I should deny it. Should maintain professional distance, keep the investigation clean, avoid complications that could compromise everything we're trying to accomplish.
But Will knows me too well for bullshit. "She's the first woman in years who doesn't bore me. Of course she's a fucking fed."
Will's mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "Figures. You always did like things complicated."
"She's not a thing. She's a federal agent investigating us for weapons trafficking. She's also a woman who spent three years undercover with one of the most violent MCs in the country and came out the other side with arrests and RICO charges."
Will leans against the table. "That kind of woman doesn't scare easy.: Leaning back, he grins. “Might be exactly what you need."
What I need and what I should pursue are two different calculations. "I want her in ways that would terrify most people."
"You saying you want to hurt her?"
"No. I'm saying I want to break her control, see what's underneath, make her submit to the bastard I actually am instead of the version I show civilians." The honesty tastes like admitting weakness, but Will already knows my darker edges. Was there for some of them. "Same drive that made me effective in interrogations. Same instinct that crosses lines most people won't acknowledge exist."
"But you're not going to force anything." Not a question. Will knows where my boundaries are, even if those boundaries exist in places most people wouldn't consider civilized.
"Consent's non-negotiable. Always has been." I close the laptop with more force than necessary. "But that doesn't changewhat I want. Doesn't make it appropriate. She's a federal agent, and I'm the subject of her investigation."
"For now." Will straightens. "Investigation ends, situation might be different. Unless you're planning on actually trafficking weapons?"
"Fuck you."
"That's what I thought." Will heads for the door, then pauses. "Cole. You know what you are. Question isn't whether you're too dark for someone. Question is whether they're strong enough to handle it. Agent Monroe survived three years deep cover. She might be stronger than you think."
He leaves before I can respond. Leaves me standing in the empty Church room with a laptop full of evidence and the uncomfortable awareness that Will's right about things I'd rather not examine too closely.
Will heads back out to the main bar where Gemma's finishing paperwork. I hear their voices, low conversation, then quiet. The building settles.
I pack up and head back to the shop. Security upgrades won't install themselves, and if someone's compromising our systems, I need better coverage.
The drive takes minutes. Ironside Customs sits dark and quiet, just security lights illuminating the work bays. I let myself in through the front, lock it behind me.
The electrical room in the back of the shop is cramped and hot, smells like copper and old insulation. Perfect for the kind of precise work that requires focus.
I strip wire, test connections, route new camera feeds through upgraded servers. The meditation of electrical work usually quiets the noise. Tonight it's not working.
Stripping wire reminds me of IED work in Afghanistan. Delta Force taught me electrical systems because someone needed to understand circuits well enough to disarm insurgent bombs. Iwas good at it. Better than good. Found beauty in the absolute logic of electrons flowing through copper, following rules that didn't bend for politics or morality or the complexities of human motivation.
Systems make sense. People rarely do.
But the flip side of understanding how circuits work is understanding how to make them fail. How to create explosions instead of preventing them. How to turn knowledge into weapons.
The interrogation room in Kandahar sits in my memory like a scar that never quite healed. Insurgents had IED intel, and time was running out before a planned attack on a convoy carrying civilian contractors. Standard interrogation wasn't working. They'd been trained to resist, knew how to wait us out.
So I stopped being standard.
Methods that worked but crossed lines the Geneva Convention pretends don't exist. Techniques that Delta Force taught us but never officially acknowledged. I got the intel. Saved the convoy. Stopped the attack.
The insurgents didn't walk away unmarked.
Neither did I.
The electrical work in front of me is clean, precise. Follow the diagram, connect the feeds, test the voltage. No moral complexity. Just physics and proper execution.
But my hands remember other work. The targeted elimination in Mosul that wasn't combat. Close range, necessary, surgical. The kind of kill that doesn't make official reports but prevents larger bloodshed down the line.
Still wakes me some nights. Not because I regret the decision. Because I remember how easy it was. How the training took over, how the execution was clean, how walking away felt like just another task completed.
