-rich soil mixed with wet concrete and the metallic tang of ozone.
A crowd pressed against metal barricades. Camera shutters clicked in staccato bursts. Journalists shouted questions that blurred into white noise.
Someone toward the back of the crowd bellowed, "Truth won!" The phrase rippled forward, transforming into a chant that seemed meant for fictional heroes, not us—not this disheveled historian with shaking hands and a perpetually sleep-deprived SWAT officer.
Miles whispered beside me. "We're free."
My nervous system still hadn't received the memo. My shoulders remained hunched forward and braced for impact. My pulse still hammered against my wrists. Freedom was a concept my body didn't yet understand as reality.
Across the plaza, city workers had erected a temporary screen broadcasting the President's address. His face loomed large, words carefully measured as he spoke about constitutional values and government accountability.
"Government must never turn against its citizens without due process," he declared. "The revelations of Project Asphodel represent a profound breach of public trust..."
The words should have felt validating but were heavily steeped in policy-speak. Speechwriters had polished them for public consumption, sanitizing them of the blood and terror we'd lived through. It was far too neat for the messy truth of huddling in a ranger station while drones circled overhead.
Michael stood a few feet away, back straight, despite the exhaustion that had hollowed his cheeks and darkened the skin beneath his eyes. His gaze never settled. I watched as his eyes swept methodically across the crowd, searching for potential threats. His right hand twitched at his side where his service weapon would have been.
When his eyes met mine, I saw the question neither of us could answer: what happens now?
Marcus stepped closer, his voice low. "We should move. Too exposed here."
Michael nodded, tension visible in the cords of his neck. I wanted to tell them we were safe, but the words felt premature, like promises I couldn't guarantee.
The crowd's energy shifted suddenly—a collective intake of breath that made me turn. A man approached from the fringes, moving with deliberate purpose. Raindrops speckled his charcoal coat. He was likely in his mid-thirties with dark hair, long enough to curl slightly at his collar.
He ignored the chaos around him and focused on our small group. The courthouse security tensed as he pushed past the metal barricade, but his controlled and measured demeanor made them hold back.
"You're Michael?" he asked, stopping a few feet from us.
Michael stiffened beside me.
Marcus stepped forward, inserting himself between the stranger and his brother. "Who's asking?"
"Cameron Reeves. Lars was my father."
Lars Reeves, the man Michael fought in Tahiti. The man who hadn't survived. It was a sudden, unexpected collision between the recent past and the present. Michael's heartbeat pulsed visibly in the veins of his neck.
His voice was steady. "We should talk somewhere else."
Cameron shook his head. "I'm not here for conversation and explanations. I know what happened. I've read the files." He reached into his coat pocket. "I'm here because of this."
He withdrew something wrapped in faded blue cloth. The fabric was worn at the edges and frayed from handling. Cameron extended it toward Michael, palm up.
