Page 5 of Override

I zoom in on the rear passenger window just enough to catch a small face curled against the seat.

“Asleep,” I answer. “Looks unharmed.”

The tension in the van eases slightly. That’s another thing about Matt. Kids get to him. Not in a weakness way. In a dangerous one. The kind that makes him quieter. Deadlier.

A muscle jumps once in his jaw before he leans back again. “Let’s finish this clean.”

We do.

Twenty-three minutes later, the girl is wrapped in one of Matt’s jackets in the back of the van while her mother cries so hard she can barely get words out. Wheels looks deeply uncomfortable about the whole thing. Bullet never even comes down from overwatch until the exchange is complete. And me?

I sit exactly where I belong—half turned toward a laptop while rain hammers the roof overhead and encrypted files burn off three different servers at once.

Loose ends.

Always clean your loose ends.

The little girl sniffles softly from the backseat. Matt crouches in front of her, voice low and careful in a way I don’t think any of us learned in the military.

“You’re safe now, sweetheart.”

She nods slowly.

I look away.

Not because the moment bothers me.

Because it feels private.

The screen in front of me flashes green as the final server wipes complete. My fingers tap once against the laptop edge. Twice.

Done.

****

The Banks house smells like garlic, butter, and whatever candle Rachel is currently obsessed with pretending she didn’t spend forty dollars on.

I know this before I even step through the front door because Wheels groans getting out of the driver’s seat beside me and says, “Jesus Christ. Is she making pasta?”

Matt snorts from the back. “You say that every time.”

“Because every time it smells like heaven and emotional stability.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Shut up, Bullet.”

Wheels and Bullet argue quietly behind me about whether garlic bread counts as a meal or a side. Wheels opens the front door without knocking because Rachel stopped pretending years ago that any of us had boundaries.

Warmth hits. Not just heat. Warmth.

Lights under cabinets. Music low somewhere in the kitchen. A dishwasher running. The soft clatter of Rachel moving around beyond the hallway.

Home.

Or at least the closest thing any of us have to it.

“Take your damn shoes off,” Rachel calls before we even fully step inside.