Chapter 21
Charlotte
The headlights cut through the predawn darkness as Ty turned off the main road onto a narrow gravel drive.
Trees pressed in on both sides, their branches creating a tunnel of shadows that made my chest tighten.
The isolation should have felt like safety after everything that had happened, but instead, it made my skin crawl.
“Almost there,” Ty said, his voice low and controlled. The truck bounced over a pothole, and I gripped the door handle harder.
Through the windshield, I caught my first glimpse of the cabin. It sat alone in a small clearing, exactly as Ben and Donovan had described—a modest structure with dark windows and a side garage. No neighbors for miles. No witnesses if something went wrong.
Ty shifted the truck into park but didn’t turn off the engine yet. His hand found mine across the seat, fingers threading through mine with a gentle squeeze.
“Remember what we talked about,” he said.
“The second we step out of this truck, we’re onstage.
Someone’s listening to everything we say, watching everything we do.
We don’t know about any danger. We don’t know about surveillance teams or explosives.
We’re exhausted, relieved to finally be somewhere safe, and all you want to do is finish your work on the countermeasure. ”
I nodded, trying to swallow past the knot in my throat. “Act natural. Act relieved. Act safe.”
“If you’re not sure what to say—”
“Say nothing,” I finished. He’d already told me more than once. “Silence is better than giving us away.”
He brushed his thumb across my knuckles, and for a moment, I wanted to pull him close, to stay in this truck where it was just us, where I didn’t have to pretend.
The memory of his hands on my skin, the way he’d moved inside me just hours ago, threatened to overwhelm the fear.
I’d had no idea sex could be like that—so intense, so consuming.
My previous attempts at physical intimacy had been clinical, experimental, treating arousal and orgasm like data points to analyze.
What happened between Ty and me had been something else entirely.
There were no control groups, no reproducible results, no way to isolate variables.
Just his hands teaching my body a language I didn’t know it could speak, responses I couldn’t predict or chart.
The way he’d looked at me—like I was worth discovering, not solving.
Like my awkwardness was endearing instead of embarrassing.
I’d lost myself completely, and for once, my brain hadn’t catalogued every second for later analysis. It had just…been.
But I couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t let myself get lost in the phantom sensation of his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me in that terrible motel bed.
The way he’d made me feel things I didn’t have proper terms for.
There’d be time for that later. After we survived this. After I finished the countermeasure.
If we made it out of here alive.
“You ready?” Ty asked.
I wasn’t. Not even close. But I forced myself to nod anyway.
His burner phone buzzed with a text. He showed me the screen, a text from Ben.
In position. Watching the van at the end of the driveway. Two occupants. They’re settled in for a long surveillance shift.
Another buzz. This message from Donovan.
Doing perimeter sweeps. There’s a sedan on the north approach road, about 200 yards from the cabin. Also has eyes on the house. These guys aren’t amateurs.
Ty typed back quickly.
Copy. Going in now.
He switched to his regular phone, sliding the SIM card back into place with quick precision. His thumbs moved across the screen as he typed a message to George:
Arrived at safe house. Everything looks secure. Going to catch some sleep. Will check in later.
He showed me the screen before hitting send. Whether George had sent us here deliberately or someone else was using his phone, they now knew we had arrived.
“Let’s go,” he said.
We climbed out of the truck, and the cold morning air hit me like a slap.
I pulled my jacket tighter, genuinely shivering as we grabbed our bags from the back.
The equipment cases looked legitimate enough—we’d transferred some fake stuff into them back at the motel.
But the real stabilizer components, the ones Ben and Donovan had already secured for me, were waiting somewhere else entirely.
The weight of invisible eyes pressed against my skin. Somewhere out there in the darkness, people were watching us through scopes or cameras, listening to every word we said. My shoulders hunched instinctively, wanting to make myself smaller, less of a target.
But that wasn’t the role I was supposed to play. I was supposed to be relieved. Safe. Finally able to focus on my work.
“This is perfect,” I said, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry in the still air. “I’ll actually be able to focus without worrying about someone breaking down the door.”
