Bull shook his head. No one in their right mind would’ve approved a crazy survivalist for adoption—not that Mako had wanted kids. However, nearly twenty-five years ago, when the sarge was in LA for a teammate’s funeral, he’d heard screams from the next-door foster care home and entered to find an unconscious man with his pants around his ankles and four terrified boys. Caz was still holding the baseball bat. Figuring no one would take their word against their foster father’s, the four had planned to run and live on the streets—where most of them had been before. Mako offered to take the boys to Alaska and raise them himself.

Bull shook his head at the memory. That pretty much summed up Mako’s core belief—a man protected the weak.

The sarge kept his word and raised them to stand on their own. To be strong and honorable. To fight together as a team and then as brothers.

After his “sons” left to enlist, Mako’s PTSD and paranoia worsened, and eventually, they’d convinced him to move to Rescue where he had an old military buddy. His paranoia wouldn’t let him live in town, so they’d pooled their resources and bought up a good portion of the lakefront. Their five homes formed a half-circle around a communal space that faced the lake.

Mako built his place, planning to live upstairs and use the downstairs for family. He’d wanted room for them all to gather for meals and evenings. The equipment in the weight room and dojo rivaled some gyms.

He ruffled Gryff’s fur. “I miss that tough old guy.”

Gryff whined in sympathy and licked Bull’s hand.

A year and a half ago, Mako had chosen a quick death rather than a slow one to cancer, but damn, Bull would’ve liked to have said goodbye. To have told the sarge how much he meant to him. To all of them.

But hell, Mako had known. He might have been a crazy survivalist, but he could also read people. Miss you, Sarge.

Time to work—Mako’s answer for all ills.

A couple of hours later, Bull had a list of what needed to be eaten soon and what should be restocked. Odd how all the packages of salmon steak and chicken were gone, leaving less popular items like soup bones—which, come to think of it…

He pulled out a package and grinned at Gryff. “Guess what you get after it thaws a bit.”

“Hey, Bull. You in here?” That was Gabe’s voice.

“In the pantry,” Bull called.

Gabe’s footsteps approached the kitchen. “The chickens are laying like crazy. Maybe you could make deviled eggs? Audrey and I have older eggs in the fridge.”

Because hardboiled eggs from fresh eggs were fucking impossible to shell.

“Sure, I can do that.” Bull left the walk-in pantry, followed by Gryff.

Gryff stopped dead at seeing Gabe.