Page 34 of Legacy's Destiny

She was going to live.

The thought brought a strange blend of gratitude and determination. There was a reason for her presence here. If she were to believe her experience in the afterlife, that reason was Deacon. Or perhaps it was her mind’s desperate effort to make sense of what had transpired. Either way, she’d been granted a second chance, and she wasn’t going to waste it.

CHAPTER 11

Deacon stepped into the larger shelter, shaking the rain from his poncho. The fire's soft glow reflected off the wet ground, casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance with the storm. The rain outside was deafening, a constant roar against the thatched roof, and the air inside the shelter was heavy with the earthy scent of damp wood and mud.

Bandit had just finished patching up Ranger’s leg. The gash on his knee looked raw, and the stitches glimmered faintly in the firelight. It would be sore for weeks, but Ranger didn’t flinch. The kid—no, the man—was tougher than most operatives Deacon had worked with. He’d proven that repeatedly.

Deacon motioned to Bandit. “Let’s go check on Echo.”

Bandit wiped his hands clean on a rag before donning his soaked poncho and following him across the clearing. The rain pounded the jungle, the relentless torrent turning the ground into a mess of sucking mud. Each step was a battle to keep their footing. The sound of rushing water from the flooding below filled the air. The trail between the shelters was barely visible, and vines hung low, dripping water like thin ropes.

They reached the smaller shelter, its walls trembling slightly in the wind. Deacon opened the door and peeked inside. Thefire burned low but steady, casting warm light on Echo, who was huddled in a blanket near the flames. Her pale face was tinged with a flush of warmth, but her exhaustion was still evident. Satisfied she was covered, he let Bandit in and closed the door against the storm.

Deacon turned and trudged back to the larger shelter. Outside, Ranger, Ace, and Rip were securing the perimeter, their movements methodical despite the downpour. Rip was near the tree line, his rifle at the ready as he scanned the dark jungle. Ace was reinforcing a makeshift barricade of fallen branches, his scowl deepening every time the mud sucked at his boots. Despite his injured leg, Ranger stood watch near the edge of the village, his stance firm even as the rain plastered his hair to his head. They worked silently, communicating with hand signals and glances—a team honed by experience and trust.

No one believed they’d been followed, but no one was willing to take the chance either. The jungle was a natural eraser, and the rain obliterated any tracks they might have left. However, it also made visibility nearly impossible, and every rustle of the leaves sounded like a potential threat.

Deacon stepped inside the shelter, shaking water from his poncho as he activated his comm device. “Click, do you have our location?”

“Roger that,” came Click’s familiar voice, steady despite the storm’s interference. “I’ve been listening—it sounded like one hell of a journey.”

“You could say that,” Deacon muttered, glancing at the fire. The heat barely penetrated the dampness in the air. “Do we have anything on an extraction point?”

“We can get a helicopter in low,” Click said, his tone hesitant. “But you’ll have to wait until the water recedes. And, Cap, the worst part of the storm hasn’t hit you yet.”

Deacon ran a hand through his wet hair, letting out a breath. “You mean it gets worse?”

“It just keeps coming, Cap. Speaking of which, your brother has called several times. He wants me to patch him through ASAP. Do you have time?”

“I’ll make time. Set it to confidential.”

“I always do when you talk to him,” Click replied with a faint chuckle. “Hold on. I’ll get him.”

Deacon sat in a small, handmade chair that creaked beneath his weight. He stared into the fire built by one of his team, watching the flames dance and flicker. It was a miracle that the villagers had taken them in. The storm had turned the jungle into a death trap, and without shelter, they would’ve been in serious trouble. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was divine intervention. Who the hell knew?

Ronan’s voice cut his thoughts, sharp and laced with concern. “What the fuck is happening?”

“It’s raining,” Deacon replied with a wry laugh. “And when I say raining, I mean all hell has busted loose. The river’s flooded out of its banks, there’s flash flooding, and it’s a mess here.”

“No kidding. The meteorologists are calling it the storm of the century,” Ronan said. “That phrase gets thrown around a lot, but from what I’m seeing, it might actually be true.”

“We’re not going anywhere soon, are we?” Deacon asked.

“No,” Ronan admitted. “We’ve analyzed every angle of retrieval, and there’s no safe option right now.”

Deacon leaned back, the chair groaning under him. “I think I know how Fleur feels.”

There was a pause. “What are you talking about?” Ronan finally asked.

“About emotions hitting quick and hard—and not knowing if they’ll last.”

“Okay, fill me in, D. What’s going on?”

Deacon sighed, glancing at the door as the rain hammered down outside. “Long story short: I met a woman before this mission. We hooked up, not knowing who we were to each other. Turned out, she’s my principal and a CIA officer. She’s amazing, smart, capable—and today, for a moment, she was dead.”

Ronan’s voice sharpened. “Explain.”

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