The following morning, just after dawn, the county office had wrapped up its evidence collection inside the yellow caution tape.
Non-scene area: the open-plan kitchen of the house.
"Sir, the surveillance footage is crystal clear. It's already been submitted to the district attorney. He shouldn't have any issues with it."
Through the jagged shards of the shattered window, two local officers stood with cigarettes dangling from their lips, studying the man who looked remarkably unfazed after surviving a high-intensity illegal home invasion. One of the older officers recognized the chain around his neck—the kind used to hold dog tags.
"First off, he's a veteran. Captain rank. Unit classified for security reasons."
But when the older officer caught sight of the tattoo on the man's inner left forearm—a pair of playing cards, the 7 of clubs and the 2 of diamonds—his toothbrush mustache began to quiver.
"Second, you know what that ink on his arm means, rookie?"
The veteran officer wiped his mustache, slipped on sunglasses that seemed out of place in the dim blue morning light, and hung them on his gaunt face. Then he continued:
"That design comes from Texas Hold'em. 7-2 is the worst possible starting hand in the game… Usually, only soldiers who've survived an 'impossible mission' get it tattooed—as a reminder of what they lived through."
In the kitchen, still wearing a gray T-shirt and the sweatpants he'd slept in, John Hastings poured himself a finger of Jim Beam. He pulled a beautifully crafted Damascus-steel chef's knife from the block and halved a fresh tomato on the cutting board.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the lawyer conducting the recorded interview beside him. Once he'd finished recounting the incident, he launched into one of his characteristically off-topic tangents:
"How many minutes does it take to prepare a proper full English breakfast, ma'am?"
The lawyer, long accustomed to his conversational quirks, rolled her eyes but took a deep breath and kept the recorder running, shifting to a more relaxed grip.
"Seriously? You want to talk about that now?"
She arched her thick, Middle Eastern brows and watched as her former superior poured her a glass of bourbon, gesturing with his eyes for her to continue the interview.
"Twenty minutes. We might as well use the time wisely."
John deftly washed and sliced the mushrooms, then stacked thumb-thick slices of white bread on a platter for later.
"Separate the sausages and gently score the skins to prevent bursting."
In the living room, paramedics wheeled a stretcher out the front door. Federal agents crouched over the darkened grid-pattern carpet, gloved hands lifting a G36 assault rifle that had belonged to one of the armed intruders. They cleared the magazine, flicked the selector to full-auto, and exchanged wary glances.
"Not too much olive oil—just enough to coat the bottom of the pan."
After heating the oil and testing it with the back of his hand, John laid in two thick handmade sausages, turned the gas to medium, and began searing them with a wooden spatula.
The agents bagged the empty casings they'd pried from the carpet, shaking their heads in disbelief. None of the weapons used by the intruders were civilian-legal—and that wasn't even the most sobering part.
"At the same time, add the bacon strips and cook until crisp."
Sizzle. Golden bubbles popped along the edges of the bacon. John pressed down with the spatula, driving out the moisture.
One agent, perched on a wobbly three-legged chair, rubbed his temples in frustration. He fiddled with the night-vision device pried from a raider's Kevlar helmet, flipping through settings to no avail, then opened Google to search the model number.
"Make room, then pour in the baked beans to warm through."
John tore open an old-fashioned can, tipped the beans into the pan, and stirred occasionally.
Outside the living room, another Dodge Charger pulled up. A senior weapons and armor specialist stepped out, waved off the junior agents with a weary gesture, and approached. Catching sight of the homeowner calmly preparing breakfast in the kitchen, he pressed a palm to his forehead in momentary helplessness and shock. Gloving up, he examined the evidence in the agent's hands, then let that hand drift to cover his eyes as he sighed and planted the other on his hip.
"Next, the eggs—sunny-side up to keep the yolks runny."
Amid clouds of steam, John continued cooking as though nothing had happened.
Outside the cordon, officers leaning against their cruisers caught whiffs of the aromas drifting from the house and stared dreamily into the distance. Empty stomachs growled; sirens wailed in the background. They could only nurse their Marlboros for comfort.
"Then the tomatoes and mushrooms, and toast the bread to soak up the excess fat."
In a fresh burst of steam, John reached into the pan to check everything, making sure each ingredient was perfectly positioned in its sheen of oil. He gave a few twists of the pepper mill, then pinched salt between his fingers and scattered it evenly.
The scent of toasting wheat reached the noses of everyone hunched over evidence in the living room. They grumbled under their breath but kept snapping photos, logging items, and coordinating with superiors. The weapons expert adjusted his half-rim glasses, stared at the fully disassembled automatic rifle, propped his cheek on his fist, and pulled a face that said he dreaded the report he'd have to write.
"Until all the flavors have melded…"
Finally, John turned off the burner, lifted the pan, and carefully plated two generous portions.
Under the astonished gazes of everyone present, the homeowner and the lawyer took seats on high stools at the breakfast bar and picked up their knives and forks.
"You've got to be kidding me… John, for God's sake."
The lawyer, starving under the hungry stares of the room, speared a piece of bacon and muttered her complaint.
"Hmm… damn."
The agents and specialists closest to the kitchen swallowed in unison and paused their work.
The lawyer chewed slowly, then raised an approving brow at John.
"This is hands-down the best bacon I've ever had in my life."