Page 92 of Dozer

I know what it feels like when somebody gives you a story because they don't think you can handle the truth. I know what unanswered questions do when you leave them alone long enough. They don't disappear.

So when investigators finally contact those families, I ask to participate. Not because I need credit. Because I want someone in the room who remembers those names belonged to people before they became case numbers.

Getting to hand those families something real doesn't heal Ryan. But it heals something. Maybe that's enough. Maybe healing isn't about making the old wound disappear. Maybe it's about finally discovering the wound isn't the only thing that gets to remain.

Two days after the museum operation, Hunter comes to see me while Dozer is sleeping off the last of the sedation and IV antibiotics are doing their slow work. He's been upgraded from intensive care to a regular room, which I have decided means I am legally allowed to breathe again. Mostly.

Hunter finds me in the waiting area outside Dozer's room with my laptop open and approximately twelve tabs running because apparently nearly losing the man I've fallen for has not cured me of my inability to sit still.

"You know hospitals generally encourage patients' families to rest."

I look up. "I'm not family."

Hunter gives me a look. I close the laptop halfway. "Fine. Technically debatable. I don’t think he’d agree with you." He sits across from me. "You did something remarkable."

I make a face. "That sounds dangerously like praise."

"Try to survive it."

"No promises."

The corner of his mouth moves. Then he gets serious. "Cole's people had reach into three separate federal agencies. You took the entire network apart with more nerve than most trained operators I've worked with."

"I had help."

"You had a team." His gaze stays on mine. "But the work was yours."

I don't know what to do with that. Praise has always made me slightly uncomfortable. Criticism gives me something to solve. Praise just sits there expecting emotional maturity. Unreasonable. Hunter lets me sit with it anyway.

Then he says, "DOD called this morning."

That gets my attention. "What did they want?"

"You."

I blink. "That's unfortunate."

His mouth twitches. "They want you back. They offered full reinstatement. Better clearance than you had before and an upgraded position."

"Of course they do."

"I even negotiated an official apology for the layoff."

I stare at him. "On letterhead?"

"I didn't ask."

"Missed opportunity."

Hunter leans back. "They're serious."

I know. That's the problem. Two weeks ago, this offer would have been everything. Vindication. Proof that nine years hadn't been disposable after all. Proof that somebody finally realized eliminating my position had been a mistake. I should want it. A part of me does.

Then I look toward the hospital room where a massive, stubborn operator is currently recovering from a bullet wound he got while standing between me and men trying to destroy evidence.

"And you?" I ask. "What's Spartan Elite offering?"

Hunter is quiet for half a second. "Director of Digital Forensics and Intelligence."