Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was official. Olivia Blake was going to kill him. Not quickly, with a shot to the head, or a knife through his heart. But slowly. One freaking smile at a time.
Phoenix rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck before staring through the scope, again. After getting patched up properly by Brady, then lectured by Bishop, he’d spent the night pacing his small room. Unable to settle as the day’s events had played over in his mind.
It wasn’t the wet squad that worried him.
Smyth could send an endless supply of trained mercenaries his way, and Phoenix would deal with them.
Had grown up looking over his shoulder, always expecting someone to jump out of the shadows.
Try to target him. Joining the service had only honed those skills.
Not quite to the level of Six, and that freaky sense of his, but close.
So, constantly expecting an assassin to be gunning for him seemed commonplace. A relief, actually, because it kept him sharp. Allowed him to use his abilities without being labeled a freak.
No, it was having Olivia as a teammate that was slowly unraveling the small amount of sanity he’d clawed back since the incident with Slader.
She’d been distant during the meeting with Bishop. Answering with one or two words the few instances Bishop had addressed her. The rest of the time she’d simply sat there, looking as if she’d wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.
She hadn’t glanced over at him, unless he’d been talking. Though, even then, it had been more her looking through him. At some spot over his shoulder, or in the middle of his chest. As if making eye contact would affect her.
God knew, it affected him. Made his pulse kick up, his hands clench. Hell, he’d wondered if he really was in the midst of some kind of stroke—maybe a blood clot had entered his brain from all the past trauma—because he’d been sweating. Him! Sweating!
He didn’t sweat. Not from stress. Sure, when running the obstacle course or pumping iron. He pushed hard in all he did, so sweat was a measure of whether he was giving his all. But on a mission…
Stone cold. No increased heart rate, no emotion. Just him, and his rifle. Whatever target he was required to neutralize.
So, sitting in Bishop’s room, sweating… That was obviously his heart or his brain exploding because the only other possibility was that Olivia Blake had gotten to him.
And in a way that transcended his training.
Overrode all those years of pushing everything but the mission into a box and locking it away.
It meant he cared.
He couldn’t care. Not after all that had happened. The lies. The pain. The loss.
Watching the helicopter crash. That’s what had altered him.
What had brought a bunch of unwanted questions to the surface.
And thinking, for one second, that she’d risked her life to save him—had hidden him so Slader or whoever had picked her up wouldn’t know he’d survived, that they were connected—had broken some kind of dam inside him.
And now, all Phoenix could do was tread water and pray he didn’t get swept away.
That Gibson and Bishop wouldn’t see how close to drowning he really was.
Phoenix had held it together. Had made it through the meeting, the sleepless night, only to be shipped off to a remote outpost about one and a half kilometers from the lodge. A mountain shack primarily used for gear storage but had been transformed into a sniper nest.
Where he’d been stationed all day. Watching Olivia fly in and out while constantly scanning the surrounding area for any hint of danger.
It wasn’t the best vantage point, with a large portion of the lodge obscured by snow-covered rocks and trees, but it gave him the high ground.
And a flawless view of Olivia’s flight path in and out of the remote retreat.
That was the real threat. If an interested party wanted to kill any of the attendees—or if Smyth had figured out who Olivia was, that she was here—blowing up the helicopter before it touched down was the perfect option.
It didn’t matter if there were five heavily armed assholes onboard, one well-placed RPG, and it was game over.
Not happening. Not on his watch.
Which meant, scouring the landscape. Looking for even an inkling of trouble amidst the snow and evergreens. It took about ninety minutes for her to do a circuit. Which gave him plenty of time to scour every damn inch of ground between him and the horizon.
Watching her fly was both a blessing and a curse. He had to admit, she was good. Better than good. Smooth. Efficient. Quick to adapt to changing wind and weather patterns. She made the treacherous conditions look easy. And her landings…
He’d forgotten how skilled she was. Where other pilots all but drove the machine onto the ground, Olivia finessed it. Had a way of landing quickly without anyone even realizing she’d touched down.
