Page 22 of Rescuing Aria
“Jenny. Delta-One.” Jenny steps up, shoulders squared, chin tipped up. She doesn’t offer a handshake. “Before we start, let’s establish the hierarchy. Guardian HRS doesn’t promote based on gender or size. We promote based on capability.”
“Wouldn’t have assumed otherwise.” Storm lifts a brow, expression unreadable.
“Good.” Jenny’s smile is a knife’s edge. “Then you won’t mind a quick demonstration.”
“On the mat or here?” Razor doesn’t hesitate, voice cool, assessing.
“Here is fine.” Jenny shrugs off her jacket, flexes her fingers, and rolls her shoulders with unhurried calm. “You first.”
Mac and Blaze don’t say a word. Just step back in sync, boots grinding into the dirt as they form a loose perimeter. I join them, familiar with what’s coming. Jenny doesn’t posture. She doesn’t raise her voice. She demonstrates.
Razor circles, cautious. A quick testing jab.
Jenny slips under it, her movement liquid and economical, then pivots, taking his balance with her. A breath later, she’s behind him, one arm looping his neck, the other sweeping his legs. They hit the ground hard, Razor flat on his back, her forearm pressing across his windpipe, elbow locked.
He doesn’t fight it. Smart.
“Good technique,” Jenny says, and just like that, she’s up again, offering him a hand like nothing happened. He takes it, breath steady but eyes sharper now.
“Storm?” She turns, already resetting.
“Sure,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Why not?”
He doesn’t dance. Just comes straight in—fast, aggressive, low center of gravity. Jenny absorbs the first blow, redirects the second. Storm adjusts mid-strike, trying to power through with brute force.
Doesn’t matter.
She catches his momentum, pivots hard, and drops her weight. He goes airborne, lands with a thud and a grunt, face first in the dirt. She’s on him before he can blink, his arm twisted back in a lock that has Blaze wincing in sympathy.
“Would’ve popped your shoulder if I’d committed,” she says mildly, releasing him.
Storm groans but grins as he rolls onto his back, shaking it off. “Fuck. Okay, yeah. Message received.”
Jenny doesn’t smile. “CJ—our boss, the one who oversees every Guardian HRS team—used to be Delta-One. I took over when he stepped up.”
She lets that settle.
“I earned this position. And I earn it every damn day.”
Razor coughs, rubbing his throat. “Where’d you train?”
“Streets of São Paulo,” she says. No embellishment. No pride, just fact. “Forest and Skye found me there when I was seventeen.”
That silences them both.
“Now,” she adds, voice clipped, “let’s see if you follow orders half as well as you fall down.”
Mac grunts something that might be an expression of approval or indigestion. Hard to tell with him.
“Two-person teams,” Jenny barks. “Mac and I will run tactical opposition. Jon, you take Razor. Blaze, you’ve got Storm. Hostage retrieval scenario. Three potential hostiles, one civilian asset. Asset extraction is primary objective. Clean shots only—we don’t want any friendly fire incidents like last month.” She cuts a glance at Blaze, deadpan.
“Rules of engagement?” Razor falls into step beside me, already adjusting his gear with quiet efficiency.
“Sim-ammunition only. Blue rounds for us,” Jenny says without missing a beat. “Red for you. One hit to center mass or two extremities counts as a casualty. Asset wears a yellow vest—hit them, you fail automatically.”
We break off from the group, boots crunching across the gravel path that winds through the training compound. A gust of dry mountain air carries the scent of dust and cordite, familiar and grounding. Razor moves with the kind of quiet confidence that speaks louder than bravado. No wasted motion. No flash. Just precise, practiced economy.
“SEAL Team Six?” I glance sideways, watching how his shoulders tighten, just for a second. Bingo.
