Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“I’m not brooding.”
“You’re doing that thing with your jaw. The clenchy thing.” He glances over, dark eyes amused, and wiggles his jaw back and forth in an exaggerated manner. Danny Cordero has one of those faces that looks like it’s always on the verge of a joke, round and expressive, with a thin mustache and a mouth that curves easily into a grin. He’s former Army like me, two tours, one in Afghanistan and one in Ukraine, before a blown-out knee sent him stateside. Now, he’s my handler, my driver, my babysitter, and—if I’m being honest—probably the closest thing I have to a friend. “You know that thing’s going to shatter one of these days, right? Like a bomb. Poof. You’ll be picking bone fragments out of your molars. And don’t get started with how your bones don’t break. If anyone can break your own bones, it’s you.”
I give him a dry look. “I’d heal.”
“Yeah, but will the PR team? Can you imagine the headlines? Vanguard Defeated by Own Jaw. America Mourns His Bone Structure.”
I offer him a small smile. “How long until we’re home?”
“Eight minutes. Unless you want me to take the scenic route. Loop around the park, buzz a few tourists, really give them something to put on their socials.”
“Hard pass.”
Danny shrugs, unbothered. This is what I like about him—he never pushes, never treats me like I’m fragile, or dangerous, or a commodity to be managed. Or property. To Danny, I’m just Nate, the guy who doesn’t laugh enough (according to him) and tips too well and once ate an entire meat lovers pizza in under three minutes on a bet.
That was a good night. There aren’t enough of those anymore.
“Hell of a day, though,” Danny says, letting out a low whistle. “I mean, I know it’s all in a day’s work for you, but that shit with the crane? That was something else!” He slaps the dashboard for emphasis.
I grunt. The crane. Right.
A construction crane in Midtown, forty-two stories up, had a cable snap during a routine lift. There were two tons of steel and glass swinging free over Fifth Avenue, three workers trapped in the cab as the whole thing started to tear away from the building. I was across the city when the call came in on my watch, at a fundraiser breakfast where I was supposed to smile and shake hands and pretend I cared about whatever new cause they were pushing this week.
I made it to Midtown in under ninety seconds. Didn’t even bother with the door, just went through the window instead. Julia’s going to have opinions about that—she always has opinions when I deviate from protocol—but in the moment, all I could think about was the math. Forty-two stories. Two tons. Three men. And terminal velocity in approximately eight seconds if the crane broke free completely.
But it didn’t break free.
I didn’t let it.
I caught the cab first. The loss of the workers would’ve been a PR nightmare (Julia would have called it a failure, and damn, can that word really sting when coming from her), but really, I just didn’t want three men to die when they didn’t have to. Which meant I had to hold the whole damn crane steady with one hand while I ripped the cab free with the other. The metal screamed. I could feel it in my teeth, that high-pitched shriek of steel bending more than it ever should. The workers were praying, or crying, or shitting their pants.
I set them down on the roof of the adjacent building, gentle as I could manage, and then I went back for the crane. I lowered it piece by piece to the street while a crowd gathered below, phones out, the whole city watching their hero do his job and making sure every fucking second was recorded for likes on social media. Just in case I fucked up.
Afterward, there were interviews. There are always interviews. I said the right things in the right order—just glad everyone’s safe, that’s what matters, happy to help—while camera flashes strobed and reporters shouted questions and the Global Dynamix media relations team hovered at my elbow, ready to cut things off if I went off-script.
Which is pointless, because I never go off-script.
“Three guys are going home to their families tonight because of you,” Danny says. “That’s not nothing, Nate.”
“It’s the job.”
“A job? It’s more than a job and you know it.” He shakes his head and lets out a sigh of friendly disgust. “You know what I did today? For my job? I sat in a car. I ate a breakfast burrito. I scrolled through my ex-wife’s social media and felt sorry for myself. You caught a crane with your bare hands.”
“It wasn’t my bare hands,” I correct him. “I was wearing gloves.”
Danny barks out a laugh. “Oh, well, excuse me. Gloves. That changes everything.”