Before Dawn

Luca

The motel sign outside buzzed loud enough to bleed blue through the blinds.

I woke before dawn because I always woke before dawn. Years in uniform had long ago taught my body to stop trusting sleep. Dawn wasn’t an alarm anymore. It was simply when my eyes opened.

The woman beside me shifted under the blankets with a soft sleepy sound while rain tapped against the window hard enough to drown out the old air conditioner rattling in the wall. The room smelled like cheap detergent, cigarette smoke soaked permanently into carpet, and her perfume.

Vanilla, maybe. Sweet enough to cover the stale cigarette smoke that had settled into the carpet years ago.

I sat up slowly on the edge of the mattress, elbows braced against my knees while I rubbed a hand over my face. My shoulder ached where recoil had bruised deep into old scar tissue two nights ago. There was another cut healing along my ribs beneath my shirt. Smaller injuries disappeared into the collection of old scars long before they had a chance to matter.

Behind me, sheets rustled softly.

“Mmm.” Her voice came thick with sleep. “You’re awake already?”

“Ja.”

My voice sounded rough from sleep and disuse. I reached for my watch off the chipped nightstand beside the bed. 4:47 am. Too early for normal people. Perfect for me.

I heard her shift again before the mattress dipped lightly behind me.

“You military?”

I glanced over my shoulder.

In daylight she looked different than I’d thought in the bar. Blonde hair tangled around her shoulders. Mascara smudged faintly beneath tired eyes. Pretty.

I couldn’t remember her name.

I searched for her name anyway.

Nothing.

It happened more often than it should have.

Somewhere along the way I’d stopped learning names because names had a way of lingering after everything else was gone.

I stood instead of answering right away. The motel room suddenly felt too small around me. I stood, automatically ducking beneath the low ceiling fan before it clipped my shoulder.

I pulled my jeans on while rain streaked the window harder outside.

“You always this quiet?” she asked.

“Yes.”

That actually made her laugh softly. “Wow. Full sentences too.”

I almost smiled. Almost.

My boots sat beside the door where I’d lined them up automatically sometime during the night. Knife on the table beside my wallet. Jacket folded in the chair. Everything in its place. Always. The ritual of it steadied something inside me. This careful ordering of objects, this preparation for leaving. I’d been doing it so long I didn’t remember learning how.

The woman watched me while I laced my boots. I could feel it without looking directly at her. People always looked eventually. My size made it impossible not to. The scar made it worse.

I reached automatically for the Glock resting under my jacket and saw the exact second her expression shifted.

Her eyes lingered a second longer than they had the night before.

Daylight changed people. Most women didn’t know what to do with me in the morning. The mystery sounded exciting in bars. Less exciting under flickering motel lights when they could properly see the scar running from temple to jaw and the exhaustion carved permanently into my face.

“You leaving already?” she asked quietly.

“I have work.”

“It’s still dark outside.”

I shrugged one shoulder into my jacket. “Yes.”

The silence stretched for a second before she gathered the blanket tighter around herself and leaned back against the headboard. Something in her posture changed. Resigned. Like she’d been through this before with other men in other rooms.

“You could stay for coffee.”

I looked back at her.

She wasn’t asking for much. Breakfast, maybe. A conversation that lasted longer than the night we’d shared.

Those things had always been harder for me than walking into a firefight.

“No,” I said carefully. “But thank you.”

Disappointment flickered across her face before she hid it fast. She hid it quickly. She’d done this before. Maybe that should have made me feel better. Instead it made me feel tired in a way sleep never fixed.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t asking you to move in.”

“I know.”

Rain hammered harder against the glass. Somewhere outside, tires hissed over wet pavement.

She studied me for another long second before asking, “Do you ever stay?”

The question caught me off guard enough that I looked at her fully again.

There wasn’t any accusation in her voice.

Only curiosity.

“No,” I admitted. My hand tightened around the keys.

She gathered the blanket tighter around herself and leaned back against the headboard, the easy warmth from a moment ago quietly disappearing.

“Bye, mystery military man,” she said softly.

I nodded once. “Goodbye.”

Cold rain hit immediately when I stepped outside.

The motel parking lot glistened under flickering neon, puddles reflecting the blue sign buzzing overhead. Water soaked through the shoulders of my jacket while I crossed toward my truck. Nobody around. Good.

I climbed inside and shut the door hard enough to seal out the weather.

Silence settled instantly.

No radio. Just rain drumming against metal while I stared through the windshield at the empty road ahead.

My reflection stared faintly back from the glass.

I looked every bit as tired as I felt. Thirty-seven years old and waking up in motel rooms beside strangers because it was easier than letting anyone close enough to hurt me.

The thought landed flat and emotionless inside my head. Not self-pity. Just observation. This was the life I’d built: interchangeable rooms, temporary warmth, careful distance from anything that might require vulnerability. I’d been doing it so long I couldn’t remember what the alternative looked like anymore.

At thirteen I’d already been taller than teachers. Too big. Too intense. The kind of child adults watched nervously, waiting for violence they assumed lived inside me simply because of my size.

At sixteen I’d broken another boy’s nose after weeks of him barking like a dog every time I walked through school halls.

Freak.

Giant.

Psycho.

Frankenstein.

The names changed but the message stayed the same. I was something to fear, something wrong, something that didn’t belong in normal spaces with normal people.

The military had sharpened every rough edge I already had.

It taught me how to use my size instead of apologizing for it. How to make strength an advantage instead of something that made people uncomfortable.

The scar finished the rest.

Now strangers stepped aside in grocery stores before I reached them. Women stared until I looked back. Children were the only ones honest enough to ask what everyone else was thinking.

What happened to your face?

