Kellen Drake had survived three combat deployments, a helicopter crash in hostile territory, and more classified operations than he was legally permitted to acknowledge.

None of those experiences prepared him for Craig Mason’s words. “Viper, you’re in charge of Thanksgiving.”

Viper stared at his commanding officer in utter disbelief. Surely he hadn’t heard correctly. “Come again?”

Craig leaned back in his executive chair, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who had just issued an order of that magnitude. “Thanksgiving. Dinner. Turkey. All the trimmings.”

“Why?”

“Because Rosa and Luis are out of town.”

“And?”

“And someone has to feed everyone.”

Viper tilted his head as he considered this. “Sounds like a job for Mari.”

“Don’t even think about it.” A sharp, feminine voice came from the doorway.

Both men turned.

Mari Vega stood one step inside the office with her ubiquitous tablet tucked under one arm and an expression that suggested she’d already anticipated this conversation and prepared an appropriate response.

“Rosa and Luis told us six weeks ago they were spending Thanksgiving with their daughter,” she narrowed her eyes at Craig. “I reminded you four times.”

Craig frowned. “I remember.”

“Do you? Because you also assured me you had it handled.”

“I do have it handled.”

“No, you don’t. Handled would have been arranging caterers, or even ordering the meal from Publix. Thanksgiving is in three days, and you have done nothing.” Mari held up one finger. “Absolutely do not look at me. I organize your meetings, your travel, your calendar, your appointments, and approximately ninety percent of your life. I am not organizing Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Nobody asked you to.”

“You were about to. You knew Viper would immediately name me.”

Craig wisely said nothing. Mari’s glare cut over to Viper.

“I’m attending as a guest,” Mari continued. “I intend to eat, drink wine, and enjoy myself. I am not cooking, cleaning, coordinating, or rescuing anyone from a culinary disaster. That is a precedent I am not willing to set.”

“Understood,” Craig said. Viper simply nodded. He knew better than to challenge Mari when she was on a rampage. “Good.” She turned toward the door, then paused. “And Viper?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let him convince you this was your idea.” She disappeared down the hallway.

Viper slowly turned back to a now grinning Craig. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

“With all due respect—”

“Save it. You’ve got seventy-two hours. Ten people. Five o’clock Thursday.”

Viper sighed. He needed a plan.

⸻

Viper surveyed the conference room. Five highly trained Phoenix Shield professionals sat around the table, studying him with varying degrees of suspicion.

He’d assembled teams for hostage extractions, high-risk security operations, and missions where a single mistake could cost lives.

He’d never assembled one to cook dinner.

“Listen up.” He activated the conference room display. “We have a mission.”

Rogue leaned back in her chair. “Please tell me someone needs rescuing.”

“Thanksgiving dinner. Thursday. Seventeen hundred hours. Ten people.”

Ghost looked up from his laptop. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“You look like someone who wishes he was.”

“Craig has assigned responsibility for Thanksgiving dinner to me. I’m delegating portions of it to you.”

“Shocking,” Rogue muttered. “The military chain of command strikes again.”

Ghost’s hands paused on his keyboard. “Wait, what’s the operation designation?”

Viper stared at him. “It’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

“We need a designation for the project files.”

“No, we don’t.”

Ghost typed something. A moment later, the conference room display changed.

OPERATION THANKSGIVING

Rogue grinned. “Needs a threat assessment.”

Viper sighed. “I hate all of you.”

He straightened his shoulders and fell into parade rest. “First, ground rules. Rosa and Luis are off duty. Mari is attending as a guest. Nobody asks her to cook, organize, coordinate, or otherwise participate in preparing this meal.”

“What happens if we do?” Ghost asked.

“Then you can explain to her why you thought that was a good idea.”

Ghost winced. “Understood.”

“Chief. Logistics and procurement.”

Chief nodded. “Standard supply operation. What do you need?”

“Food. Ingredients. Whatever equipment is necessary.”

“Quantity?”

“Ten people.”

Chief made a note on his tablet. “Any special requirements?”

“Traditional Thanksgiving dinner.”

Chief frowned. “Define traditional.”

