“Understood. No assets in proximity.” He rubs his forehead, fatigue evident in every line of his body. “Hold for location assessment.”
He covers the receiver with his hand. “Ghost has no one who can reach us quickly. He’s checking with Guardian HRS, calling in favors.”
“What’s Guardian HRS?”
“Hostage Rescue Specialists. Allies. Good people.” He returns to the call. “Ghost. Still here.”
The wait stretches for minutes, silence broken only by Cooper’s measured breathing and the ambient sounds of machinery humming beyond the concrete walls. When the voice returns on the line, Cooper straightens slightly.
“Copy that. ETA ten hours. Confirm extraction point?” He listens, nodding. “I know it. Can reach. Medical support confirmed?”
Whatever the answer, it satisfies him. His shoulders relax marginally.
“Understood. Whisper out.”
The phone returns to its cradle with a soft click that seems to seal our fate. Ten hours until extraction. Ten hours of hiding, waiting, hoping Phoenix doesn’t expand their search parameters to include these underground tunnels.
“Well?” My voice sounds smaller than intended.
“Guardian team is en route. Extraction in ten hours from theWashington Monument maintenance tunnels.” Cooper leans back in the chair, eyes closing briefly. “They’re bringing medical support.”
“Ten hours.” The time frame stretches impossibly ahead. “Can you make it that long?”
His eyes open, finding mine with stubborn determination. “Have to.”
NINETEEN
Eliza
SURRENDER
Cooper’ssimple answer carries the weight of both our lives. He’ll endure because there’s no alternative—because my survival depends on his, because mission parameters demand it, because failing isn’t an option he’ll entertain.
“Let me see your shoulder.” I turn to him, determined to do what I can to ease his pain.
This time, he doesn’t argue. His tactical vest comes off with difficulty, each movement deliberate as he tries to minimize the strain on his wounded shoulder. When he finally leans back against the chair, exhaustion etches deep lines around his mouth.
I work automatically. The wound looks worse—angrier, the edges puffier than before. Not infected yet, but moving in that direction.
Cooper watches my face as I work, reading every reaction. “How bad?”
“You’ll live.” The words come out lighter than I feel. “But you’re not winning any beauty contests with this shoulder.”
His mouth quirks into something almost resembling a smile. “Never cared about pretty.”
“No, you care about effective.” My fingers smooth a fresh bandage over cleaned skin. “And right now, you’re about sixty percent effective.”
“Sixty-five.”
“Sixty-three, maybe, and that’s my final offer.”
The absurdity of haggling over his combat effectiveness while hiding from Phoenix operatives in an abandoned maintenance room strikes us both at the same time. Cooper’s laughter comes out rough, almost rusty, like he’s forgotten how it works.
The sound transforms his face, softening the hard lines of tactical focus into something more human. My hands freeze against his skin, caught by the unexpected vulnerability of that laugh.
“What?” he asks, noticing my stillness.
“Nothing. Just … You rarely laugh.”
