Page 34 of Beyond Redemption

We’d transferred Stella to sleep next to Olive, her small body curled. Moving her was risky, but unavoidable. We’d debated it in low voices until logic won over comfort. If she woke, she woke. But with both of her parents leaving the Longhouse, Olive’s bunk was the safest place for her.

Bodhi slept above them; one hairy leg wedged through the railing and hanging off the side. His gold basketball shorts had ridden up enough to expose black boxer briefs patterned with red lipstick prints. I frowned.

Liis followed my line of sight and stifled a laugh. “He’s too much like your brothers,” she whispered. “That’s his only crime in your eyes, which is… ironic.”

I shook my head and repacked my toiletries, shutting down the image of Olive with someone like one of my brothers. They were good men—solid, loyal husbands—but the single versions of them? Of me? That was a different animal. I had to fightthe urge to launch Bodhi over the compound gates and remind myself how we treated the women we loved. If there was one thing I knew about Bodhi, it was that he loved Olive with the same ferocity that was embedded in every Maddox brother.

Liis and I moved through the Longhouse in silence, careful with every step, easing the squeaky door open a fraction at a time. The air outside smelled faintly of dust, old wood, coffee gone cold, and gun oil—in case we’d forgotten we were on the outer rim of a desert militia compound.

“Good morning, agents,” Ibarra said. She stood under a bare bulb caged in wire over the door, the harsh light throwing hard shadows across her face.

“Good morning, Staff Sergeant,” I replied.

We’d expected Ibarra. We hadn’t expected the woman standing next to her in desert fatigues. Corporal, if I had to guess. No visible insignia beyond the basics.

“This is Specialist Gabriella Novak,” Ibarra said quietly but firm. “She’ll be posted at the door while you’re gone.”

Novak was young, maybe mid-twenties. Dark blonde hair pulled back tight into a low bun, freckles across her nose, with a face you’d trust with your dog—or your kid. Her forearms, visible below the fold of her sleeves, told a different story. Thick. Defined. Someone who spent a lot of time under a barbell and didn’t complain about it.

Novak stepped forward, hand out, her expression unexpectedly open and polite.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she offered, her tone genuine.

“Thomas Maddox,” I said, shaking her hand. She had a solid grip. No hesitation.

“Liis Lindy Maddox,” Liis added, wary.

“I have six nieces and nephews that I spend time with often. I have extensive experience negotiating with toddlers, but I won’t enter the Longhouse unless necessary.”

Liis nodded, though still unsure leaving a stranger with our most precious possession.

Ibarra noticed. “Novak was handpicked by Commander Lund, for peace of mind while you’re with the General. I know your daughter’s with the nanny and the boyfriend, but with a compound full of irregulars, we figured you’d feel better with an armed guard—one who’s been known to snap tibias when her male counterparts don’t tap out fast enough.”

“It’s appreciated,” Liis said, and she meant it.

Irregulars wasn’t the term we feds used. We called them cosplayers. Or, when we wanted to be particularly derogatory, Gravy Seals. Easy jokes from a safe distance. But on site, seeing how tight this operation was, how disciplined, I knew I’d never use those words again.

Ibarra turned and started off without ceremony, and we followed, leaving Novak standing at the door of the Longhouse.

“Naomi would only assign the best. I trust her,” I whispered into Liis’s ear.

She threaded her fingers through mine—a rare bid for affection and reassurance—and I squeezed. “They’ll be fine,” she said, more to herself than to me.

“They won’t even notice we’re gone, love,” I said, leaning to peck a quick kiss against her hair as we walked. “I promise.”

Liis squeezed back and then let go, her version of public affection always delivered in quick, controlled moments.

The walk to the main complex took longer than I thought it would. The compound was larger than it appeared from the Longhouse—layered paths, reinforced structures, low-profile buildings arranged with tactical intention rather than aesthetics. Gravel crunched underfoot, each step snapping the quiet as the cold air bit at my lungs, sharp with dust and the faint tang of metal.

Security lighting along the path flicked on automatically as we passed, illuminating insignia carved into stone, flags hanging motionless, cameras mounted discreetly into corners that recorded our every step.

Six minutes in, the sky had begun to thin at the edges. Not light yet. Just less dark. Ibarra gestured to our destination. It rose ahead, angular and concrete. No windows at ground level, reinforced doors. A name etched into steel beside the entrance: Strategic Command Hall.

Two guards offered a wordless greeting at the entrance before pulling the double doors open in a smooth, practiced sweep. The doorway spilled us into warmth, the bite of the desert air falling away as the low crackle of a fire carried from deeper inside. We stepped through an entryway lined with medals and framed photographs, then passed through another doorway where the space opened wide—high ceilings, polished concrete floors broken up by long runners that guided the line of sight inward. Near the center sat a large table draped in a crisp white cloth, an intentional contrast to the room’s harder edges, its place settings arranged with the efficiency of someone who completed the task often.

General Victor Marcel stood beside the table. He was tall, built like someone who treated rank as no excuse to stop training. His salt and pepper hair was worn short, beard trimmed, eyes dark. His Hispanic features had been sharpened by years of sun and grit. He wore his uniform like a second skin, sleeves rolled.

“Agent Maddox. Agent Lindy,” he greeted, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Welcome.”