Jack listened in silence as Hannah's voice cut through the dim light of the training room.
"I shot them both. My uncle and his son."
The words landed like gunfire—flat, merciless, final.
Her gaze didn't waver. "When the police came, my aunt had gone mad. She screamed everything. How he set the fire. Why he did it. Claren Chemical paid him to intimidate my parents."
Jack frowned. A chemical company? He'd expected a family dispute over property, greed, something small and dirty. But corporate money… that was a different beast entirely.
"Why would a chemical company target your family?"
Hannah's eyes glistened, but her voice stayed hard. "Because of the river. It was polluted. My father contacted an investigator from the EPA to come inspect it. That made Claren panic. They did what companies like them always do—burn evidence, silence witnesses, destroy everything in their way."
Jack exhaled slowly, piecing it together.
"After my parents died, Zoe's family came. My mom and Zoe's mom were sisters. The Andersons took me in."
The picture clicked in his mind—the unspoken connection between Zoe and Hannah. Not just friendship. Blood.
"Zoe's father tried to take Claren Chemical to court. He used every contact, pulled every string. But in the end, the case settled. Their parent company, Kleiner Industries, had members of Congress in their pocket. Even the investigator who visited the river turned up dead. 'Accident,' they said."
Her words broke, thin and shaking, before she steeled herself again. "So I left Texas. Moved here with the Andersons. And from that day, I swore—I'd join the FBI. I'd find whoever pulled the strings. And I'd burn them to the ground."
Jack blinked, an eerie sense of déjà vu crawling up his spine. Big corporations. Shadowy political ties. It all sounded like the half-forgotten plots of the American dramas he used to binge-watch. He almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, he asked quietly, "What was the parent company's name?"
"Kleiner Industries. And behind it… the Kleiner Foundation."
Jack's thoughts wandered briefly to a memory of Jack Reacher reruns—the corrupt companies, the bloody payback. Except this time, the girl in front of him wasn't a TV character. She was flesh and blood, trembling against him, her story written in scars instead of scripts.
"And Zoe?" Jack asked carefully. "Does she know what you're planning?"
"She told me to tell you first," Hannah admitted. "She said you'd see the truth of it clearer than she ever could."
Jack almost laughed again, bitterly. Two sisters, leaning on him for answers he didn't have. "No one has the right to tell you how to carry this. If vengeance is what you need… then you'll have it. And I'll be there."
Relief flashed across her face, bright and dangerous. She kissed him with a sudden, sharp joy, then leaned back with a grin that dared him to stop her.
Jack's pulse spiked as her weight shifted deliberately against him.
"Hannah—stop. You'll regret it if you push this."
Her eyes narrowed. "Am I not as good as Zoe? Not as beautiful? Why can you have her, and Maureen too, but you always turn me away?"
Jack's chest tightened. He wanted to say he respected her too much to use her that way. That some boundaries were worth holding. But reason would only fan the fire.
"You already know about Zoe and me. So you should—"
"I know everything," she cut him off, her voice sharp and trembling. "I know you go to Zoe after every shooting. I know you've gone to Maureen. And I live in the same house, watching."
Her words sliced the air. The room felt too small, too suffocating.
Jack opened his mouth, but she pressed on. "My father had other women. Aunt Daisy. Aunt Chris. My mother told me it didn't matter—as long as she and I were the ones he loved most. That was enough."
The world tilted. Jack almost choked on his reply. What kind of twisted upbringing was that? His brain screamed Mormon jokes and bitter retorts, but his throat locked.
"Zoe's going to marry Maureen. I know their plan. But no matter how many women you have, I'll be your wife. Your only wife."
His laugh was brittle, humorless. "Isn't it a little early to talk about that?"
Her hand slid to his cheek, her eyes fierce and wet. "I don't care. I can't live without you. No one else will ever treat me the way you do. I want you to cook for me. Care for me. Forever."
Her voice broke into a trembling whisper. "I want to be like Lois Lane. And you… you're my Superman. The day in Bronson Tower—I thought I was dead. But you came. You saved me. And I knew. From that moment on…"
Her words trailed off, her cheek pressing into his, warm and vulnerable.
Jack felt the anger drain out of him, replaced by something heavier, softer. He wrapped his arms around her, patting her back gently—like comforting a terrified child.
At last, he rolled over, scooped her up in his arms, and whispered, "I'll stay. As long as you'll have me, Hannah."
A smile curved her lips, fragile but real. "Me too."
Later, in the quiet of his attic bed, Jack stared at the ceiling and let out a long, ragged breath. Three women now. Three promises. It was a miracle the whole damn ship hadn't capsized. He'd have to stop running the furnace of his heart like central air before it burned him alive.
For now, he reached for Friends of Military and Civilian Dual-Use Talents on his bedside. The book was absurd, encyclopedic, covering everything from military tactics to plumbing repairs. But in a world this dangerous, every skill was a weapon.
And Jack knew—more weapons meant more chances to survive.
(End of this chapter)