But that half-second before the training took over—that was the one that told him the truth about himself. The truth he'd been dodging since she'd walked back into his life at that party.
If that bullet had hit her instead of him, he wouldn't have come back from it.
He'd lost people. Morrison, who'd died covering Blake's mistake. Friends in Syria who went home in boxes. His career, his reputation, the future he'd planned. He'd survived all of it because he was built to survive—compartmentalize, file, move forward.
But Alyssa wasn't something he could file. She never had been. She was the one variable in his life that didn't fit in any box, and two years of trying to force his grief over her absence into one hadn't changed that.
His right arm throbbed with renewed urgency. He flexed his hand on the steering wheel, testing grip strength, and the motion pulled the wound open enough that he felt fresh warmth seep against the gauze. He needed proper treatment within the hour, or the stiffness would spread into his shoulder, and his reaction time would suffer.
He made another turn. They were twelve minutes from the rendezvous point he'd given Grizzly after contacting Garrett about a new ride. Fourteen from the courthouse, where Claire had told him to meet her, assuming she had the room secured by the time they got there.
"You're bleeding again," Alyssa said.
A small dark bloom was spreading through the bandage she'd wrapped. "It's fine."
"It's not fine." She pulled the med kit from behind his seat again and opened it in her lap. Her hands were steady now—the trembling was gone, replaced by the focused competence he'd seen in her when she was working. She carefully peeled back the gauze, examined the wound, and repacked it with a fresh dressing. Her fingers were warm against his skin.
"Tighter this time," he said.
"I will.” She wrapped it firmly, secured it with tape, and sat back. Her eyes lingered on the bandage for a moment before she closed the kit. "How much does it hurt? And don't say it’s 'functional.'"
Despite everything, the corner of his mouth twitched. "On a scale?"
"Sure."
"Four."
"Liar."
"Five."
"Still lying." She set the kit on the floor between her feet. "But I'll take it."
The exchange was so familiar it ached. This was how they'd always been—her calling him on his stoicism, him giving her just enough truth to satisfy her without admitting the full extent of whatever he was dealing with.
She'd done it when he'd come home from deployments with injuries he'd minimized in his emails. She'd done it when his friends died, and he'd told her he was handling it. She'd probably do it until one of them stopped breathing.
He checked the mirror again. Nothing behind them. No tail, no pursuit. The shooter had been positioned for a single opportunity—parking structure, elevated, waiting for a target to enter the kill zone. When Mack reversed out, the shooter lost the angle and didn't reposition. That meant either the shooter wasn't mobile or there wasn't a backup plan for a missed shot.
"Where are we going?" Alyssa asked.
“We’re meeting a teammate first for a vehicle swap. Then we’ll meet with Claire at an arranged, secure place for the debrief."
"Not the field office?"
"No." He let the word carry the weight of everything it implied. The field office was compromised. Someone had known they were coming. Until he understood how, the field office was off-limits.
She was quiet for a moment, processing. "Someone told them we'd be there."
"That's what I'm thinking."
"Who?"
"Don't know yet, but the list of people who knew our arrival time is short."
He saw her absorb that and the implications—if the leak came from inside the FBI or their operational chain, the circle of people they could trust had just gotten very small. She didn't ask the follow-up question, the one about whether Claire was on the list of suspects. He appreciated that. He didn't want to answer it yet.
The sat phone buzzed. He answered.