Page 37 of Beyond Redemption

“We have a state-of-the-art infirmary with two surgeons, four physicians, and a dozen nurses. Two trained combat medics are on deck at all times. More if needed.”

“Evac routes?” she asked.

He smiled then. A real one—thin and sharp. “That will be covered during Orientation,” he said, “but you won’t need it.” He stood. “For what it’s worth, I don’t tolerate bullies. Certainly not criminals. Zero tolerance for anyone who targets children. This group, the Carlisis, have been a thorn in your side for some time now, correct?”

“Accurate,” I said.

“If they come to my gates looking for a fight,” he continued, “they’ll be a faint memory by dawn.”

Liis side-eyed me.

“We’ve been constrained by federal limitations,” I explained.

“I’m not,” he said, final. “Carry on, agents.”

We shook hands again and then followed Tanaka through the building and out into the early morning sunshine.

As we turned to leave, the irony lingered in the air—two federal agents placing their trust, however temporarily, in a man who answered to no flag but his own.

And somehow, for now, it worked.

The guards closed the double doors behind us as Ibarra waited at the base of the stairs. The sun had finally cleared the desert rim, a pale wash of light spreading across the sand and warming the stone beneath our boots. The compound was already awake and moving, the operation running quietly and efficiently. No excess motion, no unnecessary noise, just a machine doing exactly what it was built to do.

Ibarra led us away from the Strategic Command Hall and down a narrower path that curved between low adobe structures. This walkway felt different. Less fortified. More… lived in.

“This isn’t the way to the Longhouse,” Liis said.

“An extra stop was requested,” Ibarra said. She paused in front of a single-story adobe home with rounded edges and a shaded porch. Warm terracotta-colored exterior. Blue ceramic tiles lined the steps. A bougainvillea climbed one corner, stubborn and bright against the rich palette.

Before we took another step, the door opened.

Naomi stood in the doorway, eyes bright, smile wide.

She had striking features—dark lashes, full lips, sharp cheekbones—but her build was pure function. Compact muscle. Strength held close and coiled beneath the surface. Gray eyes that missed very little. Sun-warmed skin that suggested mixed heritage without resolving cleanly into anything specific. Hersun-touched brown hair was cut into a blunt, chin-length bob that framed her face and did nothing to soften it. She was beautiful, but in a way that suggested violence was always an option.

She grinned. “I figured you’d look like the rest of your brothers. Quite the plot twist.”

“He more favors his mother, or so I’ve been told,” Liis said, her shoulders finally relaxing.

Two women were behind her in full fatigues, including hats. One was the guard from the gate, Spenser Marcel, the other, this one much shorter, a tad taller than five feet, a short, strawberry blonde ponytail pulled back tight.

“I hear you’ve met my cousin, Spenser,” Naomi said, gesturing to her. Spenser nodded just as Naomi gestured to the other woman. “This is her sister, Kansas. They were just leaving,” she said, more of a prod than a known plan.

“Nice to meet you both,” I said as they nodded and slipped past.

Naomi perched a hand on her hip and smiled. “Wow. You’re here, huh?” She stopped short of a hug. Instead, she stepped in and punched my shoulder once—not hard or aggressive, just the closest thing to a greeting she offered. She nodded to Liis. “Come in. Ibarra, we’re good.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Ibarra nodded and stepped back, taking up position outside, hands clasped behind her lower back.

The house smelled like coffee and citrus cleaner. Sunlight streamed through small windows set deep into thick adobe walls. The floors were terracotta tile, worn smooth. Exposed wooden beams crossed the ceiling, warm but solid.

Photos lined one wall. Naomi and Zeke at their wedding, her in a simple white dress, him in a slick navy-blue suit, mesas rising behind them like witnesses. Another frame showed them at a shooting range, Naomi mid-laugh, Zeke reloading. A thirdcaught them at a bar somewhere, beers raised, cheeks flushed, both of them leaning into each other as if their connection gave them no choice.

Knowing she was a widow when she met Zeke, I was glad to see she’d created new memories. She’d never forget Matt, but she deserved to start over.

We followed her past the main space and into the kitchen, water rushing and dishes clinking louder with each step.

Zeke stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, drying a plate.