“Told you the FBI would come through,” Ty replied, slinging a bag over his shoulder. “George always delivers.”
We walked toward the cabin like we had all the time in the world.
My pulse thundered in my ears so loudly I was certain any surveillance team would hear it through their equipment.
Every shadow could hide a shooter. Every sound could be footsteps closing in.
The space between my shoulder blades tingled with the phantom sensation of being in someone’s crosshairs.
Ty unlocked the front door with the code George had sent and held it open for me.
The interior was sparse but clean. A small living area opened into a kitchen, with a hallway leading to what I assumed were bedrooms. It looked exactly like what it was supposed to be: a safe, boring hideaway where nothing bad could happen.
“Finally,” I said, setting down my bag with exaggerated relief. “I can get back to work. The modulation frequencies still need calibration, and I haven’t even started on the secondary encryption layer.”
The words felt strange in my mouth, too loud, too fake.
I wasn’t an actor. I was a scientist who spent most of her time in a lab, talking to computers more than people.
My idea of a performance was presenting research findings to a board of directors, not pretending my life wasn’t in danger while armed people watched my every move.
Ty must have seen the panic creeping into my eyes because he moved closer, his hand coming up to cup my face. “Hey,” he said softly, and then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was gentle but grounding, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts and back into the moment. His lips were warm, familiar now in a way that made my chest ache. When he pulled back, the panic had receded enough for me to breathe.
“Better?” he murmured.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Come on,” he said, louder now, back in character. “Let me show you the setup. I think the garage might work best for your equipment—it’s got good ventilation and plenty of space.”
We moved through the cabin, maintaining a steady stream of mundane conversation about workspace requirements and technical specifications.
My voice steadied as I fell into the familiar rhythm of discussing quantum stabilization protocols and frequency modulation patterns.
This, I could do. This was just science, even if the audience was unusual.
“The temperature variance shouldn’t exceed plus or minus two degrees Celsius,” I said as we walked. “And I’ll need a stable power supply. Any fluctuations during the calibration phase could corrupt the entire dataset.”
“The generator out back should handle it,” Ty replied. “Industrial-grade. Won’t even hiccup.”
All the while, we were really looking for two things: the window Ben had identified as our escape route, and the explosive device we knew was waiting to kill us.
The garage was accessed through a door off the kitchen.
It was mostly empty except for some old tools on a workbench and a few cardboard boxes stacked in a corner.
The concrete floor was stained with old oil spots, and the air held that particular combination of dust and automotive fluids that all garages seemed to share.
The window was small, maybe two feet by three feet, set not too high in the wall.
It would be a tight fit, but we could make it through. We’d have to.
“Good workspace,” I said, running my hand along the workbench. The wood was scarred but solid. “Sturdy surface for the equipment.”
Ty had moved to the corner where the furnace unit sat, an older model that looked like it hadn’t been serviced in years.
He crouched down, using his body to block the view as he examined it.
I watched his shoulders tense, the muscles in his back going rigid for just a second before he forced himself to relax.
When he stood and gave me the slightest nod, my stomach dropped.
He’d found it. The bomb that was supposed to look like a gas leak accident. A tragic malfunction that would leave no evidence of murder.
He pulled out the burner phone, typing quickly to Donovan:
In position. This thing would blow us to high heaven.
Then he looked at me, and I saw my own fear reflected in his eyes for just a moment before his expression smoothed into something calmer.
This was it. Once we started this, there was no going back.
We’d have two minutes to get out before the explosion.
Two minutes to sell our performance and escape through that window without the surveillance teams realizing what we were doing.
He gave me a nod. The signal.
“Is it just me, or is it cold in here?” I said, rubbing my arms. The shiver was real—fear had turned my blood to ice water. “Could we turn on the heat?”
“Sure,” Ty said, already moving toward the furnace. “I’ll get it going.”
As soon as he turned on the heat, a tiny clock started counting down on the explosive device. Two minutes. We had two minutes.