Page 89 of California Wild

They were going home.

Home.

If that’s what you could still call it.

The city lights shimmered below them, faint through the misted window. Jesse leaned forward, arms on his knees, hands clasped tight. His knuckles ached from the grip, but he didn’t loosen it.

The wheels slammed against the tarmac like a body hitting concrete. Jesse didn’t flinch. Just sat there, spine straight against the hardback of the C-17 jump seat, unmoving as the shudder rolled through the fuselage. Another landing. Another mission. Another fucking ghost-town welcome.

He unclipped his harness with practiced ease, movements mechanical, then shifted forward with the rest of the team as the ramp creaked and lowered, revealing the night-washed stretch of Naval Base Coronado.

Salt. Jet fuel. California air.

He blinked under the floodlights as his boots hit the ground—solid American soil beneath him for the first time in six weeks.

Home.

Whatever the hell that meant anymore.

The ride back blurred. San Diego outside the Humvee window looked like a different planet. Too clean. Too bright. Too still. Strip malls and gas stations. Palm trees and people walking around like nothing had shifted, like the world hadn’t cracked open while he was gone.

He sat behind the wheel of his truck in silence once the base dropped him off. Just stared out the windshield, hands on the steering wheel. Knuckles tight. Breath shallow.

Six weeks gone.

Six weeks of jungle rot and night sweats. Mosquitoes and silence. Flashbangs and gunfire. Six weeks of countingheartbeats in the dark, of tracking men through the trees like ghosts, of moving like his life depended on it—because it did.

They’d completed the op. Clean. Precise. No team casualties. One of the few picture-perfect extractions they’d had in years. He should’ve felt something.

Pride. Relief.

But all Jesse felt was hollow.

By the time he pulled into his cracked driveway, the sun was long gone. The street was quiet, the air thick with coastal fog. The engine cut, leaving behind a ringing silence.

He just sat there.

The steering wheel under his hands, too familiar. His palms too used to gloves and rifle grips. His chest too used to the weight of a plate carrier.

He finally moved, slowly, every muscle aching in protest. The door creaked open. The ocean breeze hit him—warm, familiar—and did nothing to ground him.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The light flicked on. The house blinked back at him like it didn’t recognize him anymore.

Everything was exactly the same.

And completely wrong.

His jacket still hung on the chair. His guitar leaned against the wall, untouched. The coffee mug in the sink. The smell ofdetergent and wood polish that hadn’t quite faded. All of it frozen in time.

He dropped his ruck just inside the door. The clang of his gear hitting the floor echoed through the silence. Dog tags thumped against his chest.

His lungs tightened.

He walked through the room like it wasn’t his. Like he was breaking into someone else’s life.

Then, instinct took over—movement, action, something to do.

He pulled open a drawer. Grabbed his personal phone. It was still off. Still plugged in where he left it.

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