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A/N

Hey readers! If you want to listen to music with Gabby, hit play on above.
Enjoy!

https://youtu.be/pAZIBKY_mCE

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The sun had long since dipped behind the trees, painting the sky in streaks of deep purple and inky blue. A crisp autumn breeze rustled the golden leaves outside, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and hay. 

Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl hooted, adding to the stillness that blanketed the ten-acre property. The land stretched beyond the cabin's fenced perimeter, enclosed by thick woodlands that made the world outside feel distant and secluded. Safe. 

The farm white cabin was a reflection of both their worlds—hers rooted in Texas, his in London.

Built from sturdy wood with a porch and a stairway, the house had a cozy, rustic charm with western influences known into every corner—from the living room couches to the wooden beams stretching across the high ceilings. 

The entrance walls were placed with military medals and a few frame photos of a family portrait and themselves of couple shoots with a few framed records of their favorite artists—Johnny Cash, George Strait, and even some classic rock bands that Simon had a soft spot for.

The kitchen was Gabby's favorite space with dark wood cabinets, black appliances, and a large dark wood dining table where she and Simon often sat on the dining table with coffees before the day began. 

The living room is an open space with a long love seat positioned in the middle. On either side of it, there was a lounge chair on the left side, and a table is placed in front of the love seat. Including a large TV screen placed on the wall above from the fireplace with some decors added to make the living room cozy and inviting. Behind the stairs below are a hallway that has a half bathroom (a toilet and a sink only) and the laundry room.

The kitchen and living room are combined with one space to roam around in one setting, featuring large bay windows on the right side where a piano was placed near and not far from the lounges. And far from the lounge area were the U shape staircase.

Above level at the far left of the hall was the master bedroom then Ivory's bedroom. Beside her bedroom was a Jack and Jill full bath with another bedroom on the other side.

After that in the middle of the hallway was the hall/linen closet. Next to that going down the right side of the hallway was a bedroom with a Jack and Jill full bath and another bedroom. At the end of the right side of the hall was the door to the attic. The attic was split into two rooms, the first one when you opened the stairs door was the playroom. On the dividing wall was a door that led into Gabby's office that was sound proof and always locked when not in use.

With a scent of cinnamon from a candle burning on the kitchen island, blending with the subtle aroma of cedarwood coming from the fireplace in the living room downstairs. Away from the living room and kitchen, there was a door that led down to the basement. One part of it served as a mancave, featuring a small window, two lounging couches, a table, and a TV stand showcasing some of Simon's collections. The other room was a gym spacious enough to fit five people.

Outside, there was a farm white house that holds six horses, goats, some stray cats, rabbits, and chickens that were asleep in the coop near the wooden fence separating from the farm house; The animals were part of their growth to take care and keep while building life together (since Gabby grew up with farm animals as a child growing up).

Upstairs level to Gabby's office, her space that spoke volumes about who she was—a woman shaped by two worlds, two cultures, and a life filled with discipline and fire. It was tucked away in the farthest corner of the house, away from the main living areas, providing her with a retreat, if needed.

The walls were a deep, earthy brown, reminiscent of the warm tones found in traditional haciendas. 

The room's centerpiece was her heavy mahogany desk, its surface covered with neatly stacked intelligence reports, mission logs, and a few scattered sticky notes in her sharp handwriting. A well-worn leather office chair sat behind it, the seat molded perfectly to her frame after years of late nights spent pouring over intelligence. A sleek laptop sat open, screens glowing with classified data as she worked in silence. But it wasn't all business. Her personality bled into every inch of the space.

She still held her rank as Lieutenant Knocks, active-duty Army. Even though she barely went on missions anymore, the military was still in her blood. She had earned her place and couldn't let go of that part of herself. Her role had shifted over the years. She wasn't boots-on-the-ground as much anymore—Ivory had changed that. But she wasn't retired.

Gabby still had a strong pull with the Army, enough to fall in favor, more assets, and get clearance on classified operations when needed. She worked under Laswell now—not as a CIA agent, but as a military mercenary with intelligence connections. It was similar to her time with The Ghosts—unofficial, off-the-books operations when required. The kind of missions where red tape didn't exist. Where she could step in when others couldn't.

