Later, when the room had gone quiet and dawn light spilled across his chest, I traced the line of his shoulder with my fingertips. He was already half-asleep, one arm still locked around me like he wasn’t ready to let go.
“You’re not getting rid of me,” I murmured.
He smiled, eyes still closed. “Wouldn’t dare.”
For the first time in a long time, I believed him.
And for the first time since Hydra took everything from me, I let myself believe in tomorrow.
73
Beckett
The smell of coffee hit me before the light did.
For a few blissful seconds, I forgot the world outside existed. Elara was still curled against me, her hand resting over my chest, her breathing slow and even. The gray morning filtered through the thin curtains, and I let myself watch her longer than I should have. She’d been fire and fury last night, but now—like this—she looked like peace had finally found her.
The sound of quiet cursing broke the spell. Cyclone. Figures.
I slid out of bed carefully, pulled on a T-shirt, and pants and followed the low hum of his frustration to the kitchen.
He was hunched over the table, tablet guts spread out like a crime scene—wires, chips, and an old hard drive cracked open beside a mug of untouched coffee. His hair stuck up in every direction, eyes bloodshot but alive.
“Morning, sunshine,” I said, grabbing a cup. “You look like hell. Did you get any sleep?”
He didn’t look up. “You’re one to talk. You know how many layers of encryption this bastard had? Hydra wasn’t playing with off-the-shelf tech. Grand’s running military-grade black channels.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s either got friends in high places or he’s stealing toys from people who do.” Cyclone tapped the screen, and the tablet came to life again—static, then lines of coded text scrolling like rain. “I pulled fragments from the drive. Cross-referenced it with the comms we intercepted last night. They’re moving.”
I leaned closer. “Where?”
He brought up a map—Southern Europe, grainy satellite overlay. Red circles dotted the Mediterranean coastline. “Hydra’s retreating from the city. Grand’s consolidating everything into four hubs. Italy. Serbia. Morocco. And here—” he zoomed in—“Tunisian coast. This one’s the nerve center. The coordinates match shipments listed as ‘medical aid’ but the manifests are fake. You see these containers?”
I frowned. “Weapons?”
“Worse,” Cyclone said quietly. “People.”
I set the cup down hard. “Trafficking routes.”
He nodded grimly. “And Grand’s running it like a business. According to this, the next transfer leaves port in forty-eight hours. If we can hit the hub before that, we can cut off his funding and expose his network. But it’s going to be loud.”
River walked in then, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I heard the word ‘loud.’ What’d I miss?”
Cyclone turned the tablet toward him. “Grand’s not hiding anymore. He’s expanding. These hubs—they’re recruitment and distribution. Hydra’s not just a hit squad. They’re an empire.”
River whistled low. “Hell of a morning.”
“Where’s Gage and Oliver?” I asked.
“Securing the vehicles,” River said. “And arguing about who gets first shower privileges.”
I smirked. “Figures.”
Elara stepped into the doorway then, hair still damp, tight jeans and beautiful. For a second, the whole room forgot what danger tasted like. She crossed over to the table, her expression sharpening the moment she saw the map.
“Grand’s network,” Cyclone said, glancing up at her. “This is how he keeps control. Money, power, silence. If we break his supply lines, we cripple him.”
