an. Content warning, mental health triggers.

.

.

It was a few hours later when Mike let himself into Tom's office. Didn't take a genius to figure out what he was there about. Tom pulled his eyes up from the reports. Status updates from the front lines in Mexico. Peered reticently from the desk, right hand still holding a page upright while he waited. Mike clasped his hands loosely in-front of his body, a deep frown at his brow because he'd been trying to figure this out for hours now. How Tom could have strayed so far as to overlook war crimes of this magnitude, even with Sasha at the center of them. The lack of reaction to Hector's account had been evidence enough for Slattery.

"You knew, and you covered for them." It wasn't an accusation nor a question—rather an opening statement which so readily set the tone for the conversation to come.

Tom blinked once and straightened himself in the chair. Put down that paper and leaned back, resting his weight on the right armrest. "I did."

Mike squinted, a disbelieving smirk that held zero amusement pulling at his lips. He knew Tom owned up to his shit when called out, but this? How blasé he seemed; it colored him wrong.

"They made a mistake," Tom began, his tone a warning, but Mike clearly didn't agree.

"Hell of a mistake. You did hear what Martinez said, right?" The implication clear, though non-verbal. The suggestion that a war was started over one transgression committed by their people. A war that had almost killed Andrea and would take the lives of thousands more before it was done. The weight of it was unbearable in Mike's gut. The difficulty in separating his friendships from his love, and the oaths which he held—his competing loyalties—all creating a battle within his heart.

"Mike—"

"And the President knows about this?" he interrupted skeptically, trying to understand any part of what had transpired. How it had gone down. Why it had gone down.

Tom affixed him with a look. "He knows about Sasha, but not Green—Kara doesn't know, and she doesn't need to find out… He just got his family back, Mike. I wasn't gonna destroy it again—not over this." Placing weight on those words. Lending in part, some color toward his decision not to do what was prudent, and an explanation as to how Green wasn't court-martialed either. "You know he was fried. Burned out. He'd already been on active for three years when the pandemic hit—and he was non-stop since. You know what kind of damage that does," Tom defended.

"And Sasha?" Mike prompted, not buying for one second that Tom's usual 'don't fuck with her' tantrum would have any effect whatsoever on their Commander-In-Chief. Quite the opposite, in fact. Hoped that Tom hadn't justified what they'd done, though, considering his most recent display—maybe his friend really had reached that point.

There was a beat of silence before Tom answered. "I told Reiss if he went after her, I'd go public with my part and tell the press about the opp he denied."

For a moment, though he wasn't sure why that should shock him in hindsight, Mike was blindsided. Astonished that Tom actually had the balls to blackmail the President over this. Coming from the guy who'd broken for failing to hold himself to the 'higher standard' it made little sense.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying they should be in jail, but to bury this completely? You could have worked with Oliver to get them pardoned." Mike said, tilting his head to stress his point. Couldn't believe the three of them had kept this hidden for so long. Years. There was a tense and silent exchange where both Admirals regarded each other, and then both friends. The men behind their uniforms and oaths. The men who'd stuck by each other through the end of the world, and that was the man to whom Tom appealed.

"You don't think I know that?" he was sincere and open when he elaborated, intending to lay it bare. It was past the point of pulling punches or sparing details. "Press would have found out, hounded them night and day, ended their careers, and for what? To pretend it would make a difference. Suddenly, it would all go back to how it was before?" His tone was sarcastic, disillusioned. Tom paused, exhaling heavily through his nose before continuing. "You don't know her like I do, Mike. What you saw after I left was nothing—I let her go on that mission when I knew she wasn't okay, and that is a hundred percent on me. I failed her."

Tom saw some of the tension loosen in Mike's expression, saw that he was at least willing to listen. "This is what you meant when you said she said a breakdown?"

