Con knew more than he should. But how? Not even the FBI knew her history.
“I know you have the skill for this op, Opal. The intellect, too. That’s not what I’m questioning.”
She waited, forcing her pulse to steady.
“I’m trying to see if you have the heart.”
The words lodged beneath her ribs. And in that instant, she knew what this was all about.
Con was ordering her to be the partner Sinner deserved. And that told her just how much Caius Sinclair meant to his team.
She gave him a single nod of understanding.
Without another word, Con tipped his head toward the door in dismissal.
In measured movements, she pushed away from the table and walked out. Using the mental map of the mansion she’d created when the women led her upstairs, she returned to the guest room they assigned her. The bag sat by the door, packed with borrowed things for her upcoming performance.
Soon she’d have all the details about her role, but the goal was simple—she and Sinner would force a terrorist out of hiding.
Voices rose, laughter carrying through the base. Someone called for more food. It sounded like a party—but it wasn’t a party so much as a family gathering.
The last time she’d been part of a situation that looked like a family, it ended with her mother dragging her out of bed in the dead of night and shoving her in the back seat of a car.
No explanations. No goodbyes.
She reached into her bag and checked her knife just to remind herself that no matter what happened, she wasn’t helpless.
But Con told her—in very few words—to be a team player. And not to put Sinner in jeopardy. What Con didn’t know was she already lived by a code.
Don’t be the reason someone else doesn’t make it out.
“I hear you, Smith,” she murmured.
When everything went to hell, she’d get him out.
Even if it meant she didn’t.
THREE
Sinner had already organized the kitchen twice.
The pantry didn’t need it. Neither did the shelves or the drawers. Everything in the Blackout Charlie base ran clean and efficiently, same as the men who lived here. The kitchen was no exception—it was his domain, and he kept it tight.
Right now, he just needed to occupy his hands while he waited for Con to call him to the war room. No time to hit reps in the gym or fire rounds at a target. So instead he lined up knives by length and faced all the cans in the pantry label-forward.
Kitchens grounded him. Always had. As a kid, it gave him a task to focus on when his thoughts started circling instead of landing. That habit carried into his life in Blackout.
When they signed up, they were given death certificates, their identities stripped away so they could operate like ghosts. Living that way, with no ties to family, old friends or the world, could fuck a man up. Sinner didn’t always know how to exist outside of missions.
But he knew his way around a kitchen.
A quiet footstep coming from behind made him glance around. The last person he expected to see walk into his kitchen was Opal.
She didn’t speak, just took him in and the overly-neat surroundings.
“If you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich.”
One thin, dark brow winged upward. “Why would you do that?”