She was good at it.

And even though she preferred staying home with Ivory, she wasn't naive. The world didn't stop being dangerous just because she decided to take a step back. That was why she stayed involved. Why did she still keep her ties to the Army strong? Why she worked with Laswell. Because when shit hit the fan, she wanted to be the one to call the shots. Not some desk jockey in Washington.

The back wall was adorned with a carefully curated collection of framed memorabilia—her U.S. Army First Lieutenantinsignia, a shadow box displaying her old unit patches, and a large wooden carving of the Gadsden flag that her youngest brother, Hudson, had gifted her when she graduated from training.

Mixed in between were small nods to her roots: a Virgen de Guadalupe candle sat on one of the shelves, next to a carefully placed shot glass set from Mexico, a memento gift that Colonel Vargas had gifted her during her time in mission at Las Almas two years ago.

Among the many relationships Gabby had built over the years, few held the same weight as the one she had with Alejandro Vargas.

They were comrades—battle-worn, sharp-witted, and bound by trust forged in the fires of conflict. She had fought alongside him in Las Almas, standing shoulder to shoulder in the war against the cartels and hunting Hassan Zyani. Colonel Vargas had saved her life more than once, and she had done the same for him. Their bond wasn't professional; it was personal.

Gabby respected Alejandro—not just as a soldier, but as a man who carried the weight of his people on his shoulders. He wasn't just fighting a war; he was fighting to keep his home from collapsing under corruption and violence. And that was a battle few had the strength to endure. It wasn't out of sentimentality when she decided to sell her home in San Antonio. It was a decision made by purpose. It was because she knew someone needed it more than she did.

Alejandro had never asked for help. Not once. But Gabby saw the struggle and the weight in his eyes when he spoke about his family—Maria and the kids. He fought for them just as much as he fought for his country.

They both knew Las Almas wasn't a place to raise children, not with the cartels running unchecked.

She had made the offer without hesitation.

"The house is yours, Alejandro," she had told him over a quiet call one evening. "Maria and the kids deserve better. I don't need it anymore—I have my home here with Simon. But you could give Isabella and Pedro the kind of life they deserve."

At first, Alejandro had resisted.

He had argued.

He didn't want to take anything from her or be seen as a man who needed charity. But Gabby had convinced him persistently.

"It's what family does for each other," she had said, firm but warm. "This is about your kids. You fought for them. Let me do this for you."

Eventually, he relented, albeit reluctantly. The gratitude in his voice had been something rare. When she handed over the deed, knowing that Maria and the kids would finally have a safe place to live, a place with schools and stability, she felt something settle deep in her chest.

It wasn't just generosity.

It was the right thing to do for your brother-in-arms.

When Alejandro's family had moved from Las Almas six months ago, and while Alejandro still split his time between Las Almas and Texas, Maria and the kids flourished. Especially since Maria and the kids will visit Las Almas only in summer and winter to see their father for a year.

Isabella had started dance lessons and taken honor classes to excel since she wanted to work in business. Pedro joined the football team and participated in it. Only to have his dream of becoming a professional football athlete.

Maria finally had a sense of peace she hadn't known in years.

And Gabby had no regrets.

Hanging beside the bookshelf was her knife collection—her pride and joy. Each blade had a story. A handcrafted Bowie knife from Texas, a Mexican cuchillo de campo with an engraved handle, a Russian ballistic knife she acquired during a mission, and her most prized possession—a sleek, combat-grade karambit that Simon had gifted her during their time at Las Almas.

They were displayed in a custom wooden rack, polished and arranged. The bookshelves lining the opposite wall were filled with a small section of music—vinyl records of Los Tigres del Norte, George Strait, Selena Quintanilla, and Johnny Cash nestled between them.

In the corner, a Bluetooth speaker rested on a side table, currently playing by PARKWILD ft. Sadie Rose Van. Its soft, melancholic melody drifts through the room. Music was a constant in her life—whether it was the country tunes of her childhood or the rhythmic cumbias that had her swaying in the kitchen or a time to cope by shutting her mind off and just dancing or working out to release the pent-up energy at some time if she couldn't sleep.

