Sunday, March 17th, 2019—Green Residence, Neptune Beach, Florida

"So much for the weather," Kara said, handing Danny a beer.

It was 57 degrees and raining, in freaking Florida on a day that should have been perfect, sunny, and hovering around the mid to high 70s. The unseasonable cold snap put the kibosh on their last-minute St. Patrick's garden party. Everyone forced to congregate inside instead. At present both Burk brothers, Miller, Pablo, Maddie, Azima, and Wolf, were crammed into their living room. Frankie darting haphazardly between legs, pulling out toys Kara swore she'd tidied, showing them proudly to their guests, and to top it off, the Chandler's were incoming. Intending to socialize before seeing the kids off later that afternoon. While Kara was curious to meet the infamous Justin, the slight matter of where they'd all fit was of paramount concern.

"Maybe if we move the coffee table?" Danny suggested, expression more of a grimace because they really needed a bigger place. Wasn't like they didn't have the money, rather he usually wasn't home this much, nor was everyone in the same town wanting to make the most of a bad hand.

"That could work. Put it in our bedroom for now. I'll text Mike and see if he has some pop-up chairs, pretty sure he still enjoys fishing."

Danny cut her off, tone sharper than intended. "I thought he couldn't make it."

Kara narrowed her eyes and peered at him. "I was gonna go pick 'em up… why, what's going on?"

Jaw clenching, he lamented the lapse and scrambled to find a lie that wouldn't garner more suspicion from his very astute wife. His mouth opened to respond, but Frankie chose that precise moment to misstep, wobble and then fall, banging his head on said coffee table with a resounding thud.

"Mama!" The wail was loud as it was shrill, and Kara rushed over to get him. In honesty, Danny had never been so thankful for the distraction a five-year-old could provide. Then felt immediately guilty for being glad his kid chose that moment to hurt himself. Danny watched from the kitchen as Kara, who now held a crying Frankie on her hip, inspected the reddened lump on his forehead. She placed a kiss on it, rubbing for good measure. It was nothing to write home about, and the looming possibility of a trip to the ER eased in Danny's mind.

"It's okay baby, we'll get you some ice and everything will be fine," Kara said. Danny took the cue and went to the freezer. Had plenty packs on hand thanks to missions and handed one to her. Kara took it, pressing it to Frankie's head with a reassuring smile as his tears lessened. Danny pinched Frankie's cheek and pulled a funny face at him, which elicited a watery giggle. Her questions about Mike seemingly forgotten, Kara mumbled under her breath to him. "Definitely get rid of the coffee table."

He rose his brows in a way that communicated their dumb luck that no stitches were involved and responded in kind. "Yes, ma'am."

Kara was sitting on their kitchen island next to Sasha, legs dangling free over the edge while she snacked on pretzel bites from the sports bar down the street. Before them, crossed-legged on the floor where the coffee table had been, Miller was currently defending his love for Rhubarb, trying to convince the group the mouse survived. "Because you didn't see him! That little Vermin was badass." It was quite the ruckus, providing enough noise for Kara not to be overheard.

"Justin's… different to what I imagined."

Sasha bit the inside of her cheek to hide the smile, but ultimately failed. "The hair?"

Kara snorted, and Sasha couldn't help but shake her head. Chuckling under her breath. Ironically, the teen chose that moment to whip the bangs out of his eyes with a flick of his head. It was very dramatic.

"I'm not trying to be mean." Sincerity ringing true in Kara's voice.

Sasha leaned in, her tone and stance letting it be known to keep this between them. "Tom calls him Bieber." Kara stuck her tongue between her teeth and crinkled her nose. The bowl-cut was identical, as was the amount of product. "He tried to make it a house rule to get a haircut before every visit."

Kara's smile widened. Could just imagine how dismayed the Admiral would be about the kids' overall demeanor. "Kind of has that same facial expression… you know, the blank one?"

"Stop!" Sasha laughed, elbowing her, but not enough to hurt. "If it keeps Ash happy, I'll take it." A hint of precedence breaking through.

