Epilogue

Quinn jolted awake as a horn blared somewhere nearby and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Fuck, he’d fallen asleep in a taxi.

That wasn’t like him. He usually was too wary, too accustomed to being on high alert even in non-hostile environments. Though, as he scowled out the window at the crowds of drunk people clogging Duval Street, he wasn’t entirely sure Key West could be considered a non-hostile environment.

The last few months had been exhausting. He’d had to oversee the team’s training as Gabe and Audrey both recuperated from the fire and rebuilt their home and the team’s new headquarters. Audrey, stubborn as she was, had insisted on being involved in the planning and design despite Gabe’s futile attempts to convince her to rest. Quinn had watched their heated arguments with a mixture of amusement and exasperation—he secretly admired the passion they had for each other, even if it was often cloaked in a veil of stubbornness.

A group of raucous college kids stumbled by the taxi, their laughter echoing off the vibrant buildings and scraping against Quinn’s nerves. He rubbed his temples, the ache behind his eyes flaring up. The headache was constant since the car accident, but this one had the potential to blossom into a migraine if he didn’t slow down. He needed sleep. Real sleep, not the restless half-awake kind where every little sound jolted him back to consciousness.

Tearing away from the spectacle of the drunk kids trying to pick up women, he rapped his knuckles against the taxi’s partition. “This is good, buddy. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

He paid the fare and stepped out into the humid night air. The scent of sea, alcohol, and fried conch hit him in an addictive combination. Key West was alive; it pulsed with energy and life.

Was that why Seth Harlan chose to hole up here? To remind himself he was alive?

He walked down a quiet side street and stopped in front of a house barricaded behind a high wall shrouded in tropical plants. There was a heavy gate with an intercom system and camera. All of it looked state-of-the-art.

He leaned in, pressed the button on the intercom, and waited. After a minute of silence, Quinn cleared his throat. “Harlan, it’s Travis Quinn. We spoke on the phone.”

A crackle of static was his only response. He stood there for another moment before the gate creaked open. Seth Harlan may be a recluse, but he had efficient security.

As Quinn walked through the gate, he found himself in a beautiful courtyard garden bathed in sunlight. He followed a winding stone path until he saw Seth sitting alone in the shade on a wooden porch. There was a rifle propped beside his seat within easy reach, and he held a bottle of beer loosely in his hand, the condensation dripping steadily onto the wooden boards beneath him.

Quinn froze for an instant as he took in the sight of Seth’s scarred face.

Jesus Christ.

He’d known the man had been brutalized, but seeing the extent of it firsthand was a shock to his system.

Half of Seth’s face was a patchwork of scars, an ugly web that stretched from his hairline to his chin, detailing every harrowing moment he’d endured as a prisoner of war. His hair had grown out haphazardly, scruffy and unkempt. His lone, piercingly blue eye locked onto Quinn—wide, wary, almost fearful. His other eye was glassy and vacant, the result of a crude interrogation technique that had cost him both his sight and his confidence.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” he said finally. His voice was gruff and low, like he wasn’t used to using it.

Quinn eased himself into a chair across from Seth. He hadn’t known the man before the torture, but he’d read so many reports about Seth Harlan that he felt like he did.

Seth had once been an all-American kind of guy with a brilliant smile, a quick mind, and a quicker tongue. He’d made friends fast and easily. He was a bright light, the life of any party, a jokester who could keep spirits high even in the most dire of situations. He was the kind of man who inspired loyalty and camaraderie in his unit.

But the man before him now was a husk of that cheerful, charismatic Marine. He’d endured hell and had come out the other side broken and scarred. The light was gone, replaced with a palpable darkness that seemed to surround Seth like a storm cloud, and there was an air of fragility about him that was heartbreaking.

Quinn swallowed, forcing himself not to stare at those scars. “As I said on the phone, I’m here to offer you a job.”

Seth just grunted, raised his beer to his lips, and stared out across the courtyard to where a fat orange cat lay stretched out in the sun. There was a peacefulness here that Quinn hadn’t expected, considering the drunken revelry on Duval only a few blocks away.

“Don’t get why you want me,” Seth finally said, breaking their silence. “I’m a broken man, Quinn. Not fit for duty.”