“Turkey. Potatoes. Stuffing. Vegetables. The usual.”

“Copy.”

Viper turned to Ghost. “Research and scheduling. I want a menu with preparation times, cooking temperatures, ingredient lists for Chief, and a schedule that gets everything on the table at five.”

Ghost stared at him. “You want me to build a critical-path analysis for dinner?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“I’ve developed surveillance systems for government agencies.”

“And now you’re developing a cooking schedule. Congratulations on your career progression.”

Rogue snorted.

“Atlas. You’re on the turkey.”

Atlas nodded. “Okay.”

“That’s it?” Ghost asked. “No questions?”

Atlas shrugged. “It’s a turkey.”

Viper appreciated the simplicity of that response. At least one person was on board.

“Rogue. Beverages.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m a woman?”

“Because you threatened to shoot the last bartender who made your drink incorrectly.”

“He deserved it.”

“Then I assume you’re qualified.”

She considered that. “Fair point.”

“Quinn. Budget oversight.”

Quinn, who had been quietly observing the proceedings, looked up from her tablet. “How much are you planning to spend?”

“Whatever’s reasonable.”

“Define reasonable.”

Viper glanced at Chief, who was making notes. He had a sudden, inexplicable feeling that the definition of reasonable was going to become a problem.

“See what was spent last year, and make sure we don’t bankrupt the company buying groceries.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Elias and Callie are handling dessert. They’ve already volunteered.”

“Smart people,” Rogue observed. “They get to show up with pie and watch the rest of us suffer.”

“Exactly. Assignment of side dishes will be handled once the full menu is determined. If anyone has an expertise in any, please advise.” Viper looked around the table. “Any questions?”

Ghost raised his hand.

“No.”

“You haven’t heard the question.”

“I’ve heard enough of your questions to know I don’t want this one.”

Ghost grinned. “Fair.”

Atlas pushed back his chair. “What time do you want the turkey ready?”

“Five. Dinner’s at five.”

“Got it.” He stood and headed for the door.

Viper watched him leave, then turned back to the others. “One last thing. This is Thanksgiving dinner. It shouldn’t be complicated.”

Rogue laughed. Actually laughed.

Viper narrowed his eyes. “Something funny?”

“Nothing.” She grinned. “Absolutely nothing.”

He didn’t believe her.

Not for a second.

⸻

By Thanksgiving morning, Viper had a plan. He had a menu, a cooking schedule, and personnel assignments. Everything was under control.

He walked into the kitchen and discovered potatoes. Everywhere. There had to be ten bags of potatoes stacked on the counter. “Chief.”

Chief looked up from where he sat in the corner working on his tablet. “Yeah?”

“Why are there fifty pounds of potatoes on my kitchen counter?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Contingency supply,” Chief rasped.

“Contingency for what? A famine?”

Chief consulted his tablet. “Five pounds per person. Standard provisioning calculation.”

Viper gaped at him. “Five pounds? For one meal?”

“Ah.” For a brief second, Chief looked almost sheepish. “Potatoes last for months in cool, dry storage. I researched it. Rosa can use whatever we don’t need.”

Viper opened his mouth. Closed it. Annoyingly, that was a reasonable argument. Still. “Fine. Put the extras in the pantry.”

“Already allocated storage space.”

“Of course you have.”

“Better to have too much than not enough.”

“We’re feeding ten people, not an infantry battalion.”

“Technically, we’re feeding seven former military personnel and three civilians.”

“That’s not helping.”

Rogue wandered into the kitchen, took one look at the sacks, and whistled. “Are we opening a soup kitchen?”

“Apparently,” Viper muttered.

Ghost appeared behind her, peering over her shoulder, coffee in hand. “Why do we need that many potatoes?”

“Ask Chief.” Rogue grinned. “He was in charge of procurement.”

“I have,” Viper said. “The answer was unsatisfactory.”

Ghost studied the menu and ingredient lists on his tablet. “Wait. Why are there potatoes in the stuffing?”

Viper stared at him. “Because it’s potato stuffing.”

“Isn’t stuffing made from bread?”

“Half bread. Half potato.”