"Whatever keeps the peace." Kara's response was dry, as it was honest. "I am more than thankful we have a boy." Couldn't imagine dealing with Danny chasing off potential suitors, nor what kind of hazing ritual he might devise to weed them out. In actuality, Kara was surprised by how outwardly accepting the Admiral seemed to be. Especially given Ashley was sitting in Justin's lap in the only available armchair.

"Sam is a lot easier to deal with, I'll give you that—but it's working itself out. Think it's as close to perfect as it's gonna get."

The conversation stalled when Pablo approached. "Don't stop on my account," he said. Rummaging through the cooler behind them to grab some more beers.

"Thought Doc said no alcohol for two weeks while that heals?" Sasha teased.

Pablo's features scrunched up and he scoffed. "Please. This? Barely a scratch." Referring to the stray bullet that missed his Juglar by a hair's width mere minutes after Tavo's men stormed the cellar. The bemused look showed Sasha's disbelief. Team had barely been stateside for twenty-four hours and he was already itching to go back out. "Beer?"

Sasha shook her head. "I'm good thanks." Exhausted still from the whirlwind and lack of sleep over the past two days, alcohol would only exacerbate the issue. And there was still the matter of dropping the kids at the airport and stopping by command to check on Swain's analysis.

Pablo shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Watched as he moved back to join the group with five bottles held by their necks—Sasha thought to comment about the impressive display of dexterity, but Kara spoke first.

"He's been good for Danny." Her smile was soft. "He didn't have anyone left from before."

Sasha turned away from Kara to observe Danny instead, seeing the easy banter between the two friends and noting that he seemed lighter. Despite everything, almost happier than she'd ever seen him. Like he'd found a modicum of peace in the chaos, and she was glad about that.

Tuesday, March 19th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

"El Gallo, does that name mean anything to you?"

"No. And you know my Spanish isn't great."

"The Rooster," Sasha translated on reflex. Flipping the page on the dossier she was preparing.

There came a brief pause while Tom considered it, testing it against intel and various interactions he'd had since the war began. "I got nothing, why?"

"Swain ran a key-log analysis on the laptop, and it looks like Montano was working on something. That name kept coming up…" she trailed off, eyes narrowing and zeroing on something in the reports. "He was hyper-focused on Cuba."

Tom frowned, "Cuba." He sounded skeptical, still bitter over Fuentes' betrayal.

"What if it's not a lost cause like we thought?" Sasha shifted the landline headset and held it with her cheek so she could be hands-free.

In his own office, Tom heard keys hammering, figured she was researching something. Considering the idea, he pulled his own reports from the Marine FOB in Haiti regarding ground activities there. In honesty, he wasn't sure he was following. Sasha, when spit-balling, regularly ran ten-paces ahead of him, and how point A became B often eluded Tom. All he knew was Sasha's conclusions were frequently right, but there was still the matter of their Commander-in-Chief.

"You're gonna need to give me more than that."

"I know, just…" she was clearly distracted, falling into silence as she attempted to formulate words that didn't sound as far-reaching as she feared. "What if El Gallo is an Alias? It doesn't read like a place or an asset, not in the context I'm seeing it. I cross-referenced everything I could find, and all I hit was a character from a musical. El Gallo was a narrator, a pacifist—Burk was adamant Montano didn't go willingly with Gustavo's men. What if he was working on a resistance?"

"You think Montano is El Gallo?"

"Maybe? You're the one that met the guy—you tell me. I watched his Ted-Talk, yes, he's a brilliant strategist, but he's a philosopher by nature—you really think he'd stand by and let his own people be massacred just to take down the U.S.?"

Tom inhaled and leaned back in his chair. "No. I don't."

"Well, neither do I. If he was working on a sequel to Plan Azul, it doesn't make sense to keep the focus on a country you've already taken. Not unless there's something that—"

"You can't afford to lose," he finished for her.

"Cuba could be the key to breaking the stalemate—maybe Montano was building a resistance there, or knew of one—"

"Give me everything you have. I'll push it through." It was enough for him. Her hunch felt right in his gut, but where he'd expected an immediate answer, Sasha hesitated instead. The silence hung almost awkwardly between them, and somehow, he knew exactly what this was about. Dread trailed a steady, insidious path through his psyche until it beat his mind like a land battery.

