“She shouldn’t be part of this.” I grind my teeth. “That shop is meant to be her fuckin’ safe space. Now it’s a goddamn crime scene. And she’s stuck in my cabin like some WITSEC castoff.”My knuckles whiten as I grip the strap of the duffel bag. “And I can’t tell her when it will be over.”
“She mean something to you?” His face is unreadable, gauging my reaction.
I turn abruptly, pacing to the window like a caged wolf. My reflection in the rain-streaked glass shows the storm clouds in my eyes. “She’s complicated,” I admit grudgingly, leaning against the wall. “Didn’t plan for this.” Silence fills the room, interrupted by the sound of distant thunder.
He snorts. “No one ever does, kid. Only two things matter right now. Keeping her safe and putting bullets in every last one of those Russian fucks.” He levels me with a look. “The rest? That comes after.”
I tap my fingers on my bicep. I hate that his logic makes sense. That doesn’t stop the swirl of emotions I’ve had since climbing through her window. I drag a hand down my face, stubble rasping over my palm. “She’s a civilian.” It’s a weak argument, a poor attempt to deny what we both know is already there.
He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “Bullshit.” He rubs at a scar on his eyebrow, a souvenir from our mission in Baghdad years ago. “You wouldn’t be this twisted over ‘just a civilian.’ Hell, you wouldn’t have dragged her to your damn fortress in the woods if that’s all she was.” He leans forward. “That woman got under your skin faster than shrapnel. And judging by the way you’re grinding your teeth? You don’t know whether to hate it or thank God for it.”
The torrent hammering the roof is nature’s perfect soundtrack to my internal war. I exhale and look up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers. “She deserves better than this life.” My gaze falls to him. “Better than me showin’ up covered in blood or disappearin’ for weeks on end.” I press on the scarbelow my collarbone, an old nervous habit. “But I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt her again.”
He watches me quietly, while I wrestle with myself. I’m torn between my usual ironclad control and the raw emotions I’ve been desperately trying to push down.
“Griffin,” he says, sighing. His tone is surprisingly gentle. “She make that decision herself? Or you making it for her?”
My shoulders stiffen. His words hit me like a shotgun blast, knocking the air from my lungs. I look away, staring out the window. “It’s not that simple.”
He waits, a lifetime of experience and a decade in the special forces taught him how to handle stubborn men. Even the most bullheaded bastards will break eventually. He leans forward again this time resting his elbows on his knees. The movement is deliberate, calculated, making me feel cornered without having to raise his voice. “Sure it is,” he says simply. “You’re just too damn scared to let her.”
My head snaps up at that, the lightning outside punctuating my movement. “You think I’m fuckin’ scared?”
“Terrified.” He doesn’t flinch. “Because the second she looks at you and says yes, you won’t have any excuse left to run.” He drives the knife deeper. “And we both know that scares you more than any damn Spetsnaz ever could.”
His words hit too close to home, smashing into me like a battering ram against the walls I’ve spent too long building. The muscle in my cheek works furiously, as if I’m holding in a torrent of words that could burn the whole world to ash. I’m not used to being vulnerable. It’s a foreign emotion that feels like I’m drowning without a lifeline. “That’s rich, comin’ from a man who never let himself get attached to anyone.” I cross my arms. “Spare me your fuckin’ lecture and I sure as hell don’t need your judgment.”
He doesn’t take the bait. He’s the one who trained me. “Just calling it like I see it,” he drawls. His demeanor is infuriatingly calm in the wake of my anger. He tilts his head. “And believe me, kid, I’m not judging you. But you need to pull your head out of your ass.”
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates. The screen lights up with Jax’s name and more importantly, intel. I scan the text quickly, my mood shifting from barely contained frustration to sharp focus. “Location confirmed,” I mutter. “Sokolov’s movin’. Abandoned warehouse by the river docks.” I thumb off a quick reply before shoving it in my pocket and grabbing my vest. “Tell your boys to gear up.” I toss the keys to him. “We move in thirty.”
He stands, grabbing his own weapons and gear. “Copy that,” he replies. He heads for the door. He pauses, glancing back at me. “And Griffin?”
I look up at him, one gun in the holster, another in my hand. “Yeah?”
His expression hardens, the ghost of our argument lingering like gun smoke. “Don’t let it cloud your judgment out there.” His voice is gruff but not unkind. “Sokolov’s men shoot just as straight whether you’re pissed or not.” Then he turns and strides out, barking orders into his phone.
I close my eyes, letting myself sit with it. Right now, I have a job to do and that’s ending this so she can get back to her quiet life. The life she had before I walked into it. Despite the raging storm outside and the one I’m battling internally, I turn my mind to the hunt. I grab the rest of my gear and head out.
The warehouse is dark and reeks of mildew. I slip through the shadows, gun raised. Every sense is heightened, muscles coiled. I keep to the dark corners, scanning for any signs of movement.From my vantage point, I can see Bishop and his crew securing the perimeter. A few yards away, a set of double doors stands open and voices reverberate inside. We’re locating all the exits and choosing the best vantage points.
I creep closer, my heart rate rising with the tension and anticipation as adrenaline spikes through my veins. Pressing myself flat against the wall, I make out a few of Sokolov’s men, their shapes moving through the dim light. One of them laughs, the sound echoes off the industrial steel. My finger twitches near the trigger. I catch a few snippets of Russian.
“...loading trucks by 03:00...”
“...boss wants the woman dealt with first...”
My blood turns to ice. The woman. Seriph. A body moves inside the doorway. I don’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, I pivot and slam the butt of my pistol into the man’s temple. Catching him before he hits the ground, I drag him into a corner and lay him down.
Bishop’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “All positions set.” I step over the unconscious body and hone in on Sokolov’s silhouette at the far end of the warehouse.
I move like a phantom, slipping deeper into the darkness. My boots make no sound against the concrete. The dull lighting casts long shadows, perfect for my approach. I count five hostiles—two flanking him with rifles, three loading crates onto a truck. The stench of diesel fuel pierces the air. That’s when I see them, Stepan and Viktor. They are standing near an open crate full of weapons, laughing and joking like they didn’t leave Seriph broken and bleeding in an alley less than two days ago.
Jax’s voice crackles through my earpiece, drawing my attention. “Thermals show twelve total, four upstairs by the office windows.”
My grip on my pistol tightens as I flatten into a stack of pallets. I watch Sokolov light a cigar with unhurried arrogance.The man exhales smoke like he owns the goddamn world instead of hiding in some rotting building while his empire collapses around him. Everyone’s in position. The warehouse is surrounded. My thumb flicks the safety off with a click.
My voice rings out over the comms like a call to battle. “Light it up.”