“Everybody’s broken in some way.” And Quinn was the most broken of them all, but he didn’t voice that thought. Instead, he motioned toward the rifle propped beside Seth’s chair. “Can you still shoot?”

Seth’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Only need one eye to shoot.”

Quinn nodded, accepting the answer. Seth Harlan was a warrior, and warriors knew how to adapt. They could lose limbs, eyes, and even their sanity, but the instinct to survive was deeply ingrained.

“Then you’re not as unfit as you think.”

Seth looked at him again, his one good eye narrowed. “And what if I don’t want to be part of your team?”

“Then why did you apply?”

Seth remained silent, but he didn’t need to answer. Quinn knew why. It was the same reason he’d pushed Gabe so hard to form HORNET in the first place: The need for a team, a brotherhood. The need to serve a purpose, to fight for something bigger than himself. The need to prove he wasn’t broken.

“You applied because you’re tired of hiding,” Quinn answered for him. “You’re tired of being alone. You want to fight again, and we can help you do that.”

Seth looked away but didn’t respond.

Quinn took it as a good sign that he hadn’t been kicked out yet. He leaned back in his chair and let the silence stretch between them. He didn’t feel the need to fill it with words. If there was one thing he knew, it was that silence often accomplished more than any words could, especially when dealing with men like Seth Harlan.

The orange cat eventually sauntered over, rubbing its body against Seth’s scarred leg. He reached down, his fingers tangling in the fur, but he still didn’t speak, and Quinn didn’t push.

Either Seth would come around or he wouldn’t—it wasn’t Quinn’s place, or anyone else’s for that matter, to force him into a decision that he wasn’t ready for.

“Take your time, Harlan,” Quinn said finally and stood up. He took a card from his wallet and set it on the table between their chairs. “But also consider the opportunity you have here.”

Seth finally looked at him. “What kind of opportunity?”

“To get back what they took from you.”

* * *

Seth watched Travis Quinn walk away, waiting until he heard the front gate clang firmly shut before exhaling in a rush. That was more conversation than he’d had with anyone other than his cat in months.

His eye darted to the card Quinn had left behind on the table. He reached across and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The card was unsurprisingly minimalist—a stark white background, a logo of a hornet, and below that, a phone number.

A pang of something he had not felt in a long time struck him hard—anxiety mixed with fear mixed with... What was that? Hope?

He looked down at his beer, suddenly drained of all its appeal. He set it on the table and rubbed the card between his fingers.

The orange cat mewled softly at him, tilting its head as if in question. The animal had adopted him when he moved in, and they’d become an unlikely duo. Uncle Sam, named for the country Seth felt had abandoned him, was his only source of companionship nowadays.

“I’d have to leave you,” Seth murmured, scratching behind Sam’s ears. The cat butted his hand, purring softly.

The thought of leaving this place—the peace and quiet he had so painstakingly built around himself—was daunting. But even scarier was the prospect of staying here, stewing in his paranoia and nightmares.

He got to his feet slowly, looking around at his little slice of solitude. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. Safe and devoid of any demands or expectations.

But what kind of life was that? A life spent hiding from the world?

His gaze drifted to the rifle still propped up beside his chair. He picked it up, running a hand along its length as he fought the stirrings of anxiety. He missed the action, the adrenaline. The thrill of being a part of something, being useful, saving lives.

Could he still fight?

Was he even capable of being part of a team again?

He stood there for a long time, rifle in one hand, card in the other, his mind churning over the possibilities, the risks, the what-ifs. Every instinct screamed at him to burn the card and forget about HORNET, to return to his solitary existence full of regret and self-loathing. But there was another part of him that clung desperately to the idea of redemption, of reclaiming his life.

It was that small, barely audible voice that spurred him into action. He found his phone under a pile of papers on his dusty desk and dialed the number on the card. It rang only once before being answered.

“Quinn.” The voice was sharp, concise.

Seth cleared his throat, suddenly unsure. “It’s Harlan.”

A pause on the other end. “Did you make up your mind?”

“Yeah, I did,” Seth said, surprising himself with the determined note in his voice. His heart pounded in his chest as he spoke the words that would irrevocably change his life. “I’m in.”

* * *

The HORNET adventure continues with Seth Harlan’s book, Honor Reclaimed!