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“Watching everyone. Staying alert.” He paused, brushing the back of a finger over her cheek. “Holding your tongue. Putting up with the shit people like Bella dish out.”
The tears came unbidden. She blinked rapidly. She’d never thought of it that way. Not once.
But she was tired. Utterly exhausted.
A ping cut through the quiet.
It took her a second to place it.
Felicity dragged her focus from the far-too-perceptive — far too distracting — man and locked onto the screen. “I’m in.”
She scanned the network, eyes tracking the list as it populated, the program doing its work. The screen refreshed. A grid snapped into place with multiple security feeds, much like her setup at home.
Ronan shifted beside her, his arm braced behind her back as he leaned in. “There.” He pointed to a thumbnail video. “That’s inside the shed.”
She tapped the feed, and they watched it enlarge. Long tables ran the length of the space, metal surfaces lined with neat rows of product. Today nine figures stood shoulder to shoulder behind the tables, faces obscured by masks, movements precise and repetitive.
Her jaw tightened. Definitely a narcotics distribution hub.
Ronan leaned in close, his face beside hers. “There are more guards today. Four.”
Armed, too. Weapons strapped to their side.
“Fuck, Felicity. Right in our backyard.”
“I know,” she murmured, her mind racing. She wished she’d brought binoculars — or even a rifle scope — but not at the risk of a telltale glint.
“What’s next?”
She shifted to look at him. His face was right there. “Now? I set an anchor point in the system.”
“Anchor point?”
“More like a way back in,” she said. “Keeps me from starting from scratch every time. Also means I shouldn’t have to come back out here.”
He blinked once, pulling back slightly. “You can do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Won’t they pick it up?”
“There’s always a risk — if they take their cybersecurity seriously. But the fact that I’m in, trawling their feeds, tells me they’re far too relaxed.” She gave a small, satisfied nod. “A win for us.”
She scrubbed a hand over her face. “The problem, though … this is illegal. Inadmissible for prosecution.” Movement caught her eye. “Is the fishing rod supposed to do that?”
He glanced at the water and laughed, jumping to his feet. “We’ve caught a fish, Lissy-love,” he said, shoving the sleeves of his top up to his elbows.
“Don’t call me that,” she grumped. But inwardly, it warmed her.
She forgot, for a moment, about the other kind of fishing, focusing instead on him as he reeled the line in. The rod bowed, the water breaking as the fish surfaced, flashing silver in the morning light.
He worked it in with practiced ease, guiding it close before gripping it firmly. A quick, efficient motion freed the hook, the sinews in his exposed forearms shifted beneath his skin. Sunlight caught in his ruffled hair, turning it a burnished brown.
Such a bucolic scene — just a man catching fish early on a Sunday morning, spending time with his woman—
His woman?
Another move — just as swift as the first — and the fish went still.