It was the heartbeat of her heritage that kept her tethered to Texas and Mexico.

On the opposite side of the room, near the window that overlooked the pasture, was a smaller table covered in bits and pieces of her hobbies—leatherwork scraps from a belt she was crafting, a few bullet casings she had yet to turn into custom keychains, and an old revolver she was in the process of restoring. Beside it was a hat rack where her Stetsonhung, next to Simon's SAS cap.

Despite the seriousness of her work, there was warmth in the space. With a candle on her desk, the scent of sandalwood and vanilla mixed with a small picture frame sat beside her keyboard, a snapshot of her, Simon, and Ivory on horseback, taken on one of their rides through the open fields.

This office wasn't just where she worked—it was where it reminded her of what she was doing for a living.

The steady tap-tap of her nails before moving her hand to her wireless as she scrolled through files on her laptop, her sharp brown eyes scanning the data like a sniper lining up a shot. She had been at this for over thirty minutes, taking in every scrap of information she could find on Michael Harkin—a name she barely knew until tonight.

A quiet exhale left her lips as she leaned back in her leather chair. John had asked her to look into this man, who told her everything she needed to know.

Gabby had spent years working intelligence. She had seen enough patterns to see when something was wrong—it usually meant this was important. As her fingers moved over the keyboard, cross-referencing law enforcement databases, credit reports, and flagged activity logs.

And the deeper she dug, the clearer the picture became.

Michael Harkin. Age: 28.

Born and raised in East London.

No major criminal record—nothing that would raise suspicion to the untrained eye. But Gabby wasn't looking for the obvious.

She was looking for the patterns. And this bastard had plenty of them. Minor infractions littered his history like breadcrumbs leading to something worse:

Public intoxication. Three times.

Disorderly conduct. Twice.

Resisting arrest. Once

No violent offenses, no major arrests. Yet.

He may have decided to stay under the radar. Until Harkin decided to push boundaries while trying not to get into trouble that couldn't be talked away with a slap on the wrist.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she pulled up more records.

It was all pointing toward one conclusion—Michael Harkin was the type who didn't take no for an answer. When her eyes landed on the next file, she suddenly realized why John had pinged her.

Restraining order filed by: Charlotte Daniels.

Date filed: Seven months ago.

Gabby exhaled sharply through her nose. She pulled up the official documents, scanning through the details. The wording was precise, indicating that Charlie had been actively trying to distance herself from Harkin. The petition mentioned harassment. Repeated, unwanted contact. Messages. Phone calls. Following her home.

Her grip on her wireless mouse tightened.

Charlie had done everything right. She had filed the paperwork. She had gone through the proper channels to keep Harkin away. And yet, here he was. Still lingering from the shadow.

Gabby clicked deeper into his digital trail, tracking his movements through public records and any flagged activity. Checking his last known address. Harkin was still in East London. But his patterns were what stood out. He had been lying low—too low. No recent social media posts. No job applications. No online purchases are tied to his name.

That meant one of two things:

Either he was trying to move on (unlikely) or waiting to make the right move.

Gabby rubbed her fingers over her brow, thinking. Her hand then moved to her necklace, the metal dulled by years of sweat and sand.

Two dog tags rested against her chest: the first bore her own name, rank, and blood type; the second was battered and scuffed, its stamped letters—MARSHALL E.—softened by time. 

Between them, threaded on the same chain, was her wedding ring: a pear-cut ocean-opal haloed in miniature diamonds, the teal stone catching stray lamplight and flaring like sea-fire whenever she moved.

Gabby kept it there whenever missions pulled her into places where rings could snag or shine; close to her heartbeat, between the past she'd lost and the future she refused to. She began playing with the tags and her ring as her mind started going around in circle.

She didn't know Charlie personally—only what she had picked up from passing conversations from Soap through John and the others. But after reading these reports? After seeing what this bastard had put Charlie through?

This wasn't just a breakup gone wrong.

Michael Harkin had expected to still be in Charlie's life. And when that didn't happen? When she tried cutting him off?

He didn't take it well.

Gabby knew this type of man well. She had seen it in her line of work, in the faces of women who had once felt safe only to learn that a man's obsession wasn't love—it was control. 