Which made his remark that first day seem even worse, now. No wonder she didn’t want to make eye contact. He’d behaved like an ass. A spoiled one, at that.
Just another part of their story he couldn’t change. Another regret. Seemed that’s all he had, lately. Regrets. A full ledger of them, with not much to leverage against them.
Like now, sitting there, wishing he’d had the balls to let her fly him out this morning.
Add a bit of black back into the equation.
And he’d intended to. Had decided to kick his fears to the curb.
Man up. Until he’d walked out of the building and stared at the damn machine sitting on the snow. Waiting.
And it had all come rushing back. The smell of death.
The fear. The pain. Flashes of the crash in nauseating clarity.
An endless loop of images until he’d been gasping for air.
Wondering how to get his damn lungs to work.
It wasn’t until Gibson had come out of the hanger with Olivia—clapped Phoenix on the back—that he’d been able to snap himself out it. Breathe.
Gibson had made up some excuses about why Phoenix should take the snowmobile the Brit had fixed instead of getting dropped off.
Mumblings about Phoenix needing to be able to adapt to a changing situation.
Having a source of transportation in case the weather suddenly changed and Olivia couldn’t fly out to pick him up.
That it freed Olivia up to perform other tasks.
All that mattered is that Phoenix had managed to dodge the flight without coming across as more of a jerk.
He owed Miller for that. Saving just a sliver of Phoenix’s pride.
Another habit he’d gotten into. Having others bail him out.
A habit he needed to break. Especially with Smyth’s men on his tail.
Waiting for any opportunity to eliminate him.
And judging on how liberal those mercenaries had been the other day with bullets, collateral damage wasn’t one of their concerns.
All the more reason to focus on the op. Unearth this Parker, asshole, and finally get a line on Smyth. Take the fight to him. Though, Phoenix’s idea of a fight was nesting a few kilometers away, then popping the bastard in the head. Not something the others seemed keen on.
Decisions for later. After they’d tracked down the other man.
Which meant maintaining his vigil. Ensuring everyone made it to the lodge in one piece.
That Olivia wasn’t faced with a dynamic situation she couldn’t outfly.
The lady was skilled, but even she couldn’t dodge an RPG fired at close range.
Might not have enough options if another group of armed men suddenly opened fire.
Or tried to chase her in a decked-out military chopper with a fifty-cal machine gun hanging out the side.
The thoughts sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold temperatures. Getting capped had never caused him a moment’s hesitation. Imagining Olivia dead…
Like it or not, it messed with his head. Made his hands shake ever so slightly. None of which would help him if shit started to go sideways.
So, he took a breath. Glanced at his watch. She should be about ten minutes out. Another five before he’d have a visual.
That gave him time to scan the area, again.
Slowly. Not that he would see someone hiding behind a tree.
At least, not a hitman or mercenary with any kind of skill.
But with the sun low in the west, there was a good chance Phoenix would see a glint off a rifle.
Or rocket launcher. Maybe get a glimpse of a sled or snowcat.
Something that tipped him off to any latent danger just waiting to strike.
He started on the east side of the lodge, gradually tracking south then west. That’s where the biggest risk was.
When she came around the large ridge to the southwest. Too high for someone to perch on without being seen or chancing an avalanche with the noise that would result from an assault. But a bit lower down…
That region spelled trouble. A decent amount of tree cover. Limited overhanging snow. A clean sight line to the helicopter as it rounded the peak. Not to mention she’d be starting her descent. Would be a bit lower—definitely within range of a missile.
And with the shack at the outer limits of his effective range in order to reach that section—it had been haunting him all day.
He’d thought about shifting his nest—moving closer. But with the temperatures below freezing and the sheer amount of landscape he needed to cover, staying in the cabin had been the best option.
Until now. Sitting there, the sun heading toward the horizon, Olivia’s last trip close to reaching the ridge, he wished he’d risked freezing his nuts off in order to have a better angle.
Especially since the winds had picked up.
Were sheering across some of the cliffs. Making any shot that much harder.