"I need a few hours." Coward, she called herself. Not ready yet to confront him with reality. She wasn't sitting this out anymore, not when it came to Cuba. If her hunch was right, and she was damn near convinced it was, all that mattered was getting enough boots on the ground. They'd only get one shot and simply put; they couldn't afford to keep two of their best operators benched—high-value enemy targets or not.

Tom could hear the way his blood pressure rose, feel the fist of anxiety upsetting the balance of his stomach, threatening to regurgitate his lunch.

"Sasha…" The words were right there on the tip of his tongue, could hear her measured breaths on the line. Waiting. Perhaps even hoping he'd just come clean and admit how fucked up he was because of Panama. That it wasn't just unpleasant dreams, more likely than not a four-letter acronym that seemed by unspoken agreement taboo for them to discuss. Hell, she'd even take anger, yelling—something—anything over the constant avoidance.

"I wanna help you—"

It left his mouth before he could shut it down. "So, you'll do that by running headfirst into the battlefield—again—only this time our enemy knows who you are—and you think they'll do what if you get captured?"

There he was. Sasha doubled down, refused to escalate, and spoke calmly in response to the scathing remark. "I think those are what-ifs—the same ones you felt didn't matter when you tried to go after Montano yourself. And I think you're forgetting, as far as our enemies concerned, you didn't give in to their demands—"

"Sasha—"

"And I will take myself out before I let them use me as bait again—and I'm sorry that hurts you, Tom. I'm sorry… but this is about winning." Sasha paused. Could practically hear him seething and imagined his features contorted over the directness of her words. She softened before continuing. "We're out-manned and out-gunned, we have to be smarter. That line in Mexico isn't gonna hold forever… and if we lose they'll kill both of us. Sitting here doesn't make me any safer—not in the long run."

Tom closed his eyes and breathed. Her infallible logic rendering him mute, as it so often did. There weren't any moves left in this conversation except one—acceptance. The very thing he refused to give because it meant processing his weakness. Acknowledging and reconciling that he could no more protect her than his kids or any of the people he loved. And mostly, Tom didn't know what his purpose was outside of that. Didn't know how to define winning in blurred lines. Was it really winning if all they did was run from one life or death situation to the next? The way the world was now, after Tavo, it was but a matter of time until the next threat. The next famine, the next war, the next political instability. The next person to label him their enemy and use his family as collateral to control him.

His handset buzzed with another incoming call. Recognized the extension as Meylan's. "I have to take this."

Sasha's jaw tightened in frustration and she blinked at the ceiling a few times. "Okay." Tom said nothing else, and Sasha didn't know how long she listened to the dial-tone before putting the phone back in its cradle. Almost felt like lowering a coffin into the ground, and the sour taste lingered for hours.

When she made it home he was dozed on their couch. Feet hanging off the end because the rental's wasn't as plush nor generous as their one back home. Her footfalls were light, toeing off her shoes so they wouldn't echo on the hardwood. Set her keys on the counter, bypassing the drawer for now because it tended to stick, and forcing it closed was bound to startle. There were leftovers in the fridge, but in truth, she'd lost her appetite. Something Tom would no doubt notice soon if she kept skipping meals. The TV was on, the indistinct murmur of words floating through their deceptively calm house—so still without Ash, Sam, and Justin to liven its walls.

Sam came to mind then, his innocent excitement over the coming fireworks show up in Forest Park. His hope that they'd be able to attend together as a family, just like Ash had wanted the year prior. And when she rounded the corner, seeing that Tom had fallen asleep reviewing files, it only solidified her resolve. This war needed to end. Stalemate no longer acceptable. She loomed over and pried it from Tom's hands where it rested against his chest. Inch by inch, until it was free and then searched for the remote.

Tom stirred, reaching out to grab her wrist. She faltered a little, surprised, before relaxing and letting him guide her down until she was lying half on top of him, and the small space at his side. Beneath her, his chest rose and fell with a deep inhale. His mouth light where it rested against her forehead. His arms curled tightly around her and she closed her eyes in earnest, melting into his embrace.

"Promise me you'll be careful."

She nodded her response because she didn't trust her voice not to waver, and didn't want to admit, nor show, how scared she was.

