Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Four days. But it seemed like forty.
Maybe forty years because he felt old. Used up. As if Olivia had drained all the energy out of him. Was aging him.
She didn’t look tired. Or haggard. Her skin had a healthy glow, her eyes were clear and bright, and she seemed genuinely happy. Like she’d been back in Afghanistan. When they’d been together.
Working. He needed to remember she’d been working, then. That it had all been part of her ruse. Sure, she might have cared for him on some level, but the more time he spent around her, the harder it was for him to believe she’d reciprocated his feelings. That she’d been hoping for forever, too.
Because he was miserable. Miserable and angry and damn it, still crazy about her. It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t at all logical, but there it was. The cold hard truth staring him in the face.
Having his buddies show up hadn’t helped the awkwardness of the situation, any. Knowing they were privy to what had happened. That his failures had been laid bare, again. Just like with Shawn. More good intentions that had ended poorly.
Phoenix didn’t know what high-ranking connection Cannon had gained access to. Who could pull the kind of strings that had resulted in three members of Alpha’s other Delta team rallying around them, but there they were.
Priest, a.k.a Aaron West. Mason “Dungeon” Cross, and Owen Thompson, fondly referred to as Relic.
All security for some DoD guy posing as a dark ops director.
The kind who looked for “creative” solutions to problems regular avenues couldn’t solve.
And Phoenix had no doubts that the Department of Defense player—one Major Jonathan Blackburn—would have a flawless portfolio to extinguish any doubts that he belonged there.
One made by Kam or Ellis. Maybe that NSA lady, Becca Tate.
Whoever was behind it had mad skills, seeing as no one had questioned Blackburn’s legitimacy.
At least, not according to Priest. He’d been meeting them every night—giving updates.
Handing over photos and video he, Dungeon and Relic had obtained.
Hoping they could narrow down which attendee was Jason Parker.
Nothing, yet. Just endless dead ends. Like the identities of the men Phoenix and Gibson had killed that first day. Uncovering who had known they were there. Who the mercenaries had been targeting in the chopper. If it was Olivia, Gibson, or one of the team.
Though, they’d been lucky that the entire summit hadn’t gotten canceled. That the delegates hadn’t bugged out after the explosion that first day. But Bishop had been able to swing an extremely convincing story about a weapon’s malfunction. A test gone wrong. And since no one had been injured…
Phoenix hadn’t been that surprised. Men like the ones attending the retreat cared more about money and power than if there were fewer agencies to bid against possible black-market weapons. Or if some lowly pilot got killed in the process.
He cared. Had been quietly stalking Olivia ever since she’d stepped out of the aircraft.
Which was really the reason he was aging, because the woman was nuts.
Seemed to lack any amount of self-preservation.
Insisting on sneaking around the main facility each night.
Searching rooms. Looking for any sort of clue that would help them identify Parker, despite being instructed by Bishop to lay low.
That neither she nor Phoenix could chance being recognized. Caught.
He’d planned on ignoring the orders, too—hunting down that bastard, Parker, and motivating the man to give up Smyth—until he’d gotten a glimpse of Olivia ducking out of her room that first night. Her lithe body encased in black. All that chestnut hair hidden beneath a cap.
Did they make operatives take ballet? Parkour?
Some king of ninja training not available to Spec Op soldiers?
Because it looked as if she was floating over the ground rather than actually walking.
Not an ounce of energy wasted. As if she’d calculated every footfall.
Had an elaborate mathematical equation that plotted out her next move on a continuous loop inside her head. One that kept her in the shadows.
But what scared him even more was how damn good she was at it.
Silent. Efficient. He’d follow her to one room, wait about ten seconds for her to get clear of the door, start digging, then pop out only to have to dive down a hallway.
Or try to squeeze himself into a darkened doorway because she’d already be slipping out. Moving on to the next room.
Watching her work had raised more questions.
Had she gone investigating when they’d been stationed together?
When they’d taken an impromptu vacation?
Had he slept through her climbing in and out of their bed?
Phoenix prided himself in being a light sleeper.
