Page 62 of Zorro

The door to the stairwell was cracked open. Inside, Migs sat on the landing, back against the wall, fingers pressed to his temples like he was trying to push something out of his skull.

Zorro didn’t speak right away. He didn’t know what to say that would pull the kid out. No fast fix. No magic phrase. Just breath and presence. It didn’t feel like enough.

Didn’t move either.

Just let the silence stretch long enough for Migs to feel it.

Migs looked up, eyes rimmed red but dry.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to…lose it in the room. Didn’t want them to see.”

Zorro stepped through the doorway and lowered himself to sit beside him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

They sat in silence. The air in the stairwell was thick with heat and echoes.

After a long beat, Zorro spoke again. “Still hearing it?”

Migs nodded. “Not always. But sometimes it’s like the crack comes first, and the memory fills in after.”

Zorro leaned back, letting his shoulder hit the wall. “Gunfire’s like that. It doesn’t just echo. It pulls.”

“I thought I was past it,” Migs whispered.

“I know.” Zorro exhaled. “You’re not weak, Migs. You’re injured. If this were a bullet wound, you wouldn’t be sitting here wondering why it still hurts.”

Migs scoffed, but it wasn’t cruel. Just exhausted. “Yeah, but at least with a bullet wound, you can show someone the scar.”

Zorro turned his head toward him. “You just did.”

They sat with that for a moment.

Then Zorro added, softer, “You’re not alone, hermano. You never were.”

Another breath passed. Migs wiped his face, then nodded once.

Zorro bumped his shoulder lightly.

“Come on. Let’s go pretend we’re normal for a few hours.”

“Normal?” Migs shook his head. “There was nothing normal about two half-naked SEALs playing cowboy and cow in our courtyard. The guys will be talking about this for days.”

Zorro grinned. “Okay, our version of normal.” He rose and shouted. “Hey, Buck. Migs said you looked like a sissy when you were swinging that rope.”

Migs threw back his head and laughed as Buck responded with a yell, “What did you say, kid?”

“We can compare rope burns later.” Zorro shoved Migs into the hall.

The last of the BOPE compound dust clung to Zorro’s boots as he stepped outside the gate, the sun beginning its descent behind the jungle-streaked hills beyond Rio’s sprawl. The air held that thick, wet weight again. Hot pavement. Diesel and citrus trees. Burnt gunpowder still tucked in the seams of his shirt.

They were done for the day, at least on paper.

D-Day walked beside him, unwrapping a protein bar with all the grace of a toddler. Buck trailed behind, muttering about rope burn and revenge with every step. Even Joker had relaxed enough not to bark at traffic.

But Zorro?

He wasn’t laughing anymore. His eyes scanned the street. It started as a flicker. A shape near the alleyway outside the kill house fence. Faint. Wrong somehow. Not BOPE. Not military. Not delivery. Just a man, lean, dark-haired, with the kind of posture that knew how to blend in without actually belonging.

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