I was called a worthless failure by my parents, then broke open the shed and found the grandfather they had left to die.

Christmas came and went on the ranch, a quiet, perfect day of snow, hot cocoa, and too many presents. Lila and Jake came out again, Torres and his family, even a few of the other agents from Unit 7. We ate a huge dinner, laughed until our sides hurt, exchanged gifts, and sat around the fireplace late into the night, telling old war stories.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly happy. Truly at peace.

But peace never lasts forever for people like us.

On New Year’s Eve, I got the call from the new Director of National Intelligence — a good man, a friend of Grandpa’s, someone we trusted implicitly.

“Claire,” he said, his voice tight. “We have a situation. A big one. Remember that group of domestic terrorists we took down last year? The ones who were planning to bomb the Capitol? We just got intel that their remaining cell is planning a massive attack on the New Year’s Eve celebration in Times Square. They have enough explosives to take out three city blocks. They’re gonna detonate it at midnight. We need you. We need Unit 7. You’re the only team we trust to handle this fast, quiet, and right.”

I looked at Grandpa, who was sitting across the room, watching the snow fall outside. He could tell by the look on my face what was happening. He nodded, standing up, already reaching for his coat.

“We’re in,” I said into the phone. “Tell the team to meet us at the Bozeman airport in 30 minutes. We’re wheels up in an hour.”

We landed in New York at 9 PM, two hours until midnight. The city was packed — a million people crammed into Times Square, laughing, drinking, waiting for the ball to drop. Security was everywhere, but it wasn’t enough. The terrorists were already inside the crowd, hidden, the bombs planted somewhere we couldn’t see.

Our command center was a small office in a building overlooking the square. We had drones in the air, thermal scanning, facial recognition running on every camera in the area, agents spread out through the crowd, plainclothes, blending in.

“Got a hit,” one of our analysts said, pointing to the screen. “Four men matching the descriptions. They just entered the Paramount Hotel on 46th Street. Thermal shows they’re carrying large, heavy bags. High explosive residue detected on their clothes.”

“Torres,” I said, grabbing my vest. “Take the entry team. Breach the hotel. Take them down quiet. No shots fired if we can help it. We don’t want to start a panic.”

“On it,” Torres said, already heading for the door.

I turned to Grandpa. “You stay here. Monitor the comms. Help the analysts — ”

“Like hell I will,” he said, pulling his old service pistol from his bag, checking the magazine. “I’m going with you. Those kids in the crowd didn’t sign up to die tonight. I’m not sitting up here hiding while you do all the work.”

I hesitated for a split second, then nodded. He was right. We were a team. Always.

We met Torres and the team at the back entrance of the Paramount Hotel. The place was packed with partygoers, music blaring, people laughing, completely unaware of the danger they were in. We took the service elevator up to the 12th floor, where the terrorists had rented three rooms.

“Breach on three,” I whispered, my pistol raised. “One. Two. Three.”

Torres kicked the door open. We poured into the room, and I froze.

The room was empty.

No terrorists. No bombs. Just a few empty pizza boxes, a couple of sleeping bags, and a small TV playing a old movie.

“Clear!” one of the agents called from the second room. “Empty!”

“Third room’s empty too!” another yelled.

My stomach dropped. It was a trap. A decoy. The terrorists weren’t here. They’d let us see them, let us follow them here, to pull us away from the real target.

“Command,” I said into my comms, my voice tight. “The hotel is a decoy. Repeat, decoy. They’re not here. They’re — ”

A massive explosion shook the building.

The lights went out. The floor tilted. People screamed. Glass shattered everywhere. I grabbed Grandpa, pulling him to the ground, covering his body with mine as debris rained down around us.

When the shaking stopped, I pushed myself up, coughing, dust filling my lungs. “Grandpa! You okay?”

He nodded, sitting up, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead. “I’m fine. What the hell was that?”

