Page 31 of Coming In Hot
I glance at the folder again, and I know this isn’t just about vengeance anymore. It’s about knowing when to step back and when to pull the trigger. And right now, I’m standing at that line.
It was once his job to keep me safe. As my commanding officer, Pharo was supposed to watch out for me, prioritize my safety above all else. Even if he ultimately failed Jordan—and God knows that’s a failure I can never forgive him for—he didn’t fail me. He made sure I came back from every mission with my skin intact, my bones unbroken. Alive, with all my limbs still where they should be. And that’s more than I can say for some of my friends.
But now, it's my turn to do the same for him.
Not that he asked for it. Pharo doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’tknowhow to ask for help. Like I said, he’s conceited—clad in arrogance and wrapped up in a false sense of power.King Tut.
I could turn my back. I could wash my hands of this mess, let him figure it out himself. But I can’t. Not now. Not after everything. Someone has to make sure Pharo comes home with all his limbs intact. Even if he never asked for it. Even if he doesn’t know how towantit. Someone has to watch out for him. And right now, that someone is me.
I’ll keep watching, keep waiting, because when it’s all said and done, if anyone’s going to kill, maim, and torture that dumb motherfucker, it’s gonna be me. It’s my right. I’ve fucking earned it.
I’m about to toss a frozen dinner in the microwave—cheap, quick, nothing worth savoring—when there’s a knock at the door. I pause, wondering who could be stopping by? It’s late, and I’ve already had a wellness check-in from Riggs once this week.
The very last person I expected to see is Pharo, casually leaning against the frame, but with that look in his eyes—the one that says he regrets even having to be here.
That makes two of us.
I don’t hide the annoyance in my voice. “What?” My tone is short, as is my patience.
Pharo doesn’t budge, just keeps his eyes on me with that same unreadable expression. “We need to talk.”
“Twice in one week?” I scoff, crossing my arms, irritation bubbling under my skin. “What’d I do to deserve such torture?”
He gives a sharp exhale, but doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh either. Just stands there, like he’s trying to decide if I’m even worth explaining things to. For a second, I almost wonder if he’s just going to turn around and leave, like it’s some kind of joke. But then he steps inside, the door clicking softly behind him.
“I’m leaving town,” he says, his voice low.
I think about the file sitting on my desktop—the one detailing the dangers of his job, the risks he’s constantly running, the enemies he’s made along the way. It’s all in there, pages and pages of intel, of warnings, of everything that could go wrong. Bile pools in my stomach, souring it like a corrosive acid.
I walk away and leave him standing there. If he has more to say, he’ll come inside and say it, or he can take off. I don’t need a heads-up on his whereabouts. The microwave beeps, the shrill sound cutting through the silence of the room. I pull the cardboard tray out, steam rising from the plastic, and grab a fork.
He follows me into the kitchen, his face pinching as he breathes in the scent of my burnt salisbury steak.
“This isn’t much better than an MRE,” he complains, his voice dripping with that same condescending tone he always uses, like he’s too good for anything that doesn’t come with a side of luxury.
I don’t respond right away. Instead, I stab the steak with my fork, the plastic of the tray cracking under the pressure. The food’s dry and overcooked, but it’s the least of my concerns right now.
“You're welcome to leave,” I say, my voice flat as I take another bite, deliberately ignoring him. “You don’t have to stay and suffer through this.”
Pharo doesn't leave, though. He lingers in the doorway, watching me with that unreadable expression on his face. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t care.
Finally, he speaks. “I came to ask you for a favor.”
The look I shoot him is enough to remind him he has no business asking me for anything. I don’t owe him shit. We’re not friends. Hell, I’m not sure what we are anymore, but it sure as hell isn’t a relationship built on favors.
Pharo raises his hands in mock surrender, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to soften the blow. “I know, I know,” he placates, “but this is important.”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to keep digging himself deeper. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a frustrated sigh. A few
loose strands fall from his bun, the golden highlights framing his rugged face. For a second, I almost forget I’m supposed to be pissed at him. Almost.
“I need you to look after my mom while I’m gone,” he says, his voice dropping a little. “This might shock you, but there’s nobody I trust more.”
Shock me? Hell, I’m stupefied. Dumbfounded. My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, and I stare at him like he just asked me to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
“You’reaskingme to look after your mom?” It comes out slower than I intend, like I’m trying to process what’s actually happening here. “The same mom you’ve never mentioned once before in… I don’t know, years? That mom?”
Pharo’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah. That mom.”