Ghost considered that. “So… mashed potatoes with identity issues.”

Rogue snorted and quickly spun to face Chief.

Viper gave him a flat look. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

That earned him approximately three seconds of silence.

Then Rogue grinned. “You’re making the stuffing? Oh, this I have to see.”

⸻

Twenty minutes later, Viper was standing at the kitchen island, peeling potatoes.

He hadn’t planned on cooking. He’d planned on supervising. There was a difference. Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to understand the importance of proper stuffing.

Ghost had suggested boxed mix. Viper had seriously considered throwing him out of the kitchen for such a sacrilegious suggestion.

“Cube the bread,” he ordered instead.

Ghost looked at the loaf. “How big?”

“Half-inch.”

“Precisely?”

“Approximately.”

Ghost frowned. “Those are two different instructions.”

“Use your judgment.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to tell me.”

Rogue leaned against the counter, watching. “You know, I never pictured you as the domestic type, Viper.”

“I’m not,” he growled.

“You’re wearing an apron.”

“Because I don’t want butter on my shirt.”

“It’s got little turkeys on it.”

Viper glanced down. He’d grabbed the first apron hanging by the pantry door. Naturally, it featured a parade of cartoon turkeys wearing pilgrim hats. Rogue was enjoying this far too much.

“Chop the onions,” he ordered her.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re standing there doing nothing.”

“I’m supervising.”

“Congratulations. You’ve been promoted to onion duty.”

She picked up a knife, tested its weight. “I hope you know I could kill a man with this.”

“I’m counting on your precision.” That earned him a reluctant smile.

As he sautéed the onions in butter, Viper caught a familiar scent. Sage. For a moment, he wasn’t standing in Aerie House’s immaculate kitchen.

He was ten years old again, perched on a stool in his grandmother’s kitchen, watching her prepare a massive bowl of stuffing.

Not too much sage, Kellen. You want to taste the potatoes, not the entire herb garden.

He smiled faintly.

“What’s that look?” Rogue asked.

“Nothing.”

“That was definitely something.”

“Keep chopping.”

She narrowed her eyes but let it go. He was grateful for that. Some memories were better kept to himself.

⸻

The first real problem emerged shortly after noon.

Viper was reviewing the cooking schedule when Ghost pointed at the oven. “We have a conflict.”

“What kind?”

“The turkey needs several hours at 325°. The sides all need 350°, but the cooking times vary and overlap.”

Viper examined the schedule.

Stuffing. Sweet potato casserole. Green bean casserole. Rolls. All requiring oven space. At approximately the same time. Of course. They needed to finish at the same time.

“Can’t we cook the sides earlier?” Craig asked from the doorway where he must have been lurking.

“We can,” Viper said. “But then we’d have to reheat them while the turkey’s cooking.”

“Cook the turkey first.”

“Then it’ll be cold.”

“Cook everything hotter so it stays warm longer.”

Ghost looked horrified. “That’s not how thermodynamics works.”

Craig shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

Rogue leaned against the refrigerator and smirked. “We could order takeout.”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Chief said from behind Craig. “Most places are closed.”

“Chinese?”

“Already checked,” Ghost replied. “Our usual place is closed until Friday.”

Rogue sighed. “Amateurs.”

Atlas, who had entered behind Craig and had been quietly examining the twenty-pound turkey on the counter—checking the cavity, turning it over—spoke for the first time. “Why don’t we fry it?”

Everyone turned and stared at him.

Viper considered the suggestion. “That would free up the oven.”

“Exactly.”

“How long would it take?”

“Twenty pounds, fully thawed? A little over an hour, plus resting time.”

Viper nodded decisively. “Good. Problem solved.” Atlas turned and vanished out the door without another word.

Ghost raised a finger. “Except we don’t have a turkey fryer.”

Chief checked his inventory. “Not on the equipment list. No one submitted a requisition.”

Quinn, who had just entered the kitchen, inhaled sharply. “Please tell me we’re not buying industrial cooking equipment on Thanksgiving Day.”

“We’re exploring options,” Viper assured her.

“That sounds expensive.”

“Everything sounds expensive to you.”

