Luke didn’t move fast. Fast gets you noticed. Instead, he slid his phone into his pocket and kept his voice normal.
“Everything okay?” he asked, like he’d received a joke from a buddy.
The woman—Morgan Vale, if that was her real name—didn’t glance at his pocket. She didn’t need to. She’d seen enough to read danger without theatrics.
“Who texted you?” she asked quietly.
Luke kept his eyes on the bar mirror, using reflections instead of turning his head. “Unknown number,” he said. “But it’s not random.”
Morgan’s gaze drifted casually toward the door. Two men, neither drunk, neither friendly. Clean haircuts. Civilian clothes that screamed “trying not to look tactical.” One scanned the room like he was counting exits. The other stared at Morgan like he’d found something he’d been paid to find.
Morgan’s posture didn’t change, but her voice dropped a half-octave. “They’re not here for you.”
Luke’s jaw tightened. “Then they’re here for you.”
Morgan took a slow breath, as if deciding how much truth to spend. “I left that name buried for a reason,” she said. “Some missions don’t end when you rotate home.”
Luke’s instincts surged. “Eli Reyes—does he know?”
“No,” Morgan replied. “And he shouldn’t. Let him keep his peace.”
Luke wanted to push, but the men were already moving. One stepped deeper into the bar. The other stayed near the door, thumb brushing his phone screen like he was coordinating.
Luke slid off his stool. “Back exit?” he asked.
Morgan shook her head once. “Too obvious.”
She stood smoothly, paid cash for her drink without looking at the bartender, and walked—not rushed, not fearful—toward a hallway that led to restrooms and a side patio. Luke followed a few paces behind, matching her calm.
On the patio, night air hit Luke’s face. The ocean smell mixed with cigarette smoke from the far corner. Morgan paused near a stack of chairs and tilted her head slightly—listening.
Footsteps. Two sets.
“They followed,” Luke murmured.
“I know,” Morgan said.
Luke’s hand hovered near his waistband, not drawing anything—just ready. “Tell me what you need.”
Morgan looked at him for the first time like she was measuring his character, not his rank. “I need you to do nothing stupid,” she said. “And I need you to listen.”
The door creaked. One of the men stepped onto the patio and smiled too wide.
“Evening,” he said. “Morgan, right?”
Morgan didn’t answer.
The man held up his hands in a fake show of peace. “No one wants trouble. We just want a conversation.”
Luke stepped slightly to Morgan’s left, creating a barrier without posturing. “You got the wrong person,” Luke said flatly.
The man’s eyes flicked to Luke’s shoulders, to the way he stood. He adjusted his tone. “Navy,” he guessed. “This isn’t your lane.”
Luke didn’t blink. “It became my lane when you stalked someone out of a bar.”
The second man appeared in the doorway, blocking the exit back inside. Morgan’s voice stayed calm.
“Tell your boss,” she said, “Shadow Six is dead.”
The first man chuckled. “If that were true, we wouldn’t be here.”
Luke felt his chest tighten. “Who’s your boss?”
The man shrugged. “Someone who lost money because of what happened in Fallujah.”
Morgan’s expression barely shifted, but Luke saw the flicker behind her eyes—memory. The kind that had teeth.
“You were never supposed to say Fallujah,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Luke’s mind raced. “This isn’t about Reyes. It’s about what you saw.”
Morgan’s gaze locked on the man. “I saw a betrayal,” she said. “And I carried it out of that city in my head because nobody wanted it written down.”
The man’s smile thinned. “We’re giving you an option. Come with us. Quietly. You’ll get protection. Money. A new identity. Again.”
Morgan’s voice turned icy. “I already paid for a new identity. With blood.”
Morgan’s voice turned icy. “I already paid for a new identity. With blood.”
The patio seemed to contract around them, the air pulling tight like canvas before a storm. Luke felt the shift—not in posture, not in words, but in the temperature of intent. The kind of moment that existed before violence, where choices narrowed into instinct.
The first man exhaled slowly, disappointment touching his face as if Morgan had declined a polite invitation instead of rejecting whatever future they offered.
“Then you’re forcing this,” he said.
Luke moved half a step forward.
“Careful,” he warned.
The second man’s hand drifted toward his jacket, subtle but unmistakable. Morgan didn’t look at him. She was watching the first—leader, negotiator, decision-maker. Her voice dropped to something quiet and lethal.
“You’re standing too close,” she said.
The man smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Old habits,” he replied.
Luke caught it then—the shift of weight, the micro-tension in the man’s shoulder. A draw was coming. Luke moved first.
His forearm slammed into the man’s wrist, driving it off-line as metal flashed. The gun clattered across the concrete. In the same motion Luke pivoted, shoulder driving into the man’s chest, sending him backward into the stack of patio chairs. Plastic exploded in sharp cracks.
The second man lunged from the doorway.
Morgan moved.
Not fast—fast was messy. She stepped inside his reach, one hand catching his elbow, the other striking his throat with surgical precision. The sound was wet and choking. As he folded, she turned him, using his collapsing weight to slam him against the doorframe. His head snapped back against wood with a dull crack. He slid down, stunned but breathing.
Luke pinned the first man face-down, knee between shoulder blades, forearm across neck.
“Done,” Luke barked. “You’re done.”
The man struggled once, then stilled. Training recognized training.
Morgan picked up the dropped pistol, checked the chamber without looking, then ejected the magazine and slid both pieces across the patio into darkness. She crouched near the man Luke held.
“Who sent you?” she asked.
Silence.
Luke increased pressure. The man’s breath rasped.
“Names,” Luke said. “Now.”
The man laughed weakly against concrete. “You think this is two guys and a bar?” he wheezed. “You have no idea how deep this goes.”
Morgan’s eyes didn’t change. “I do,” she said. “That’s why I buried it.”
The man turned his head slightly toward her. “Then you know you can’t outrun it.”
Morgan leaned closer, voice almost gentle. “I’m not running.”
She stood. “We’re leaving,” she told Luke.
Sirens began faint in the distance—someone inside the bar had heard enough.
Luke hauled the man up just long enough to shove him against the patio wall. “Stay down,” he said.
The man smiled through blood. “We’ll see you soon.”
Morgan didn’t respond. She stepped past him, moving toward the alley beyond the patio fence. Luke followed.