“Bomb,” Torres said, running into the room, his face white. “It went off in the subway station under 42nd Street. We’re getting reports of casualties. A lot of them. And the terrorists just released a video. They say they have three more bombs. One under the stage where the ball drops. One in the subway under 7th Avenue. One in the crowd. They’re gonna detonate them all at midnight. They say it’s revenge for the people we arrested last year.”

I checked my watch. 10:47 PM. One hour and 13 minutes until midnight.

“Okay,” I said, my mind racing. “New plan. Torres, take half the team to the ball stage. Scan for the bomb. Grandpa, you take the tech team down to the subway under 7th. Use the thermal scanners. Find that bomb. I’ll take the rest of the team into the crowd. We find the third bomb. We find the terrorists. No mistakes. No more decoys. Move!”

We split up. I ran down the stairs, bursting out onto 7th Avenue, the crowd even thicker now, people starting to panic, rumors of the explosion spreading fast. My team and I spread out, moving through the sea of people, scanning with our hand-held detectors, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

11:15 PM. No sign of the bomb. No sign of the terrorists.

11:30 PM. Torres called. “Found the bomb under the stage. Big one. We’re disarming it now. It’s gonna be close.”

11:42 PM. Grandpa called. “Got the subway bomb. Disarmed it. We’re good down here.”

One bomb left. The one in the crowd. 18 minutes until midnight.

I was moving through the crowd near the front, right by the stage, when my detector beeped. Loud. Sharp. Right in front of me.

A man. Mid-30s, wearing a heavy winter coat, even though it wasn’t that cold. A large bulge under his coat. His eyes were darting around, his hands in his pockets, clutching something.

The bomber.

I moved toward him, slowly, not wanting to startle him. He saw me coming. His eyes went wide. He reached into his coat, pulling out a detonator, his thumb hovering over the button.

“STAY BACK!” he screamed. The crowd around us scattered, screaming, running. “I’ll blow it! I’ll blow all of us up! This country deserves to burn for what it did to my brothers!”

I stopped 10 feet from him, my hands raised, my pistol still holstered. “Easy. I’m not here to hurt you. Just put the detonator down. We can talk about this.”

“Talk?” he laughed, a wild, desperate sound. “You killed my brothers! You killed my friends! There’s nothing to talk about! I’m gonna blow this whole place up! I’m gonna take a thousand of you with me! It’ll be glorious!”

I glanced at my watch. 11:57 PM. Three minutes.

Behind him, I saw Grandpa creeping through the crowd, moving slow, quiet, the bomber completely unaware of him. Grandpa had a Taser in his hand, raised, ready to fire.

“Your brothers didn’t have to die,” I said, keeping the bomber’s attention on me, my voice calm, steady. “They chose this path. You don’t have to follow them. You can still walk away. Put the detonator down. Let these people go home to their families. Let yourself go home.”

“Shut up!” he screamed, his finger pressing harder on the button. “Shut up! I’m gonna do it! I’m — ”

Grandpa fired the Taser.

Two prongs hit the bomber square in the chest. He seized up, his body going rigid, the detonator flying from his hand. I dove for it, catching it in mid-air, slamming it to the ground and crushing it under my boot just as the clock struck midnight.

10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The ball dropped. Fireworks erupted over the city, lighting up the sky in brilliant red, white, and blue. The crowd cheered, screaming, hugging each other, completely unaware of how close they’d come to death.

I sat down on the curb, gasping for air, my hands shaking. Grandpa sat down beside me, putting his arm around my shoulders, as Torres and the team ran over, the bomber in cuffs.

“All bombs disarmed, Captain,” Torres said, grinning, out of breath. “All terrorists in custody. No civilian casualties. We did it.”

I looked up at the fireworks, at the laughing, cheering crowd, at Grandpa beside me, his face streaked with soot and a cut on his forehead, but smiling bigger than I’d ever seen him smile.

We’d done it. Again.

“Happy New Year, kiddo,” Grandpa said, squeezing my shoulder.