Page 16 of Heat Force

When they were done, Hawk ruffled Moyo’s hair affectionately before handing him the knife. Lexi’s breath caught in her throat.

The boy just stared, his grin fading into shock. The knife was bright and shiny, and Lexi could see the hesitation in his eyes. This wasn’t just a tool—it was a weapon and a treasure. Something extremely valuable.

Hawk smiled gently and unfolded the blades again, showing Moyo each one as if to say,It’s yours. You can handle this.

Slowly, tentatively, Moyo reached out and took the knife, holding it in his open palm like it was made of gold. His wide eyes darted between Hawk and the knife, disbelief giving way to pure, unfiltered joy.

Then, with a laugh, the boy jumped to his feet and shook Hawk’s hand so enthusiastically that even the stoic engineer cracked a grin. Without a word, Moyo spun around and bolted across the clearing, his laughter trailing behind him.

Lexi leaned back against the window frame, unable to take her eyes off him.

He straightened, brushed the dirt off his knees and watched the boy run off. There was no fanfare, no self-congratulation in his expression—just quiet satisfaction.

For a man so concerned with his company’s reputation, he sure as hell had a way of surprising her. She’d thought she had him all figured out. Arrogant, self-assured, the kind of man who bulldozed his way through life without looking back. But moments like this made her wonder if there was more to him—if maybe he cared more than he let on.

“That wasa nice thing you did today,” Lexi said softly, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation in the lodge.

The group had gathered for Robert’s evening briefing, but Lexi’s attention wasn’t on the discussion. It was on Hawk, who leaned against the wall, a bottle of beer dangling loosely in his hand. He wore the same clothes from earlier, but the day had left its mark on him—his hair was windswept, giving him a rugged, untamed look, and the sun had kissed his skin, deepening it to a light golden brown.

“What do you mean?” His eyes slanted at her as he took a slow sip of his beer. She couldn’t believe he was so at ease here, like the jungle was where he belonged, not some glass-walled office or boardroom halfway across the world.

“The pocketknife,” she said, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “The boy, Moyo.”

“Ah.” His expression softened, and he glanced down at his beer, as though embarrassed she’d noticed. “So that’s his name. I was wondering… Every boy should have a pocketknife. I know I did when I was his age.”

Lexi couldn’t help the image that sprang to mind—Hawk as a kid, scrappy and determined, probably carving sticks or building forts with the same intensity he seemed to bring to everything.

“It was a kind thing to do,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“It was nothing,” he replied with a casual shrug, though she noticed the faint color that crept up his neck. He clearly wasn’t used to being thanked for something so small.

“What’s his story?” he asked, steering the conversation away from himself. “Why isn’t he in school?”

Lexi sighed. “Moyo’s an orphan. His parents died last year in a raid on one of the villages. Patrick bought him here, otherwise he’d most likely have been kidnapped by some rebel group and forced to be a child soldier.”

Hawk’s brow furrowed. “It’s fucking tragic, what happens out here.”

She couldn’t agree more. The situation was beyond tragic—lives uprooted, futures stolen, an entire generation left to fend for itself. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And yet, this was reality here.

“Most of the schools around here have closed because of the conflict. The routes aren’t safe.”

“So he’s living at the sanctuary?” His tone had shifted, quieter now, but laced with that same focused curiosity she’dcome to recognize. He was always trying to piece things together, always searching for the full picture.

“Patrick’s family have taken him in. You know that African saying, it takes a village to raise a child?”

He nodded.

“Nowhere truer than here. He does odd jobs for the sanctuary, helps the carers when they need an extra pair of hands. It gives him a purpose, at least.”

He swirled the beer in his hand, his gaze drifting toward the open windows where the jungle stretched into the night, alive with the hum of crickets and the distant calls of wildlife. “It’s a damn shame,” he muttered.

She studied Hawk for a moment, his profile outlined against the warm glow of the lanterns. He wasn’t just making polite conversation—she could see that much. His questions weren’t for show. He genuinely wanted to understand, and that, more than anything, caught her off guard.

“You know,” she said after a pause, “I wasn’t sure about you when you first showed up.”

He turned to her, one eyebrow arching. “Oh? Should I be worried about where this is going?”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and she shook her head. “I just mean… you seemed so polished. All business and image-focused. I figured you’d come in, get what you needed for your documentary, and leave without looking back.”

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