Adrien's POV
The plane's wheels hit the runway with a jarring screech that vibrated up through the floor and into Adrien's bones. He hadn't been sleeping, but his eyes snapped open with a predator's reflex anyway. Home. The word is supposed to mean something. Let it mean something. For twelve long months, through sandstorms that tasted of blood and nights so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat like a countdown, this moment was the fixed point he'd navigated by. Not a flag, not a mission objective. The crisp, pine-scented air of Evergreen Falls. The way Harper's entire face would light up, her smile so wide it seemed to erase every dark thing he'd ever seen.
As the seatbelt sign dinged off with a cheap, tinny sound, he was the first one standing, his body coiled tight even in this safe, civilian tube of recycled air and soft chatter. Breathe in. Breathe out. The mission is over. The next mission is hugging your kid. He yanked his worn duffel from the overhead bin its fabric was stained with desert tan and mountain mud, a canvas of his absences. A woman across the aisle gave him a gentle, knowing smile. An older man nodded, his eyes saying, Thank you for your service. Adrien managed a tight, brief nod back. Veterans Day. The gratitude usually made him feel like an imposter, a man who'd just done a job. Today, he'd take it. Today, he felt he'd earned it, because today he got to be just Dad.
The jet bridge was a sterile, humming tunnel. He moved down it, feeling the familiar, uncomfortable transition from one world to another. The door at the end hissed open. A wall of cold air, sharp as a blade, hit him full in the face. He stopped for a half-second on the threshold, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply, searching for the scent of home beneath the airport's industrial smell. He caught a whisper of it damp earth, distant woodsmoke buried under the stench of jet fuel and bleach. Doesn't matter. She's here. She's right on the other side of that glass.
He walked into the terminal, a man with a single, simple, beautiful objective. His boots, scarred and familiar, beat a steady, purposeful rhythm on the polished floor. Left, right, left. It was the rhythm of a march, but today it was the rhythm of a heartbeat speeding up. His eyes, trained to scan for threats in a crowd, now scanned for one thing only: a cascade of auburn hair, a pair of arms ready to wave frantically, a sign covered in glitter.
The waiting area was a kaleidoscope of reunion. Balloons bobbed. A little girl shrieked, "Daddy!" and launched herself at a soldier. A handmade sign that read "Welcome Home Daddy!" was clutched in a toddler's chubby fist. His throat constricted, a sweet, painful ache. Where's mine?
He went straight to their spot the wide pillar next to the overpriced coffee shop, where she'd always stand on her toes, peeking around people, her face a beacon. He positioned himself where she'd expect him. He waited.
The pillar was just a pillar.
A cold trickle, like the first, warning drop of ice water, traced a path down his spine. Okay. Easy. Don't panic. Think. She was seventeen. Time worked differently for her. The town's Veterans Day parade could have distracted her; she loved the marching bands. Traffic on Main Street was always a nightmare on holidays. His mind, so good at constructing worst-case scenarios in the field, stubbornly built a cheerful one: she was stuck in traffic, rolling her eyes at the delay, texting him an apology with a dozen emojis.
He yanked his phone from the pocket of his jacket. The screen was dark. He thumbed it awake. No new messages. No little notification bubbles. The lock screen showed his last text from her, sent yesterday afternoon: Can't wait to see you!!!! Airport tomorrow!! The four exclamation points stared back at him, cheerful and unchanging, digital ghosts of her excitement.
The ice-water trickle became a steady stream. He tapped her name in his favorites. Put the phone to his ear. It rang once. Then her voicemail, bright and bubbly and recorded in her sun-filled bedroom a lifetime ago. "Hey, it's Harper! You know what to do. Beep!" The sound of her normal, sunshine life was a physical ache in the center of his chest.
He ended the call. The stream was now a river, chilling his gut. He found Tessa's name. Tapped it. The rings began, each one a metallic brrrrt that seemed to stretch longer than the last, a tightening wire around his lungs.
"Adrien?" Her voice. It was wrong. It was thin. Cracked. It sounded like paper held too close to a flame, brittle and about to turn to ash.
"Tess? I'm here. At the airport. Where are you? Where's Harper?" He kept his own voice low, controlled, trying to model calmness for her, though the cold in his stomach was now a solid, frozen mass.
A silence so profound he could hear the static void of the connection. Then a choked, wet sound that wasn't a word, just pure distress. "Just… come home, Adrien. Please. Just come home."
"Tessa, look at me. Talk to me. What's going on? Is she hurt?" He used his command voice, the one that demanded answers, but it felt hollow here, in this bright terminal.