Monday, April 8th, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida

The buzz of a war room set in motion was a beautiful thing. Not unlike an actual hive, each worker, identical and somewhat interchangeable on their own coming together to form a collective capable of great feats. Most weren't privy to the details, of course, but the consensus was known. Something had been set in motion. Only had to look at the synchronization of repairs between the Michener and James. The movement of key personal into strategic locations. The frequency of joint operation meetings conducted in-person between the Admiral's, CO's, and their intelligence assets.

They were going to strike, and for operators like Danny, it couldn't come soon enough. Officially informed that morning he was no longer benched, back on active with the rest of the team. His arms hung loose where they rested on the railing at his elbows. Surveying the room below from the upper gallery, waiting with anxious energy for the meeting below to wrap. The one that would determine the fate of this war.

"Armando's rebels confirmed the existence of El Gallo. He thinks the Cuban stronghold is based somewhere in Güines"—Sasha, who was leaned against the marble table, used her right hand to point. Reiss shifted forward to get a better look at the map—"Our communications team has been analyzing centers of gravity, and so far, everything we've found checks out." She pulled her hand back and straightened. Looking at Tom for his input.

"Sir, I propose we air-drop a joint task force Navy/Marine Corps team thirteen miles off the Cuban coast when I fly out on Liberty One this Friday."

"Use the diplomatic meet with Jamaica as cover?"

Tom nodded. "We drop our operators along with a weapons cache while I meet the Prime minister in Haiti. Once there, they'll establish contact with the Rebels—the James will sortie thirty nautical miles from shore providing cover support, and as soon as our team gives the green light—we move to take Cuba."

Reiss leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers against his chin as he studied the map. He turned to Sasha. "What kind of numbers are we talking?"

She shrugged somewhat. "Unconfirmed. Could be anywhere from five-hundred to five-thousand."

He balked, barely suppressing the incredulous laugh as he unclasped his hands and placed them palm down on the table. Briefly, he glanced at Chandler, perhaps imagining the tightening of his eyes before refocusing attention on her.

"You think you can throw a country with a dozen operators, and an unknown num—"

"All due respect, Sir. I threw Panama with five."

He arched a brow and the other occupants in the room attempted to hide their bemusement at her blatant shutdown. Meylan tucked his chin somewhat and looked to Slattery, suppressing a smirk. "And who's gonna lead this team?" Reiss pressed.

Sasha's pause was little more than a fraction, but it was enough. "I am."

Reiss immediately shifted to Chandler, who peered intensely, focused on a spot just past his head, refusing to engage nor betray his feelings on the matter. A decision noted with curiosity not only by their Commander-in-Chief but Meylan and Slattery too. In fact, Tom was ignoring every pair of eyes on him, but the heat burned nonetheless.

Slattery unclasped his hands from behind his back. "Sir, if I may—our team's dropping in with a two-ton gift of small arms and light weapons. Whatever their size, I promise you, that militia will be well-outfitted."

Leaning his elbows back on the table, Reiss leveled with them all. "I've had the country running at full tilt for the last three months to put us in a position to take back Mexico, and now you wanna shift focus to Cuba?"

Tom inclined his head, had expected this response. "We need it, Sir. Not just as a buffer against another attack, but as a staging area to launch our own invasion south. Gustavo's preoccupied with shoring up support from his base. Now's the best time for us to make our move and he won't see it coming."

The president mulled over the words. "And this is all based on the intel we got from Montano's laptop? What makes you think we can even trust it?"

Tom let his eyes drift to Sasha, a non-verbal way of telling her he was defaulting. She unfolded her arms and straightened. "Even if we can't, the facts are there. Whoever El Gallo is—they're real, and they were a big enough threat that Montano was hyper-focused on them, and those choke points in Cuba." She paused. Let that information sink in before raising a brow and delivering her final pitch with complete confidence. "Either way, Gustavo needs that island, and if you wanna send a message that we can win this war? You want Jamaica to join the alliance? You do it in Cuba."

She held his gaze, unwavering and without blinking for several seconds before he bobbed his head in subtle acceptance. Finally, Reiss broke eye contact to survey the room before directing it toward the proposed mission objective set on the table before him. After weighing his decision, he looked up.

"Get it done."