Some of the steely stoicism slipped away from Tom then. "Panama was the symptom; it was everything before that. Her childhood, what happened to her in Asia, her husband, Fletcher—me—and that's just the stuff I know about." His heart hammered against his ribcage. "I had to break her in Charleston just to get her to talk cause she's so scared of trusting someone, and I thought that was rock bottom, but it wasn't even close—we were only back in St. Louis for two weeks before something snapped. She didn't come home one night, and when I finally found her, she said the only reason she didn't go through with it was because she knew it would kill me—so you tell me how I was supposed to turn my back on her," he ground out.

Mike's entire demeanor changed, fell into something deeply empathetic and sad. All manner of righteousness stripped, and he hoped Tom wasn't about to ask him what he'd do, because the parallels were too raw for him to consider, and he also had no answer to that.

"If you need to judge someone, judge me. I know the choice I made, and if you could make a different one then you're a better man," Tom said sincerely. Pausing before he delivered his closing statement to ensure there could be no mistaking his position. "But I won't let you confront her about this. You're my friend, she is my wife, and I'm drawing the line."

Dozens of small puzzle pieces slotted into place. Things that had given Mike pause at the time, but in the chaos of re-building, had remained unsolved. Like how calls or messages would sometimes go weeks without being returned. How she'd gone back on active, yet Burk and Miller had been borrowed over the course of eight months arbitrarily because both she and Danny were 'unavailable' for missions. Grounded, Mike now realized. Why Danny and Kara had separated for close to a year before reconciling. Why Tom had seemed so stressed, something he'd wrongly attributed to dealing with his issues from before.

Mike peered at Tom, processing and then accepting it for what it was. More impossible decisions made in dire circumstances. "Should probably lose that footage," he murmured. Not missing the relief and the level of gratitude that was present in Tom's expression.

Tom called out to him as he left the room, "Mike—"

He turned.

"I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

The tug of Mike's features was regretful, almost a grimace and he closed the door.

Alone once more, Tom audibly exhaled, moving his elbows to the desk and threading his fingers together. Slumped forward until the ridge of his brows steepled against the pad of his thumbs and breathed. Listened with eyes closed to the sounds of the building. The AC working, the dull drone of voices beyond his frosted glass walls—welcomed white noise against the raging tide of his thoughts.

She wasn't surprised that Tom acted as if nothing had happened when he came home. She wrote the playbook for that after all, and Sasha was beginning to see exactly what she'd put him through for all those months before Panama. The constant worry, the gnawing fear, the helplessness, and maybe she realized why she loved missions so much. For the simple fact that she knew what to do. There was always a plan. Measurable expectations and objectives to meet which would result in either a success or a failure. There were only ever two outcomes, and everything was predictable.

Control.

Maybe that's why she gave up on trying to find a solution for the night and focused instead on living. Making the most of the slowly spiraling chaos to take advantage of the simple things like being in the same country. The same house with no kids—which had started on the kitchen counter, then moved to the shower, before reaching the bed where they now lay entwined. Knowing and accepting that they were about to walk to through hell before this was over.

Tuesday, January 22nd , 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

Tom was mid-meeting with the POTUS, Vice CNO, and MCPON when Sasha all but burst into their conference room, docket in hand and cheeks flushed like she'd run from the wing that housed her office. Tom paused mid-sentence and caught her eyes.

"I have them. They're in a safe house, but they're planning to move—I need approval on this opp now." She placed the file on the table and slid it toward Tom, who stopped it effortlessly and flicked it open. Scanning fast. Fought to suppress the roll of his eyes when Reiss essentially snatched it from his hand as if its contents would make sense to him without a thorough and drawn-out explanation. The tick of Tom's jaw was the only reaction he gave. Cast his eyes off distantly while he waited for this dick measuring contest to be done so he could give her the signature required.

Silently, they all exchanged looks. Meylan, Jeter, and Chandler while Sasha grew ever more impatient. "All due respect, Sir—if we don't move tonight, we could lose them for good. They're moving weapons and ordinance out of there by the truckload, and that means I have less than ten hours to make this happen," she implored.