In hearing even a faint scuff on the floor.
A creak of an old wooden plank. The rattle of the handle as the tumbler clicked over.
Those sounds were lifelines. Warnings that his old man was on another bender. Was coming into his room swinging. Looking for someone to blame.
It hadn’t been that different in the Teams. Just new warning signals for an advanced breed of tangos. And he’d used his skills to his advantage. Had escaped ambushes and attempted hits.
Yet, all that training—the years he’d spent hiding—and it seemed as if Olivia simply bypassed them.
Moved around like a damn wraith because even standing a few feet away, he couldn’t hear her.
Feel the air move or sense her presence.
It’s as if she just vanished. Solid one second, then nothing but a ghost.
It made Phoenix reevaluate his perceptions.
See her from a new perspective. One he didn’t like because it put her in the line of fire.
And not just in a cockpit—what seemed to be her natural habitat.
Where she had complete control. But out here.
With armed assholes cruising the hallways.
Killers with no qualms about capping a woman if they caught her snooping.
Hell, if they got even an inkling she was more than a pilot.
They wouldn’t even have to walk in on her, just see her in the hallway.
Maybe get a whiff of roses or coconut fragrance from her skin.
There weren’t many women at the lodge, and it wouldn’t take trained mercenaries long to go through the list. Figure out Olivia was their only viable option. Peg her as a spy.
But, if Phoenix confronted her, she’d know that he’d been following her. Would be quick to deduce that it had nothing to do with the mission, and everything to do with the fact he cared. That he wasn’t anywhere close to being over her, despite telling Gibson to “forget it,” that day in the café.
Things would only get worse from there. Might actually compromise their mission, and he wasn’t about to let Smyth go. Not after all he’d done. The asshole was going down. Period.
If that meant Phoenix spent every night tagging behind Olivia, ensuring she didn’t get into a deadly situation, then so be it. She wasn’t the only one who excelled at covert operations. Who could move around without being seen.
Not that she made it easy for him. But after tailing her for a few nights, he’d gotten a feel for her style. The way she moved. Which would have put her at risk if anyone else had been watching her. Waiting for the perfect time to strike.
No one had. He’d checked. Obsessively, if he were being honest. And she varied where she went each night. Delegates’ rooms. Eavesdropping on meetings. Scouring any area she couldn’t routinely access. Nowhere seemed off-limits. Was too much of a risk.
Like now, heading for one of three sectors located underground.
The kind the public didn’t know existed.
That Bishop had hinted about, but Phoenix and his team had only discovered once they’d arrived.
The ones that were constantly scanning for listening devices.
Had cell jamming tech broadcasting twenty-four hours a day.
Where there were closed circuit camera feeds, code-locked doors and rotating patrols—heavily armed rotating patrols.
According to Priest, it looked more secure than the ghost bases they’d all trained at. The ones no one knew existed. Were considered urban legends.
Did the woman have a death wish? Because she wasn’t stopping.
Had just bypassed the first passcode on the main floor—was silently making her way down the stairs.
She did something to the camera then continued on.
Thirty seconds, and she’d reached the corridor.
Had some kind of device pressed against the wall.
A whirl and a click, and she was through.
Opening the door then stepping inside. Did she have a key?
The code? A magic wand because she’d made it look easy.
Like snapping her fingers or brushing her teeth.
Took him vaulting over the railing and dropping a full flight in order to catch the next door before it closed and locked her in and him out.
He kept his fingers wedged in the small space, not wanting to follow her too closely, as he glanced at the passcode reader—confirmed overriding it hadn’t been simple.
Not with what looked like a fingerprint and retinal scanner.
Space for a six-digit code. Yet, when he slivered the door open just enough to peek inside, there she was.
Body hugging the wall. That skin-tight black outfit blending in with the shadows.
There was a camera on the far side, scanning the hallway.
Pausing for a few seconds in each direction then panning back.
Olivia ducked into the doorways whenever it swung her way.
Keeping any visible parts shrouded in the dark pockets created by the frames.
Only a fraction of the lights were actually working, the area apparently shut down for the night.