An old mission.

A knife.

The medic saved my life.

My face hadn’t been the priority.

Why is he so big?

I never knew.

My father wasn’t.

Neither of my brothers was.

Somewhere along the way I simply kept growing while everyone else stopped.

By thirteen I was taller than my teachers.

By sixteen I’d learned people noticed my size before they noticed anything else.

Is he dangerous?

That was always the real question.

Usually before they asked my name.

I started the truck.

My phone buzzed before I could pull out of the parking lot.

Keller. Of course.

I answered immediately. “Ja.”

“Please tell me you’re awake already.”

“I am.”

“You sound terrible.”

“Good morning to you too.”

That got a surprised laugh out of him. “Jesus Christ. Was that personality?”

“Do not get used to it.”

Rain squealed beneath the windshield wipers as I pulled onto the road. Keller went quiet for half a beat before his tone shifted. Professional now.

“We got recalled.”

The exhaustion inside me vanished instantly beneath something colder and sharper.

“What happened?”

“Briefing moved up.”

Not good then.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel automatically. “Where?”

“Unknown.”

“How long?”

“Unknown.”

“Casualties?”

Silence answered that question for him.

I stared at blurred headlights sliding through rain ahead of me. The city looked gray and half-awake, caught between night and morning. A few delivery trucks rumbled past. Exhausted people heading home from shifts that ruined sleep schedules and marriages.

“How long until briefing?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

The line disconnected.

I tossed the phone into the cup holder and drove through the sleeping city while dawn slowly bled gray across the horizon. Traffic stayed light this early.

For a few minutes my mind drifted unwillingly back to the motel room. The woman offering coffee. The look on her face when I said no.

I flexed one hand against the steering wheel.

Sex had rules.

Meet in a bar.

Share a drink.

Find a hotel.

Leave before breakfast became an expectation.

Nobody asked where I’d been.

Nobody expected breakfast.

Nobody waited for me to come home.

It worked because nobody got hurt.. Women liked me well enough in dark bars and anonymous motel rooms. Some liked the size. Some liked the scar. Some liked the danger they imagined came with me.

None of that required anything real.

Real was different.

It meant breakfast.

Learning names.

Remembering birthdays.

Letting someone expect me to come home.

By the time I reached base, the rain had softened into mist.

Security waved me through immediately. The compound looked exactly the same as always under weak morning light. Concrete. Steel. Exhausted men moving with purpose through cold air sharp with jet fuel.

Home. Or the closest thing I had to one.

I parked near operations and climbed out, boots splashing through shallow puddles. Men nodded as I crossed the lot. Respectful distance. Professional acknowledgment. Nobody stopped me. Most people didn’t unless necessary.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Keller waited near briefing holding two coffees.

“You look like shit,” he informed me immediately.

I took the coffee from him. “You say this every time you see me.”

“Because every time I see you, you look like shit.”

Keller was one of the only men alive comfortable enough to push me. Former SAS. Loud. Sarcastic. Emotionally perceptive beneath the humor. He’d saved my life twice. I’d saved his three times. We didn’t keep score anymore.

“When did you last sleep in your own apartment?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

“Luca.”

“I do not remember.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Not pity. Understanding. Which was somehow worse.

“Is one motel room the same as another?” he asked quietly.

I stared at him for a long second before turning toward the briefing room. “We should go.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only answer you are getting.”

He followed me anyway. Always did.

The briefing room filled quickly.

Captain Andrew Whitaker stood at the front. His team usually handled its own operations, and mine handled ours, but every so often intelligence, politics, or geography blurred the lines enough that we worked together.

I’d served beside Whitaker often enough to trust him with my life. James Fletcher stood off to one side with his arms folded, Ollie Davies already studying the satellite imagery spread across the table. Men I’d worked with more than once. Men who understood that plans rarely survived first contact.

Whitaker never raised his voice because he never had to. Maps covered the table beside him. Satellite images. Intelligence reports marked with red circles and question marks. Maps covered the table. Satellite images. Intelligence reports marked with red circles and question marks.

The mission details emerged slowly. Morally gray. Civilian stakes. Political complications. The kind of operation that required precision and deniability in equal measure.

I listened carefully, filing away tactical details, potential complications, and exit strategies.

“Berger?” Whitaker asked.

I looked up.

“Anything you see that we don’t?”

I studied the satellite images another moment before answering.

“Your primary route is exposed.”

Whitaker nodded once.

“Agreed.”

James shifted his attention back to the map while Ollie leaned closer to study the terrain.

“Secondary route?” Whitaker asked.

I pointed to a narrow stretch of wooded ground along the eastern edge.

“Less visibility. Better cover. Slower approach.”

Whitaker considered it for a second before looking around the room.

“Adjust the plan.”

Nobody questioned the change.

Around me, the team returned to the maps without another word. They were used to Whitaker asking for my read, and I was used to giving it.

I didn’t mistake that trust for friendship.

It was confidence in my judgment.

Nothing more.

Whitaker’s gaze lingered on me for half a second longer than necessary. He’d noticed something. A missed detail during the briefing. Unusual. Concerning. Worth noting silently.

I’d been distracted.

That never happened.

The meeting dispersed eventually. Keller, Mateo, Soren lingered near the door. Mateo, our medic, warm presence without softness,studied me with quiet concern. He was one of the only people who directly asked if I was okay, though I never answered honestly.

“You good?” he asked now.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t look convinced but let it go.

Keller followed me out into the hallway. “When did you last sleep in your own apartment?”

“You already asked me this.”

“You didn’t answer.”

I kept walking. He kept following.

“Luca.”

I stopped. Turned. Looked at him directly.

“What do you want me to say?”