Reiss raised his eyes slowly and scrutinized her, focus narrowing and cheeks hollowing a fraction. He'd been questioning her, no, punishing her exclusively since Panama. Rendering her every move an up-hill battle for the sake of proving a point. It was infuriating, his complete disapproval entirely evident, and it had become clear were it not for Tom, she'd be sitting in a cell right now.

"SWAT?"

"They have tech that's not compromised, remote surveillance—without it we're going in blind. It's not a small compound."

Reiss quirked his brow before turning to Chandler. "And you'll sign off on this?"

Tom answered without hesitation, "Yes."

"But you've barely even read it." The accusation behind that statement clear.

Tom had to stop himself from responding sarcastically with the obvious remark that he couldn't read it, because he'd just taken it, and chose wisely instead. "I trust my team to execute." Knew Reiss was just phishing for another reason to question him on his judgment when it came to her. Petty, in Tom's opinion, because that ship had well and truly sailed—pun intended.

Reiss peered at him for a few more seconds before conceding, handing it back. Tom wordlessly pulled a pen from the table. Pushed it back toward Sasha deftly, and she caught it in the same effortless manner before leaving just as abruptly as she'd arrived.

Pumpkin Hill Creek Preserve, Jacksonville, Florida—2300 Hours

It had started in an aircraft hangar commandeered as a command center. Crates, tech and remote surveillance trucks all set up with receivers and hooked to new comms. Screens resting atop pop-ups with headsets and wires that Ensign Swain worked diligently to connect, secure, and ensure would perform before receiving a crash-course from SWAT's surveillance specialist in operating their drone. He was a bright kid, Sasha thought. Then it was Miller and Burk landing from Key-West, looking more fired up than she'd seen in years. More than happy to be sprung from assisting repairs to join this opp. How they'd swaggered toward the bay, dressed in their all blacks, against the fiery tendrils of sunset like something out of a movie. Miller had called it his Top Gun moment when he'd ripped off his Ray-Ban's and embraced Danny, before fist-bumping Pablo.

And when he sauntered in at twenty-one hundred, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in blue digis towering in all his ridiculous glory, her heart had still fluttered. Just like the first time. Reminded so vividly of Kosovo in those seconds that her smile and his soft smirk were unstoppable.

Sasha loved this.

Her job. The team. Missions. Him.

This is what she did best, and it showed.

They'd briefed, her as Team Lead standing before two pinboards littered with blueprints, and weeks of intel condensed into one perfectly crafted direct action plan—capture or kill, and Reiss had looked on with a strange sort of reverence as he actually witnessed how it all worked. Tom knew it. Saw it in the way her eyes came alive, how her whole being lit up and there was an uncomfortable lurch. It told him he was too selfish because this made her happy and above all else, that's all he'd ever wanted her to be.

"Cobra One in position," Sasha whispered.

"Cobra Two, set," Burk spoke.

"Bravo team, ready," the SWAT leader said.

Tom scanned the uplink one last time, confirming the number of signatures before he gave the order. "Execute."

Each team sprung from their positions toward its intended targets. A collection of buildings nestled deep into the pine and moss filled uplands of the Preserve. Earth spongy and damp under boots as they silently sliced through the night. The only sounds to be heard were that of surrounding nature, fauna rustling in the light breeze, and the tactile friction of combat clothes as they swarmed. Sasha kneeled, Green, Pablo, and Miller following suit. Held up a fist with three fingers.

Two.

One.

Miller pulled the pin, waiting as Danny kicked through the door before throwing the stun grenade into the building. Stillness gone, darkness ripped by the strobing light, their eyes shielded by night-vision helmets. Silence burst into ear-splitting cracks. Yelling. Bodies scurrying out of rooms to return fire and then muzzle flashes galore, like a dancing display of fireflies in the night. The sound of bullets ricocheting and firing like a derelict band. The scene was the same on all screens. Cobra's one, two, and Bravo.

The various yells.

"Down on the ground!"

"Get on your knees!"

