Page 51 of California Wild

By 1300, he was on the tarmac, checking parachutes and loadouts for the HALO drop.

By 1400, they were testing their night vision and finalizing approach angles.

Jesse didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t think about anything except the mission, the plan, the execution.

By the time he looked up, it was already late afternoon.

And then it was somewhere after dinner.

“Alright, final run-through,” Colson said to the guys. They had gathered in the mock kill-house, a replica of the suspected compound layout.

Dry runs for breach points.

Silent movement drills.

Contingency plans for if shit went sideways.

Jesse’s focus never wavered.

Every move was automatic.

Every scenario accounted for.

By the time they finished, the sun was starting to dip, the sky burning orange and violet over the Pacific. Tomorrow, he’d be jumping out of a plane in the dead of night, deep in the jungle, into hostile territory.

But right now? It was just no distractions. No fucking noise.

* * * * *

The drive out of Coronado Base was silent, save for the low rumble of his truck’s engine and the crash of the Pacific against the coastline.

He didn’t turn on music.

Didn’t need it.

His thoughts were already loud enough.

By the time he pulled off the highway and onto the quiet streets of his neighborhood, the contrast hit him like a blade to the ribs.

Beach houses. Palm trees swaying in the breeze. The scent of saltwater and sunscreen still lingering in the air even after sunset.

His apartment sat on the ground floor of a renovated beach house, a prime spot that cost a small fortune—not that money had ever been an issue since making SEAL.

It was nice. Too nice.

It felt like something he had stolen.

Like something that didn’t belong to a kid who grew up the way he did.

Because this?

This wasn’t home.

Home had been shelters.

Home had been women’s refuges in the Florida heat, his mom dragging him and Gunnar through door after door, city after city, starting over and over until there was nowhere else to go.

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