"Probably nothing. There's been increased security at several high-profile locations. Some chatter about potential hostile action during the holidays. But nothing specific, nothing actionable." He pulls me close, burying his face in my hair. "I'm probably being paranoid."
"You're never paranoid. You're experienced." I rest my head on his shoulder, fitting against him the way I always do. "But Sully and Sawyer have it covered. And we're on top of a mountain in Switzerland. What could possibly happen here?"
Hours pass in that perfect holiday haze—hot tub on the balcony, another round of sex that leaves us both breathless, a lazy afternoon nap wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of day that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.
We're getting dressed for dinner—Fitz insisting I wear the red dress he packed for me, the one that shows off the collar beautifully—when his phone rings. Not the normal ring. The emergency tone—the one that means lives are at stake.
"Sawyer," Fitz answers, his whole body going rigid. Every muscle locks. I know that stance—combat ready in an instant. "Talk to me."
His expression transforms from relaxed to cold fury in seconds. Complete, absolute. This is the man who led special operations. The warrior, not the lover.
"When? How many? Who's the target?" A pause while Sawyer speaks. "Fuck. Yeah, we're secure here. No, stay on mission. I'll handle this end." Another pause, longer this time.His jaw clenches. "Sawyer, I said handle it. We're on holiday. I'm not—" He stops, listening. "Fine. Keep me updated. Every hour."
I shake my head. "I get it. Someone's made a move. Who and where?"
He studies me for a long moment. The war plays out in his eyes—between keeping me safe and treating me like the capable partner I am. The partner who's pulled him out of bad situations more than once.
"Multiple locations across Europe. Coordinated strikes against soft targets. Hotels, resorts, shopping districts." I watch as he moves with military precision. "High casualties. No one's claimed responsibility yet."
Fear knots in my stomach. The hair on my arms stands up. "Here? Are we a target?"
"Unknown. But this resort fits the profile—wealthy international guests, symbolic location, difficult for local authorities to respond quickly due to weather and terrain." He straps on a shoulder holster, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency. Magazine out, check the rounds, chamber clear, reload. "Perfect target if you want maximum impact with minimum risk."
"We need to warn them."
"And say what? That we have intelligence from an illegal mercenary organization?" He's checking a second weapon now, ankle holster. "The best we can do is be prepared. And hope I'm wrong."
But he's not wrong. I've known him long enough to trust his instincts absolutely. When Fitz says something's wrong, people die if you don't listen.
"What's the play?" I ask, falling into the familiar rhythm of operational planning. My heartbeat slows, steadies. Fear transforms into focus.
"We go to dinner. We assess the situation. We identify exits and potential threats. And we're ready to move if this goes sideways." He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But Jordan, if I tell you to run, you run. No arguments. No heroics. Promise me."
I want to argue—I'm not some damsel who needs protecting—but I see the fear in his eyes. Not for himself. Never for himself. For me.
"I promise," I lie, and he pulls me close, his mouth fierce against mine. As the elevator doors open, I catch movement in the lobby beyond—more security guards than there were this morning, moving with purpose.
3
FITZ
The resort's main dining room is a study in luxury and paranoia. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over tables draped in white linen, each one set with more silverware than any reasonable meal requires. A string quartet plays something classical and soothing in the corner—Vivaldi, maybe, or one of those other dead composers Jordan would know by name. Wealthy guests in designer evening wear laugh and drink champagne, completely oblivious to the fact that coordinated terrorist attacks are happening across Europe.
I hate every second of it.
Not the luxury. I've earned the right to enjoy fine things. But the vulnerability. The exposure. The fact that we're sitting in a glass box with minimal exits and maximum visibility, surrounded by soft targets who'd panic at the first sign of real danger.
Jordan sits across from me, breathtaking in that red dress, the collar gleaming at her throat. To anyone watching, we're just another couple enjoying a romantic holiday dinner. They can't see the knife strapped to her thigh or the way her eyes are cataloging every exit and potential threat just like mine are. They don't notice how she's positioned herself with a clear lineto the door, or how her posture says "ready to move" despite the relaxed smile on her face.
My wife. My partner. My beautiful, reckless liability.
"Stop glaring at me," she murmurs, not looking up from her menu. "We're supposed to be on holiday, remember?"
"I'm not glaring."
"You have that look. The one that says you're planning which corner to stash me in when the shooting starts." She turns a page, casual as anything. "For the record, I vote against any corners. I'm armed and dangerous, remember?"
I lean back, forcing my shoulders to relax even though every instinct is screaming that something's wrong. "I was actually planning to throw you over my shoulder and run. Saves time."