"Please." The word shattered into a sob. The line went dead.
The frozen mass in his core locked his joints for a second. That wasn't his wife. His wife met hurricanes with a swear word and a raised middle finger. She met bad news head-on, loud and fierce, a force of nature. This voice… this was the sound of a soul breaking. This was the sound of someone whose world had already ended, and she was just waiting for him to find the ruins.
The terminal, the happy noises, the balloons it all blurred into a meaningless smear of color and sound. He was moving, his body operating on pure autonomic instinct. He didn't remember walking to the parking garage. He found his truck, an old blue Ford that smelled of pine air freshener and memories. The key turned, the engine grumbled to life, a familiar, comforting sound that now felt like a taunt.
He peeled out of the garage, the tires squealing a protest. The town was a festive prison. Banners hung across the street: "Welcome Home Heroes!" "Thank You, Veterans!" A cluster of old men in legion caps stood by the stone war memorial. The irony was a bitter pill in his throat. What kind of hero can't keep his own family safe? What kind of protector arrives after the attack? The thoughts were enemy fire, and he mentally dove for cover, focusing solely on the road ahead, on the grid of streets leading to Pine Ridge Lane.
His street was quiet, too quiet for a holiday. His house sat at the end, a two-story silhouette against the gray afternoon sky. The porch light was on, but it was flickering weakly, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.
And the front door was open.
Not just unlocked. Open. Swinging gently in the cold November breeze. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was small, lonely, and terrifying.
Every sense he'd honed in a dozen war zones, every instinct he'd paid for in blood and sweat, snapped to high alert with a nearly audible click. The tired father, the hopeful husband, vanished. The SEAL took the wheel. He killed the engine and was out of the truck in one fluid motion, using the vehicle's bulk as cover. He didn't slam the door. He eased it shut, the clunk sounding like a cannon shot in the quiet.
He listened, straining past the rush of blood in his ears. No TV blaring a parade broadcast. No music leaking from Harper's room. No sound of Tessa banging pots in the kitchen. Just the wind sighing through the naked trees and that terrible, rhythmic tap… tap… tap.
He approached low, not in a crouch, but in a relaxed, ready stance, his body remembering patterns of movement long unused on this quiet street. The grass was stiff with frost under his boots. He reached the porch steps, didn't use them, vaulted the railing silently to land on the porch itself, avoiding the creaky third step.
The door yawned wider. He pushed it with his fingertips, his other hand instinctively going to his hip where a weapon wasn't, hadn't been for months.
The living room was a crime scene.
His analyst's brain began cataloging before his heart could fully process the horror. A wooden chair from the kitchen table lay on its side, one leg snapped clean off. A ceramic lamp Tessa's mother had given them was shattered, pieces glittering like malicious confetti across the woven rug. Harper's history textbook, Modern World Conflicts, was splayed open on the floor, pages bent and torn under the weight of something or someone. And in the center of it all, like the still point of a vortex, was her phone. The screen was a catastrophic spiderweb of cracks. It buzzed with an angry, frantic energy, skittering in a pathetic, vibrating half-circle on the hardwood.
No. This is a dream. A stress dream. You're on the plane, you fell asleep, and this is a dream. The thought was clear, childish, a desperate denial. He moved inside, his training forcing a systematic scan: points of entry (front door only, windows intact), potential threats (none immediate), signs of struggle (everywhere). Struggle. Violent, panicked struggle. He knelt beside the phone, the cracked glass biting into the calloused pad of his thumb as he silenced it. The sudden, absolute quiet was a vacuum, sucking all the warmth, all the life, from the room.
This wasn't disorder from a frantic search. This was violence. His eyes traced the story: deep scuff marks on the floor where heels had dug in and been dragged. The rug was bunched and torn from its mooring. A framed family photo from the mantel lay face down, the glass splintered.
Then he saw it. Near the hallway that led to the kitchen, half-hidden in the shadow. A single purple high-top sneaker.
Harper's pride and joy. She'd saved her allowance for three months, debating colors online with him over choppy video calls. The purple, Dad, it's bold. It says something.
It said something now. It screamed.
The frozen dam in his chest shattered. The cold wasn't fear anymore; it was a terrible, clean, and focused understanding. This was no accident. His sanctuary, the place he'd fought to get back to, had been violated. The war hadn't stayed overseas. It had been waiting for him, patient and cruel, right here in the heart of everything he loved.
His little girl was gone, snatched from the one place she should have been safest. The battlefield was no longer some distant desert; it was his own living room, and the first skirmish was already lost.