“This isn’t a movie,” I said.
“Exactly my point.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “Fine. Stay close.”
Inside,the air was thick with dust and the faint chemical sting of acetone. I swept my light across the walls—metal drums, workbenches, scattered tools.
Then the beam caught something that made my stomach twist.
Crates. Dozens of them. Marked in Spanish with chemical names I recognized from DEA reports. Fentyal.
“Cooking components,” Hawk said behind me. “They’re already set up.”
He stepped around me, studying the ground. His hand brushed my arm as he pointed to fresh boot prints in the dust. “They were here recently. Maybe still are. Don’t touch anything, it could kill you.”
The click of a safety being released froze us both.
“Drop your weapons,” a voice barked from the shadows.
Two men stepped out, rifles aimed straight at us.
Hawk’s tone went low and calm. “Julia, do exactly what I say.”
I lifted my hands slowly, heart hammering. “We’re local law enforcement,” I said. “You’re trespassing on—”
The taller one laughed. “You shouldn’t have come, detective. Leave us alone and we won’t bother anyone.”
Everything happened fast after that—Hawk lunged, kicking the rifle barrel up. I dove behind a crate as a shot cracked the air. Wood splintered beside my head. I returned fire, hitting one man in the shoulder. The other bolted toward the back tunnel.
Hawk grabbed my wrist. “We have to go. There’ll be more.”
We sprinted for the exit, bullets echoing off the metal walls. Outside, the sky had turned dark, and thunder rumbled in the distance. We ducked behind the truck, breathless.
He looked at me, eyes blazing. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I panted. “You?”
He grinned. “Never better.”
The adrenaline crashed, and suddenly I realized how close he was—his chest brushing mine, his hand still gripping my arm. The air between us felt electric.
“Next time,” I whispered, “we do things my way.”
He smiled, that slow, dangerous smile that made my heart race. “As long as your way keeps us alive. Hawk drove my vehicle away from the tunnel.
The storm broke then, rain pounding on the truck roof, lightning flashing over his face. He reached out, pushing a wet strand of hair from my eyes.
“You’re soaked,” he said softly.
“So are you.”
“Guess we’ll have to dry off somehow.”
Before I could answer, he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle—it was raw, and desperate, the kind of kiss that comes after a near-death moment and years of wanting.
When we finally broke apart, he stared into my eyes. “That’s been a long time coming, Detective.”