Reiss loomed at Tom's shoulder. Eyes affixed as he observed. One elbow crossed and the other at 90 degrees while his fingers grasped over his chin. He'd never been front row before. Sasha moved through the room, clearing and dropping targets with ease. Finesse honed over years. Breathe. Point. Shoot. Better than muscle memory.

"Clear!"

His voice crackled alive in her ear, "Cobra One, you have movement at your six, looks like two bogies heading North toward the trucks on the west-side."

Sasha hit her radio. "Roger that, Team Lead in pursuit." She lifted her head, sweeping the room one more time to confirm they were safe.

"Green, Rambo on me!"

Tom watched as they filed out, Miller staying back to hold the space secure for SWAT. They moved quickly in the open space between the three different buildings until they had a viewpoint. Sasha's gut clenched with adrenaline. Excitement. Anger. Apprehension. She'd found her. Kelsi. America's number one was hauling packs along with three other guys into the bed of a pickup, clearly intending to bail. Quickly Sasha scanned, finding a Jeep that would work for pursuit, older, able to be Hotwired, and she motioned her intent to Danny. He nodded, confirming he would cover, and she moved fast and low. A yell rang out in Spanish.

"Por ahí!"

Bullets flew past, heard Green and Pablo returning fire. Sasha ducked, dropping just in time behind the jeep. Her hand grasped at the handle finding it unlocked and crawled in. Keeping below the glass while the cabin let off loud zinging noises with every bullet that hit. She tore at the steering column, crossed the wires just as she heard the other truck fire up and haul out. The jeep sprung into life. Sasha pulled her rifle off and threw it in the passengers' seat so she could drive. Danny and Pablo both running toward it to jump in.

It was only then that she noticed her helmet was hit, and she was blind, the bullet having screwed with her night vision. She ripped the googles up and out of way. Hauled out of the compound in the direction they'd gone. She cursed, the headlights and billowing dust of the back-trail effectively produced near white-out conditions, made it so she could only see mere feet in front of the car.

Aggressively, she jammed the radio button, "Tom, I need you be my eyes."

He focused zeroing in on the glowing heat sigs on the aerial view screen. Made rapid calculations based on their tracking speed relative to objects, estimating their velocity so he could navigate from the sky.

"Hard left in 50 yards."

Sasha banked left, wheels skidding out of traction until they gripped again and tore at the dirt, spitting it up violently and splattering it across the ground, trees, and car doors in their wake. Pablo and Danny grabbed the handholds to counterbalance against the momentum of the turn. Around 100 yards ahead, Sasha caught the glow of headlights for a brief second before the dust billowed back, obscuring her view again.

"Straight road—gun it."

Reacting easily to his instruction, she slammed her foot down on the gas. Both hands gripped the steering wheel as it wobbled and fought to spin out of control, the four-wheel drive pulling as if into every minuscule fissure in the ground—wanting to follow each channel. Adrenaline rushed in her veins, pumping blood. Alive. High. Addicted.

"Veer right in 50, there's a path through the trees, follow it straight, you'll come to T and be able to cut them off."

Sasha caught the path, just wide enough for the jeep to slip through, dust vanishing as the wheels tracked over muddy pools instead. Panic surged slamming into her heart when the left right tire slipped and skidded, almost getting them bogged in place before it caught traction again. Letting them free.

The rampage continued.

"On your left in 75…" she cut off the headlights, seeing the barest hint of theirs as the Jeep continued its path to intercept.

"50… 25…"

"Hold on!" she warned Pablo and Green, put her foot down again, committing to her somewhat crazy plan. Could see now that she'd just make it in time to catch the bed of their truck so long as she didn't let off the gas. The seconds seemed to stretch, time, and vision working as if in slow motion when the bumper of the Jeep impacted with the right rear of the pickup. Metal crumbled and snarled upon impact. Both vehicles spun wildly out of control, though Sasha managed to keep theirs upright. The pickup swerved violently before rolling, tore a long and deep groove into the dirt, which she briefly caught before being blinded a second later by the ejection of airbags. Pablo and Danny were slammed into the doors but held steadfast until the Jeep lurched to a halt—bursting from the back doors with rifles drawn.