“That’s because someone has to keep this company solvent.”

Chief was tapping away on his tablet. “Most retail stores are closed. I might be able to find a restaurant supply company with an emergency contact.”

“On Thanksgiving?” Quinn asked.

“Never underestimate the power of a good logistics network.”

Ghost had three browser windows open on the kitchen monitor. “We need to research the equipment specifications, oil capacity, safety requirements—”

“Don’t forget the insurance implications,” Quinn added.

Viper pinched the bridge of his nose. This was getting complicated. How the hell did Rosa do this?

His phone buzzed. A text message from Elias.

Callie wants to know if we should bring anything besides dessert.

Viper replied: An experienced chef.

Elias: She says that’s not funny.

A moment later:

Actually, she’s laughing.

⸻

By three-thirty, Viper was beginning to question every decision that had brought him to this moment.

Ghost had compiled a twelve-page document on turkey-frying procedures.

Chief had located a supplier willing to open his warehouse for an emergency pickup—for a fee Quinn had immediately rejected.

Craig had suggested borrowing a fryer from a neighbor.

Rogue had suggested ordering pizza. Again.

Atlas had vanished and not been seen for hours.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Coordinating a Thanksgiving dinner was apparently more complicated than planning a tactical extraction.

“Okay,” he said, holding up a hand. “Enough. We need a decision.”

Ghost looked up from his tablet. “I’ve narrowed it down to three viable methods.”

“Great. Report.”

“Method one requires equipment we don’t have.”

“Eliminate it.”

“Method two requires equipment we also don’t have.”

“Ghost.”

“Method three involves adapting existing equipment. I’d need to—”

“Absolutely not,” Quinn interrupted.

Viper closed his eyes. Families do this every year. How could it be so difficult?

His comm crackled. “Viper. Atlas.”

He pressed his earpiece. “Go.”

“Turkey’s in the fryer. ETA sixty minutes.”

Viper froze. “Say again?”

“Turkey’s cooking. Should be done in about an hour. Then it needs about 20 minutes rest time. You need to get those sides started.”

Silence descended over the kitchen. Ghost slowly lowered his tablet. Chief stopped scrolling. Rogue’s eyebrows climbed.

“Atlas,” Viper said carefully, “where did you get a turkey fryer?”

“Brought mine.”

Viper stared at the ceiling. “You brought your own turkey fryer?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Figured we might need it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

A pause.

“You didn’t ask.”

Rogue started laughing, and Viper ignored her. “How long have you been setting this up?”

“Couple hours. Turkey’s prepped, oil’s at temperature, everything’s good.”

Ghost looked offended. “We spent two hours researching how to fry a turkey.”

“Good for you.”

“Atlas—”

“Viper?”

“What?”

“Stuffing needs an hour, right?”

Viper glanced at the clock. “Yeah.”

“Then you might want to get moving.”

The comm clicked off.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Rogue doubled over laughing like a lunatic. “Oh, this is priceless.”

Viper looked at Ghost.

Ghost looked at Chief.

Chief consulted his tablet. “Technically, the equipment was never requisitioned.”

“Chief.”

“Just saying.”

Viper pointed toward the oven. “Ok, everyone knows their assignment. Dinner in ninety. Ghost, what time do the sides need to go in the oven?”

Ghost glanced at his tablet. “Stuffing goes in at sixteen hundred. Sweet potatoes at sixteen-fifteen. Green beans at sixteen-thirty. Rolls at sixteen-forty-five.”

Viper stared at him. “You actually figured that out?”

“Of course. That was my assignment.”

“Then why have we spent two hours discussing turkey fryers?”

Ghost looked genuinely puzzled.

“That was a separate problem.”

⸻

The next hour was controlled chaos, and Viper hated every second of it.

Controlled was a very generous description.

Ghost established a cooking schedule with alarms for every dish.

Chief managed ingredient distribution and somehow produced three additional bags of potatoes that nobody remembered seeing earlier.

Quinn monitored the oven temperatures obsessively, occasionally muttering about the cost of replacing equipment if Ghost touched the controls.

