Page 15 of Coming In Hot
It’s worth it.The wind tugs at the sleeves of my jacket.The danger, the uncertainty, the sleepless nights—it’s all worth it.
I can easily picture it—the smell of oil and metal in the air. New leather and fresh paint. The satisfaction of seeing something broken and worn transformed into something powerful again.Like me.
I dream of the day I can call it quits, step out of the cockpit for the last time, and know that every sacrifice I’ve made has led me here.
The sound of a distant helicopter bursts the bubble of my dream, and the moment slips away like desert sand through my fingers. For now, reality calls. But I have a purpose, a dream, and every day I fight for it brings me closer.
I rev the engine, the noise cutting through the silence like a promise. Someday soon, I’ll trade the skies for the garage, and I’ll build something that lasts.
When I return home, I head straight for the spare bedroom I use as an office. I grab the deed to my lot from the file cabinet and slap it on my desk as a visual reminder of everything I’m busting my ass for. Hell, maybe I'll frame it. The drawer sticks as I push it closed. An envelope is caught in the way, and I grab it up, pausing with dread as I read the name scribbled across the front.
Jordan
My stomach tightens before I even open it.
Inside, there’s a collection of things: photos, photocopies of letters, bits of memorabilia, a small glass vial of desert sand. The first photo that falls out is of Jordan, his grin wide, his face covered in dirt and grease, just like the rest of us back then. I swallow hard. It’s like Jax wants me to feel it—feel the consequence of what happened, what I couldn’t stop. There’s a letter too, the same kind Jax has sent me over the years, a reminder of the promises I couldn’t keep, the promises that got Jordan killed.
“You could have saved him, Pharo,”the letter reads, in Jax’s neat, clipped handwriting.“You should have been the leader he needed. He trusted you.”
The guilt gnaws at me, an old wound reopening. Every year, it’s the same thing. He doesn’t even need to say it outright anymore. Just the way he sends these—photos, letters, keepsakes from the past—it's like he's keeping a tally, reminding me of the debt I’ll never pay off. That moment in the desert when everything went wrong, when Jordan—Jax’s best friend—didn’t come home.
I flip through more photos, each one more chilling than the last. It’s the same with every package, each one a heavy boulder chained around my neck. But this time, I can’t keep running from it. I never have been able to. Jax wants me to feel responsible, wants me to carry it with me like an anchor, and every year I do. I should be better than this by now. But some things never get easier.
My gaze flicks over the calendar laid out across my desk. Two weeks until the anniversary of his death. I’ll be getting another letter in the mail soon to add to my collection. I wish I could throw them away and move on, but I wouldn’t dare. If it’s still tormenting Jax, the least I can do is suffer the same fate. I don’t want him to shoulder such a heavy burden alone.
I lay the letters down, my fingers brushing over the print. I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s been years. But the guilt is overwhelming and persistent, settled like Iraqi dust in the corners of my mind. I can almost hear Jax’s voice again, like a ghost in the room, taunting me with the truth I’ve never been able to outrun.
That Jordan’s death was my fault, just like Jax accused.
Technically, it’s not. According to the inquest, it wasn’t. But my conscience and my guilt want to believe Jax. I was his Sergeant. I was in charge.
I am to blame.
But that’s all it is now—ghosts. And I’m tired of them. Tired of carrying the responsibility of what happened out there.One day,I tell myself, clenching my fists around the letters.One day, this will all be in the past.For both me and Jax.
I shove the papers back into the envelope, trying to push the memories away. I don’t need them tonight. I’ve got enough on my shoulders as it is. Replacing the envelope back in the drawer, I touch the deed again, my fingers sliding over my signature. The dream I’ve been holding onto, the reason I keep pushing through each damn day of this dangerous life. No more running.
No more ghosts. Just me, my shop, and whatever I can build from the wreckage.
* * *
The phone rings just as I’m pouring a drink, the amber liquid catching the light and swirling in my glass. I glance at the screen, and my heart drops when I see the name—Greystone Security HQ.
I pick it up with a steady hand, but inside, something tightens, something raw.
“Hello?”
“Pharo.” The voice on the other end is clipped, urgent. “It’s Orson. Arlo’s been hurt. Bad.”
I freeze, the glass in my hand suddenly too heavy. “What happened?” I manage to rasp, my throat tight.
“We don’t have all the details yet, but it’s serious. You need to get back here, now. He’s asking for you. There’s a flight with your name on it tomorrow morning.”
Arlo. Team leader, mentor, the man who got me through some of the hardest hits during the last four years. The man who trusted me to have his back, and I let him down.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, phone pressed to my ear, but when Orson hangs up, I feel like I’ve aged ten years. I move to the liquor cabinet without thinking, pouring myself another shot. It burns down my throat, a familiar sting that does nothing to dull the ache in my chest.
I wasn’t there.
