CHAPTER 1
JAKE
Come on, you useless fucking leg.”
I walk into the PT center at the VA hospital and see my buddy Hayden gritting his teeth, sweat beading his forehead. His left leg shakes as he attempts another leg lift, the weight dropping with a metallic clang that echoes through the PT center.
“Need a spot?” I ask, crossing over to where he’s rotated to a new lifting station.
“Hey, Pierce. Yeah. Thanks.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and I notice the tremor that’s gotten worse since last week. His hands shake as he grips the equipment, a side effect from the blast that took out half our unit overseas. The doctors say it might improve with time, but we both know not everything can heal.
I position myself behind him, ready to assist. “Easy does it, Dawson. Control the movement.”
Hayden manages three more reps before I help guide the weight down. We both know he could’ve done at least three times whathe’s done today, before the blast that injured him, but progress is progress. Some days, showing up is victory enough.
“This shit’s getting old, man,” he says, leaning back against the bench. His breathing is heavier than it should be for such a basic exercise, and I can his frustration as he grimaces. “Can’t deny I got lucky. Though I’m not sure if this,” he gestures at his wounded leg, “is lucky or not.”
I settle beside him, favoring my left shoulder as I sit. The shrapnel scar pulls tight when I move wrong, a permanent reminder of our close call in Kandahar. Some nights I still feel the burn of metal tearing through muscle and bone. “We both made it home. That’s what matters.”
“Yeah?” He studies my face with the kind of intensity that made him a good soldier, and that also sees through bullshit excuses. “How are you doing? Really?”
It’s a loaded question between guys like us, and usually gets a standard response about being fine, moving forward, grateful to be alive. All the things people expect to hear. But Hayden’s earned more than that. He pulled me out of a burning Humvee once, and you don’t lie to someone who’s saved your ass in war.
“Ghost Security’s been good,” I tell him, rolling my shoulder to work out the stiffness that never quite goes away. “Feels right, you know? Using the skills in a different way. And the pay is sure as fuck better.”
The work does feel right. It’s not the adrenaline rush of combat, but it’s purpose without the politics and rules of engagement that tie your hands when lives are on the line. Some work is more dangerous, like what we do with Harley and the men onKing Mountain and Silver Pine Ridge, but most of it is pretty mundane compared to what we did as Army Rangers.
His expression shifts, becoming more focused. The same look he used to get when planning an operation. “My little sister, Izzy, is coming to town. I know you two haven’t met, but could you do me a favor and look after her?”
The request catches me completely off guard.When we were deployed, Hayden talked about his sister all the time, but I never met her when we were growing up because their parents got divorced, and he lived with his dad while she lived with their mom over in Raytown. It always seemed like a weird arrangement, but all families have their complicated dynamics.
“Yeah, of course. What’s the situation?”
“Some creep’s been following her around LA. Did you know she’s been singing on TV? Nearly won the grand prize in the competition, and her career has really taken off. I’m so proud of her, but now she’s got some jackass stalking her. She’s coming home for a while and hopes it’ll settle down.” His jaw tightens, and I recognize the helpless anger of a soldier who can’t protect what matters most. “She won’t admit how bad it is, but she called me yesterday, terrified. She’s driving here now and should be here soon. She’s really fucking spooked.”
My protective instinct kicks in immediately. Hayden is family, which means his sister is, too, even though we’ve never met. My mind quickly shifts to threat assessment mode—who, what, when, where, how serious, what resources are needed. “Any details on the guy? Threats? Physical contact?”
“Not sure yet. She’s been pretty closed off about it. She doesn’t know who it is.” He pushes himself up from the bench, testinghis weight on his injured leg. His balance wavers slightly, and I resist the urge to steady him. He needs to do this himself. “I just know my sister, and she doesn’t scare easy. If she’s scared enough to come home...”
“I’ll handle it.” The words come out with conviction. The idea of someone threatening Hayden’s little sister makes my chest tight with anger. Family is everything to guys like us, especially when so much else has been stripped away.
“Thanks, man.” Relief floods his face, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “I hate feeling helpless, you know? Stuck in this fucking chair or hobbling around on crutches while someone’s threatening my family.”
“You’re not helpless,” I tell him firmly. “You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
We finish his session in comfortable silence, moving through the remaining exercises with the kind of determination that defines recovery. Physical therapy isn’t glamorous or exciting, but it’s the daily grind that separates the guys who regain their abilities from the ones who never recover.
My mind keeps circling back to Izzy—what kind of threat she’s facing, and how serious the situation is. Protection details aren’t usually my thing at Ghost Security. I prefer the tactical side, the investigations that require more hunting than standing around looking intimidating.
As we’re packing up, Hayden’s stomach growls loudly enough to echo off the walls.
“Man, I’m starving and the food here is shit,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Could you grab us some burgers? The one with the good fries?”
“Murphy’s?”
“That’s the one. Double bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles. You remember.”
“Course I do.”