Rogue handled the rolls, although she threatened to stab anyone who suggested she was doing women’s work.

Craig appeared periodically to offer encouragement. Viper considered assigning him to dishwashing duty.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Ghost’s question cut through his thoughts.

Viper glanced over at him and followed his eyes to the pan he was stirring. The gravy resembled wallpaper paste. “What did you do?”

“Followed the recipe.”

“Which recipe?”

“The one online.”

Viper took the spoon. Stirred. Sighed. “Move.”

Ghost stepped aside.

Viper added a little stock, adjusted the heat, and whisked the mixture until it smoothed out.

Rogue watched with interest, flipping the knife in her hand. “You know how to make gravy?”

“My grandmother taught me.”

“You’ve been holding out on us.”

“I know how to make gravy and stuffing. That doesn’t make me a chef.”

“Still,” Ghost said, studying the saucepan, “that’s impressive.”

Viper handed him the whisk. “Stir. Slowly.”

Ghost obeyed. For once.

⸻

At five o’clock, ten people gathered around the dining table at Aerie House.

The turkey was golden and crisp. The stuffing had turned out perfectly. The sides were hot. The rolls were only slightly darker than intended. Elias and Callie had arrived with three different types of pie.

And there were enough leftover potatoes to feed the entire neighborhood twice over.

Mari surveyed the spread with obvious surprise. “You actually did it.”

Viper pulled out a chair for her. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Several hours’ worth, from what I heard,” she replied dryly.

Craig raised his glass. “To Operation Thanksgiving. Mission accomplished.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Rogue muttered.

Everyone laughed.

Viper looked around the table.

Elias scooped sweet potato casserole onto Callie’s plate. She smiled at him, then passed the gravy to Quinn.

Chief was explaining to Ghost that the remaining potatoes could be stored for months under proper conditions.

Atlas was carving the turkey with the same quiet precision he brought to everything.

Craig. Ghost. Rogue. Atlas. Chief. Elias. Callie. Quinn. Mari.

People who had seen things most of the world would never understand. People who had lost friends, family, pieces of themselves. People who had found their way here.

To Aerie House.

To Phoenix Shield.

To something that had become more than a job.

He thoughts wandered to his grandmother’s kitchen. The smell of sage. Her hands guiding his as he mixed the stuffing. She would have liked this.

The thought caught him unexpectedly.

Mari’s voice cut through his thoughts. “By the way, why’d you fry the turkey?”

Viper blinked. “Because we needed the oven for the sides.”

Mari frowned. “Why didn’t you use Rosa’s roaster?”

Viper froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Her what?”

“The countertop turkey roaster. She uses it every Thanksgiving. Well, most every holiday. Keeps the oven free for everything else.”

Viper slowly turned toward Craig. “You knew about this?”

Craig studied his wineglass. “No.”

Mari shook her head. “It’s in the pantry. Bottom shelf. Behind the stockpots.”

Ghost stared at her. “We spent two hours researching turkey fryers.”

“Why?”

“Because we didn’t have one.”

“You had a roaster.”

“Apparently.”

Rogue began laughing like a lunatic again. Quinn dropped her face into one hand. Chief made a note on his tablet.

“Adding countertop roaster to the equipment inventory. Maybe we should do a full kitchen inventory.”

Quinn grinned. “You can start with the potatoes.”

Atlas calmly took another bite of turkey. “Fried tastes better.”

That did it. The entire table erupted. Even Viper laughed, because Atlas was right. The turkey was damn good.

Craig raised his glass again. “Same time next year?”

Viper pointed his fork at him. “Next year, Rosa and Luis are getting a bonus.”

“Agreed.”

“A substantial bonus.”

“Fine.”

Mari smiled. “Triple pay.”

Craig sighed. “Triple.”

Viper lifted his glass. “To Rosa and Luis. May they never find out what happened here.”

Everyone echoed the toast.

Viper looked around the table one more time.

Ghost was arguing with Chief about the potatoes. Rogue was stealing another roll. Craig was laughing at something Mari had said.

Grandma would have loved this.

The thought surprised him.

He reached for another helping of stuffing.

Yeah. She would have.

THE END