"Never alone," he agrees, and carefully shifts us so we're lying down, him spooned behind me, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist.
His warmth surrounds me. The adrenaline finally drains away, and my body goes heavy. Safe. I'm safe. His heartbeat thuds against my back, steady and strong. The last thing I register before sleep takes me is his hand tightening around mine.
7
FITZ
Idon't sleep. Can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jordan with a gun pointed at her head, stepping in front of Amara Okafor, falling from the chair with blood on her face. The images loop endlessly—her defiance, the leader's hand around her throat, that split second when I thought the shot had found its mark.
My heart hammers even now, hours later, lying in the dark with her in my arms. The adrenaline won't fade. My body is still primed for combat, muscles tense, ready to fight threats that no longer exist.
She's breathing deeply beside me, her body finally relaxed after the spanking and the emotional release. But there are still questions. Who planned it? How did they know Grace Okafor would be here? How did they also know about Jordan and me?
Too many coincidences. And in my line of work, coincidences usually mean someone orchestrated the circumstances.
I catalog the facts methodically, the way I was trained. The terrorists knew Jordan's history with the Chibok girls. They knew Grace would trigger her protective instincts. They knew we'd be at this resort, on this specific holiday. Thatlevel of intelligence requires resources, planning, and access to information that should be secure.
Someone wanted Jordan in that ballroom. Wanted her vulnerable. Wanted her dead.
My jaw clenches. My arm tightens around her waist automatically, and she stirs slightly, her breath catching.
"Shh," I murmur against her hair. "Sleep, love."
She settles again, trusting me even in unconsciousness to keep her protected. The weight of that trust is crushing. I failed tonight. Let her get hurt. Let her put herself in the line of fire. Twice.
The only reason she's alive is luck and the quick thinking of a former Royal Marine named Paul. Not my planning. Not my protection. Luck.
Unacceptable.
My phone vibrates silently on the nightstand. Sawyer. Of course he'd be working through the night, chasing leads while the trail is still warm.
I ease away from Jordan carefully, watching to make sure she's still deeply asleep before I slip out of bed. The borrowed sweatpants and t-shirt I'm wearing do nothing against the cold as I step onto the small balcony. It's freezing—barely past midnight—and snow is falling again, thick flakes that muffle sound and turn the world into a monochrome painting.
I close the door behind me, keeping my voice low. "Talk to me."
"You're not going to like it," Sawyer replies without preamble. His voice is tight, the way it gets when he's been staring at intelligence reports for too long. "The leader Jordan shot? His name was Graham Warner. Former British Army, dishonorably discharged five years ago."
Warner. The name means nothing to me, but if he has a military record, we can trace his connections. "Let me guess. Selling his services to the highest bidder."
"Exactly. And his most recent employer was a shell corporation we've been tracking—one with ties to several groups, including Boko Haram." Papers rustle on his end. "But here's where it gets interesting. The operation was too sophisticated for Boko Haram alone."
"Professional planning."
"Military-grade explosives, coordination across multiple countries. Someone with serious resources and intelligence capabilities helped plan this."
"Who?" I'm watching the snow fall, my mind already running scenarios. Shell corporations are designed to hide ownership. Following the money will take time we might not have.
"We're still digging. But Sully found something in Warner's encrypted communications." He pauses. "The target wasn't just Grace Okafor. It was Jordan."
Ice floods my veins. The falling snow blurs in my vision. "Explain."
"The Okafor girl was bait. They knew Jordan couldn't resist trying to save her."
"How long have they been tracking her?"
"Months, at least. They knew about her work with the Chibok girls. They knew about Baker Street. They knew when you'd be on holiday and where."
The implications settle over me like a weight. Months of surveillance. Of watching my wife, learning her patterns, exploiting her greatest strength—her inability to turn away from someone in danger.
