Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

The mission went well.

Damn well, in fact.

It was one of those rare, clockwork operations where every piece fell exactly where it should.

No injuries, no losses—just the sweet satisfaction of a job done right. They’d finally gotten their hands on something: a laptop, belonging to the slippery bastard they’d been tracking for months. The trail had nearly gone cold, but now, this Ares cunt might just find himself meeting justice. It was a lead they’d nearly written off, but this new information could be the key to hunting him down.

Of course, they can't do anything until Laswell's team cracks it open. So the 141 is on hold until they receive their next orders. That's about all there is to debrief.

Ghost was out the door the second Price said, “Dismissed.” Soap followed with a grin, shrugging off his vest and rolling his shoulders as he called, “Up for a pint, lads?”

Kyle just shook his head, exchanging glances with Price. Soap just shrugged with a grin and took off, leaving Gaz and the Captain to work through the post-mission grind, reviewing the data, the diagrams, and the chain of events over and over. No matter how smooth a mission went, they dissected it all the same—Because it can always be better. And Kyle, of all of them, was never one to cut corners.

He works in silence, his eyes scanning the whiteboard, piecing together different ways it could have gone, looking for anything they might have missed.

“That’s the difference between me and Soap,” Kyle thinks, tapping a pencil against his lip. “He’s fearless, talented as hell. But he’s missing one thing.” He glances over at Price, who's lighting another cigar, studying the board with the same scrutiny.

“Ambition.”

Eventually, Kyle speaks, breaking the quiet tension in the room. “Our guy’s a small fish,” he says, tone low, matter-of-fact. “Their hideout was barely defended. They hardly put up a fight. Not enough weaponry for this to be a real smuggling op. They’re either completely underfunded, or we’re looking in the wrong place.”

Price, cigar clenched between his teeth, nods slowly. “Yeah. Probably both.” He blows out a cloud of smoke with a sigh, tapping the ashes into a tray. “We’ll know more when Laswell cracks the computer. I don’t think there’s anything else for us to figure out here. Go home, Garrick. Take the weekend.”

The younger Alpha checks his watch, barely suppressing a smirk. Perfect, I’ve got just enough time.

“Thank you, sir,” he replies with a nod. As he stands to leave, Price raises an eyebrow, amusement gleaming in his eyes.

“Hot date?”

Kyle tilts his head, eyes wide for a moment before smirking. “Nothing like that, sir. Just an...event.”

He leaves it at that, knowing Price won’t pry. Outside, he rolls his eyes as he quickly walks down the corridor to grab his suit and head out. “Why is this hard to admit?" He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "I’m just being efficient in finding the perfect mate, so I’m attending a speed dating event. It’s not weird.” He groans. “It shouldn’t be this hard to say I’m tired of waiting for the right one,” he mutters into the evening air.

The “event” is a charity meet-and-greet held at a high-end hotel downtown. Kyle doesn’t exactly care about the specifics; the cause is secondary. What matters is that only a certain type can get in. Young doctors, lawyers, professionals—the kind of people looking for something more than a weekend fling, with reputations they want to keep spotless. It’s a speed-dating event, for those not quite influential enough to break into the upper crust. Yet.

It isn’t exactly a place for military types, but Kyle isn’t exactly “military type.” He’s always been more, and he knows it. That’s why he opts for just a suit, instead of his No. 2 with insignias and all that. A mission requires blending in sometimes, and Gaz, ever the strategist, wants this to go perfectly.

So he had polished up his credentials, persuaded Laswell to give him a reference, submitted an application weeks ago, and got himself in the door.

Could’ve gone to a club, he thinks, only the smallest flicker of self-doubt crossing his mind as he adjusts the collar of his suit in the hotel lobby. But that isn’t him. He doesn’t want just any omega. No. He wants someone who’ll stand their ground, who can match his ambition, his standards—and, hell, maybe even challenge him a little. I’m here because I’m taking this seriously. I’m here to find my mate.

The bar is buzzing as he walks in, packed with men in sleek suits and women in expensive cocktail dresses, all talking in low, buzzing murmurs. Kyle moves with an instinctive, predatory caution, sizing up the room before sliding into place with a group of suited alphas at the bar. Leaning in, he joins the conversation easily, ordering a drink and glancing around the room, his gaze sharp, professional, always on alert.

“Anything good on the menu, boys?” he asks, flicking a dry smile. The other men laugh, cracking a few jokes about the omegas on the other side of the room. Kyle’s chuckle is polite, but he doesn’t hear their answers: his attention shifts, zeroing in on the main door as it opens.

Because there you are.

In one look, you erase everyone else in the room. Elegant but fierce, with a quiet confidence that draws his eye. You take your card from the attendant and move through the crowd with purpose, your expression unreadable, your head held high. Kyle inhales, feeling the faintest hint of your scent reach him. Hell.

The announcer’s voice comes on the speakers, urging the crowd to move towards the ballroom, but Kyle is already moving. Everyone else is unimportant; he isn’t about to leave you waiting, to let any other Alpha get the chance to even speak to you. As he closes the distance, his eyes lock on yours, a sincere smile playing on his lips as he holds out a hand.

“Didn’t expect to find the perfect omega on the first try, but here you are,” he says, his voice smooth, a touch gravelly as he holds your gaze. His hand is warm, strong. “Kyle Garrick, love. And you are?”