As they climbed the stairs to their respective rooms, Sarah paused at her doorway. "Griff?"
"Yeah?"
"After Charleston... after this is over..." She hesitated, then shook her head. "Never mind. Good night."
"Good night, Sarah."
He watched her disappear into her room, wondering what she'd been about to say. Probably something about staying in touch, about friendship forged in crisis. The kind of thing people said when they were trying to be polite about inevitable goodbyes.
In his own room, Griff lay on Doc's expensive sheets,working out the kinks in his shoulder and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking, Griff admitted the truth he'd been avoiding. He was falling for her. Hard. Completely. Hopelessly.
Which made keeping her safe even more important. She had a life to return to, a future to build. His job was to make sure she lived to see it.
Even if that future didn't include him.
23
Sarah staredat her reflection in Doc's guest bathroom mirror, adjusting the tactical vest for the third time.
What am I doing?
In a few hours, she'd be driving toward Charleston with a man who could probably kill someone with a paperclip, to meet a team of elite operators who solved problems with precision and violence. And what did she bring to this equation? A talent for spreadsheets and an unfortunate tendency to panic-babble when nervous.
"Lord," she whispered to her reflection, "I really hope You know what You're doing here. Because I have no idea."
The smell of bacon drew her downstairs, where she found Doc bustling around the kitchen with the energy of someone who'd been awake for hours. She was dressed in what Sarah was beginning to recognize as her "mission casual" look—designer jeans, silk blouse, and the familiar pearls that probably cost more than Sarah's car.
"Good morning, dear," Doc said without turning around. "Sleep well?"
"Define well." Sarah accepted the offered coffee muggratefully. "I kept having dreams about dislocating my thumb. Which is probably not what normal people dream about."
"Normal is overrated. Effective is what matters." Doc flipped bacon with the same precision she'd probably once used to flip enemy operatives. "You look troubled. Second thoughts?"
Sarah slumped onto a barstool, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. "Not second thoughts. More like... hundredth thoughts. I keep thinking about what happens if I mess this up. If I'm too slow, or I freeze, or I do something stupid that gets someone killed."
"Ah." Doc set down her spatula and turned to face her fully. "The burden of competence."
"The what?"
"You're worried because you care. Because you understand the stakes. That's precisely why you won't mess this up." Doc's eyes, sharp as her intelligence, softened slightly. "Do you know what my first real mission was?"
Sarah shook her head.
"Prague, 1987. I was supposed to be observing only, gathering financial intelligence on arms dealers. Instead, I ended up having to extract an asset when everything went sideways. I was so terrified I threw up twice before we even reached the safe house."
"You? But you seem so... unflappable."
"Years of practice, dear. But that night in Prague, I was convinced I'd get us all killed. Do you know what saved us?"
"Your training?"
"My terror." Doc smiled. "I was so afraid of failing that I thought through every possible contingency three times. I checked and double-checked everything. Fear made me careful, and careful kept us alive."
Sarah considered this, taking a sip of coffee that wassomehow exactly the right temperature. "So you're saying my anxiety is actually a feature, not a bug?"
"I'm saying that anyone who isn't at least a little terrified before walking into danger is either incredibly skilled or incredibly stupid. Griffin wouldn't trust you with his team if you were stupid."
The mention of Griff sent a warm flutter through Sarah's chest that had nothing to do with the coffee. "He doesn't really trust me. He's just... protecting me."
