Page 60 of A Wolf of War
“I think that’s smart,” he said. “But afterwards, Iwas thinking we could get you out of the house for a little while.”
One brow lifted, but she didn’t bother asking where. The only thing she wanted now was the oblivion of sleep. She’d gotten the answers she’d chased so desperately, but—like a dog finally catching a car—she had no idea what to do with them.
28
MILO
Milo stood at the far end of the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding his phone to his ear. The low hum of the fridge was the only sound between his clipped words.
“Status on Poppy?”
“She’s good,” Arlo said. His tone was level, all business. “She’s settled in.”
Milo’s brow ticked, but he didn’t press. “She aware of the situation?”
“She’s got the broad strokes. I’m keeping it need-to-know, per SOP.”
“Copy.” Milo shifted his weight, eyes narrowing on the grain of the wood beneath his hand. “I briefed Willow on McGarvey. She took it about how I expected.”
“Panic?”
“No. More like... Shock. She knows McGarvey’s pack is targeting her for leverage..”
“Good,” Arlo said. The faint rustle on the other end told Milo he was moving—pacing, maybe. “What’s her status?”
“Fragile. I’m giving her downtime. Figure I’ll get her out of the house tonight.”
“Make sure you havecoverage. You know how I feel about you compromising OpSec,” Arlo lectured.
“Roger,” Milo glanced toward the hallway where Willow had disappeared hours ago. “We’ll bring Titan.”
“Roger that,” Arlo responded in kind. “I’ll maintain overwatch.” There was a faint shift in his tone again, something that sounded almost like a smile. “Poppy’s in good hands. Make sure Willow knows that.”
“Keep her there, keep her safe. I’ll call in once we have better intel.”
“Stay frosty, brother.”
“Always.”
The line clicked dead, leaving Milo with the fridge’s hum and the creeping shadow of the night ahead. He slid the phone into his pocket and crossed the kitchen. He cut through the main hall, the afternoon light spilling in from the tall windows, and stepped into the library.
The scent of old paper and leather hung in the air. He moved toward the far wall, eyes skimming the shelves until they found the right book—a thick, worn field manual wedged between two classics. He pulled it halfway out, heard the soft click, and pushed the shelf to the left. The entire bookcase shifted on hidden hinges,revealing a panel inset with a keypad.
He keyed in the sequence from memory. Eight digits, no hesitation. The lock disengaged with a dull clunk, and the panel slid aside to reveal the entrance.
The air inside was cooler, drier. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with matte-black racks, each one holding an arsenal that could outfit a small army. Carbines, sniper rifles, sidearms, all spotless, all maintained to military standard. Rows of magazines sat neatly stacked, each one labeled and organized by caliber. Ammunition crates were stenciled in sharp black lettering, their lids secured with fresh seals.
On the far side, a workbench was spread with field knives, suppressors, optics, and gear pouches, each one laid out with surgical order. A row of tactical vests hung beside them, MOLLE webbing stripped bare, ready to be loaded. Above it all, a wall-mounted map of the city was marked in red grease pencil—two territories, one line bisecting them like a scar.
Milo stepped inside and let the bookcase slide quietly shut behind him. The room’s isolation wrapped around him, muting the rest of the house. Here, there were no burning questions that needed immediate answers. Just gear, preparation, and the quiet hum of thedehumidifier in the corner.
His hand skimmed along the racks until it found the one he wanted—an HK416, Delta’s workhorse. Short-stroke piston system, 5.56 NATO, sixteen-inch barrel. It had been his go-to long before the military contracts started pushing them into every elite unit. Reliable in mud, sand, snow—didn’t matter what you threw at it, it ran clean.
He took it down with the care a man had for a weapon that had never failed him. The weight was perfect, familiar. Muscle memory filled in the blanks, his fingers moving over the charging handle, the forward assist, checking the chamber before locking it back into place.
Marksmanship had been an edge of his back in training—he didn’t just pass, he outperformed by an incredible margin, hitting tight groupings at distances that made instructors double-take. It wasn’t luck. It was hours on the range until the rifle felt like an extension of his body, until every breath, every squeeze of the trigger was calculated. That discipline had carried him through Delta selection, through the grueling months where every man in the selection process was ready to break.
He slid the rifle into a soft case, grabbed a loadedmag from the stack, and zipped it shut. No need to bring a full kit for tonight. He already had his Glock holstered on his hip, out of sight but ready at a short notice. That was more than enough firepower.