Tom switched from focusing on the aerial view screen to Sasha's body cam, watched as she too left the Jeep, grabbed her weapon from the back, and followed the others. She turned on on her rifle-mounted flashlight. The pickup was laid on its left side flipped clean around to where its underbelly faced them at a 45-degree angle to the road. Its wheels still span, albeit unevenly and precariously wobbled. The axle cracked clean in two. Oil dripped down to the dirt, the exhaust hanging limp and strewn. The wreckage hissed. Dust swirling like smoke where its headlights beamed into the darkened swamplands.

Danny raised his fist, and both Pablo and Sasha crouched low, responding to the silent command, knowing exactly the play. Sasha moved forward, tapped Danny once on the shoulder before taking his spot, and he moved left while she provided cover. Pablo split right. They each exchanged eye contact briefly before Danny gave a sharp nod and they swarmed the cabin. Two of them were out cold, heads bleeding, the others were crawling, stiff, and dazed through the broken windows.

"Hands!" Danny yelled as Sasha and Pablo both stood in line with him.

Kelsi was unsteady on her feet, squinting while she placed them in front of her eyes to shield against the harsh light. Behind her, the sound of crunching glass was heard as her counterpart emerged. Pablo watched as he reached behind him, almost rolled his eyes, but shouted instead. "Be smart!"

The man spit blood into the dirt and whipped the pistol from his pants. "Viva Tavo!"

Pablo dropped him with one bullet through the chest. Kelsi watched his body fall unceremoniously forward. Thud. Blinked while blood dripped down her brow. Sasha adjusted the trajectory of her mounted flashlight down, so it no longer blinded while Danny stepped forward, roughly securing her wrists with zip ties he'd pulled from his vest. Sasha couldn't help the flare of satisfaction when Kelsi winced and tried to jerk out of his grasp.

"Central Command, this is Team Lead—we have her. We have Kelsi," she spoke while staring at her with a cold, hardened look. Struggling to keep the retribution in her tone professional. To stamp down on the voice that wanted to yell about poetic justice. The same one that wanted to scream 'I told you so' to the world.

Ensign Swain exhaled with excitement. Overcome with adrenaline and stupefied by how surreal it was to be sat in a chair, manning an aerial drone, next to Tom Chandler, in front of the President, while helping them execute the operation that just successfully captured America's most wanted. He could barely contain himself, barely suppress the fist that wanted to punch the air. Instead, Swain caught the knowing grin of MCPON Russel Jeter and basked in the feeling of victory.

Even Meylan, normally cool at all times, couldn't suppress the immense satisfaction from controlling his face. Couldn't dispel the triumph from his gaze, echoing looks with the CNO and MCPON. Felt damn good to issue a direct hit after the shit they'd been subject to in Mayport. To draw actual blood from the enemy, here on US soil.

"Team Lead, this is Central Command—hell of job," Tom replied, smirk evident in his voice. "We'll send someone to pick you up. Compound is secure, teams are gathering intel and rounding up hostiles now." Tom removed the coms headset, exulting in their win, and the mastery with which they'd achieved it. Something made very clear in his body language and the look he gave Reiss as he stood slowly and faced him. There was a moment, subtle and small, but important where Tom felt the shift. The one that was needed to win this war. A shift where Reiss began to appreciate that perhaps this crew's strength in part came from their seemingly blind faith in each other. How they believed without question that they would prevail. Reiss could see it now. He began to understand it, and more than that, he began to respect it. To ponder if the unconventional approach, the over-familiarity, the fact that they were more than a team, but an extended family worked.

Reiss nodded in agreement, his praise genuine this time. "Hell of a job." And though it killed him to admit, there was a distinct thought that Tom Chandler was right when he'd blocked him from court-martialing Sasha Cooper.