At least, she had been through with one of her personal connections—during her high school days—she would have to face the boy who wouldn't leave her friend alone. Gabby wasn't going to apologize to a harasser (or an abuser) when she was sent to the office over a fight she initiated in a school hallway.

Hell to the no, Gabby never apologized, and she was suspended for weeks until the boy was expelled next due to the sexual harassment conducted by another girl in school.

Control was a hard thing for men like Harkin to let go of, Gabby thought to herself.

She exhaled sharply, blinking away the irritation tightening in her chest.

This wasn't about her past. But she had sensed it.

The weight of being watched. The sharp edge of paranoia when someone wouldn't let go. And now, Charlie was dealing with it.

She cracked her neck, rolling out the tension in her shoulders before grabbing her phone and quickly typing a message.

Gabby: Found him. Minor charges, but enough to show a pattern. Charlie filed a restraining order against him seven months ago.

The response was quick.

John: Where is he?

She could feel the restrained anger in the words. She knew her Captain, her boss, wasn't a man who wasted time. Always straightforward and on point. If he was asking where Michael Harkin was, it wasn't for idle curiosity. It was because John planned to do something about it.

She texted him back.

Gabby: East London. He's been keeping a low profile, but I don't think he's done with her.

A pause.

Then, another message.

John: Keep tracking him. Keep me posted.

She knew exactly what he meant. And she wasn't going to ask what he planned to do. She'll fully support him, regardless. She knew John had her back, and if anybody threatened Simon or her, she knew John would step in and deal with anyone, either with a fist, his favorite sidearm, or his sharp words.

The soft creak of the office door barely registered in her mind as she scrolled through the last of the records when she felt her husband, Simon, stepping inside. The thud of his giant bare feet met against the wooden floor. He brought a fruit salad he had made for the night's dessert.

"You plan on sleeping with me tonight or just staring at that screen 'til your eyes fall out? Ivory is asleep." His deep and English voice cut through her music. His sharp hazel eyes moved toward her laptop screen.

Gabby smiled and stretched her arms over her head before she pushed the pause button on top of her Bluetooth speaker. "Figured I'd get this done before crawling back to ya."

Simon didn't say anything; just gave her a look before setting the bowl down on the corner of her desk. "Right. Because I haven't heard that before."

She huffed a laugh and reached for the bowl, eyeing the desert—a mix of strawberries, pineapple, melons, and grapes. "You trying to get me on a diet?"

"Something like that," he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His muscles flexed, including his biceps, which displayed the tattoos he often showcased on his knuckles and arms. These tattoos were visible through the short sleeves of his dark t-shirt.

She took a first bite before glancing at his face again. His gaze had shifted back to her laptop screen, where Harkin's information was still pulled up.

"What's this?" Simon asked, tilting his head slightly.

She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and gestured toward the laptop with her fork. "John asked me to look into some guy named Michael Harkin. Ex of Charlie's. Didn't like getting told no, apparently."

His brow furrowed. "Him?"

"Yep." Gabby turned back to the screen, clicking through the files. "Nothing heavy on the surface—few disorderly conduct charges, public intoxication, resisting arrest. Nothing that screams 'serial offender,' but it's the pattern that stands out."

Simon hummed, eyes narrowing. Silent. A way for her to continue.

"Charlie filed a restraining order against him seven months ago—she did everything by the book. But even though he's been lying low, something tells me he's not done with her."

"John knows yet?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Gabby nodded, grabbing her phone and holding up the texts she had sent just minutes ago. "Told him everything. He said he'd deal with it."

Simon smirked dryly, shaking his head before his eyes returned to the laptop screen. Lost in thought, he was silent for a beat before she stab a piece of fruit with her fork.

"You ever seen a Texas tornado hit a chicken coop?" Gabby asked, chewing the fruit pieces before swallowing.

"Can't say I have," Simon said.

"That's what's about to happen to Harkin when John gets his hands on him. That poor man is the damn chicken, and Price is the tornado."

He let out another short laugh. "I swear, you and Price are cut from the same damn cloth."

"Nah," she drawled. "I just know a dead man walkin' when I see one."