Page 89 of Glass Rose
I grab the radio handset, tuning to our frequency. “This is Hart. Approaching from the south with two civilians. One wounded. Respond.”
Static answers. I try again.
“This is Hart. If you’re there, respond. We need medical assistance upon arrival. Please.”
More static, then?—
“Repeat.” A voice crackles through the speaker, wary but unmistakable. Ethan. Our commander. My best friend.
“This is Hart. Authentication code sierra-tango-three-seven-niner.”
A pause. “Holy shit.” Ethan’s voice loses its professional edge. “Gavin? Is that actually you?”
“In the flesh.” I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “And I need medical standing by. Civilian male, early sixties, gunshot wound to the shoulder, significant blood loss. Do you have someone?”
“We thought you were dead.” Disbelief colors his words. “It’s been almost fifteen months, man.”
“Almost was. Several times.” I glance at Sofia, who observes me through exhausted eyes. “Long story.”
“Could be anyone on that radio,” Ethan says. “Prove you’re Hart.”
“Seriously? Now’s not the time, Ethan.”
“What happened in Bangkok, 2018?”
“Asshole.” Heat crawls up my neck. “My girlfriend’s on board.”
Sofia laughs, a beautiful sound despite her chattering teeth.
Ethan sounds amused, too. “Put her on.”
“She’s half-drowned and freezing,” I snap. “And we don’t have time for this shit. John needs medical now.”
“Alright, alright,” Ethan says. “Get your ass here. We’ve got a surgeon.”
“Copy that.” I hang up the handset, feeling something close to hope for the first time in hours.
They’re alive.
Sofia reaches out from her blanket cocoon, her fingers finding mine on the throttle. “T-Thank you for coming back for me.”
“I’ll always come back for you.” It’s the truth.
After ten minutes, the island comes into view.
Trees climb from jagged shores like sentinels, their silhouettes cutting black shapes against the pale dawn sky. Between them, the compound hunkers exactly as we designed it—three structures positioned for maximum defensive coverage, their outlines broken by strategic foliage placement. Classic counter-surveillance architecture. Solar panels savoring the light, still intact and functioning.
A secure location.
Maybe, just maybe, we can carve out something resembling safety in this new world.
The dock stretches toward us, and my pulse kicks hard against my ribs when I count five figures standing at its edge.
Someone new among the familiars.
Ethan stands at the edge, with close-cropped hair, behind him, Santino’s large frame and Walsh’s compact build. Twowomen flank them—Liv, with her braided blonde hair, and the new addition.
We were seven when I left.
