Chapter 9 #2
"That narrows it down to what? A few hundred people?"
"More like fifty, once I cross-reference with Chicago case files and Alaska operations." I type faster, following the thread. "Shepherd made a mistake. Multiple mistakes, actually. They think they're careful, but linguistic patterns don't lie. Every message they send gives me more data."
Chris watches me work, and when I glance up, there's something new in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or hope—the kind he's been afraid to feel for eleven months.
My shoulder throbs in counterpoint to my heartbeat. The ibuprofen hasn't kicked in yet. Exhaustion pulls at the edges of my vision, making the screen blur.
Chris notices. Of course he does. "That's enough. You need to eat."
"Five more minutes—"
"Now, Sierra."
The command in his voice leaves no room for argument. I save my work, close the laptop. He's already pulling supplies from his cache—MRE packets, energy bars, a water bottle.
"Gourmet dining," I mutter, but I take the energy bar he offers. Peanut butter chocolate. It tastes like sawdust, but I force it down.
Chris eats mechanically, attention divided between the food and the shelter entrance. Always alert. Always ready. He hasn't let his guard down since I got shot.
The propane heater glows steadily in the corner, pumping warmth into the small space. In the time I’ve been here he's never had to refill it.
"How do you keep yourself supplied?" I ask. "Propane, food, medical supplies. You couldn't have carried everything from the ambush site."
His jaw tightens. Takes him a moment to answer. "I steal it."
"From who?"
"Campers. Unattended cabins. Supply caches left for emergencies." He doesn't look at me. "I take what I need. Leave the rest. Try to hit places that can afford the loss."
There's shame in his voice. This is a man who spent his career protecting people, enforcing laws, doing things the right way. Now he's a thief.
"You do what you have to do to survive," I say quietly.
"Doesn't make it right."
"No. But it keeps you alive." I set down my energy bar. "And if you're alive, you can still stop them. That's worth a few stolen propane tanks."
He glances at me then, something like gratitude flickering in his eyes.
"When's the last time you really slept?" I ask.
"I sleep."
"That's not an answer."
He doesn't respond. Just finishes his bar, drinks half the water, hands me the rest.
The shelter is warmer now, propane heater doing its job.
My muscles start to uncoil, tension draining away now that the immediate danger has passed.
But the fear remains—not of getting shot again, but of failing.
Of letting another trafficking network slip through my fingers because I wasn't smart enough, fast enough, good enough.
"I can't lose this," I whisper. "I can't let Shepherd disappear like others have."
Chris moves closer, turns my face toward his with gentle fingers. "You're not failing. You're the first person who's gotten this close. First one to crack their pattern, identify their signature. That's not nothing."
"It's not enough."
"It's a start." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and suddenly the air between us feels charged. Different. "And you didn't do it alone."
The space between us is so small. Just inches. I can count the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. His hand is still on my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
I close the distance. Kiss him hard.
For a heartbeat, he freezes—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty.
His lips are still beneath mine, body rigid.
Then something breaks in him and he's kissing me back, hand cupping the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with desperate need.
His other hand finds my waist, palm hot even through the thermal layer, careful of my injured shoulder.
The kiss is desperate. Hungry. We've both been alone too long, isolated in our separate hells.
His beard scrapes against my skin, rough and real, grounding me in the moment.
I taste coffee on his lips, feel the barely restrained power in the way he holds me—like he's afraid I'll break, afraid this isn't real.
I pull at his thermal shirt, need overriding caution. He helps me, strips it over his head in one smooth motion. His chest is mapped with scars—bullet wounds, knife marks, burns. Stories written in scar tissue that I want to read with my fingers, my mouth and my whole body.
My hands find his shoulders, trace the hard muscle there. His skin is hot beneath my palms, raised scars rough against my fingertips. He shudders at the touch, a full-body tremor that I feel through the points where we're connected.
"Your shoulder—" he starts, pulling back enough to meet my eyes. His pupils are blown wide, black swallowing brown. "Sierra, you're hurt. We shouldn't—"
"I don't care." I grab his belt, yank him closer. The buckle digs into my hip and I welcome the pressure, the proof that this is real. "I need this. I need you."
His control breaks. He kisses me again, harder this time, all pretense of gentleness abandoned. Then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
"I don't have—" He stops, jaw tight. "Protection. I've been alone for eleven months. Wasn't exactly planning for this."
"I'm clean. Got tested right before Chicago." My hands find his face, force him to look at me. "You?"
"Same. Got my physical before the mission. That was over a year ago and there's been no one since then. No one but you." His thumb traces my jaw. "But there's still—"
"I'm on birth control. Have been for years." I kiss him once, hard. "We're good. Unless you don't want—"
"I want." His voice is rough, desperate. "God, I want."
His control breaks completely then. He kisses me again, hands moving to my waist, helping me out of my layers. The thermal base layer peels away, then the tank top underneath. He's so careful around my shoulder, gentle even in his urgency, fingers skating around the bandage.
The cold air hits my bare skin and I gasp into his mouth. He's warm—solid heat and muscle and barely leashed restraint. His hands map my sides, my ribs and the curve of my waist. Learning me through touch.
Before we sink onto the sleeping bag spread beneath us, he strips his remaining clothing away. The fabric is cold against my back, making me arch into him. He follows me down, settles between my thighs, his weight perfect and grounding.
He positions himself above me, forearms braced on either side of my head. Taking his weight off me but close enough that I can feel every tremor running through his body. His eyes search mine, asking permission even though we're already past the point of no return.
I wrap my leg around his hip, guide him to where I need him most.
The first slide is slow. Careful. He watches my face, checking for pain, for any sign that my shoulder can't take this. But all I feel is him—thick and hard and perfect—filling spaces I didn't know were empty.
"God," he murmurs against my neck. "Sierra—"
"Don't stop." My nails dig into his shoulders, find purchase in the muscles of his back. "Please don't stop."
He moves with controlled desperation, hips rolling in a rhythm that builds heat low in my belly. Each thrust sends sparks through my nervous system, pleasure overriding pain, making me forget about bullets and blood and everything that isn't this moment.
I meet him thrust for thrust, good leg locked around him, pulling him deeper. The shelter fills with the sounds of skin on skin, quiet gasps that neither of us can contain. His name falls from my lips like a prayer. “Chris, Chris, Chris.”
"I've got you." His voice is gravel and heat, mouth against my ear. "I've got you."
The coil of tension in my core winds tighter with each stroke. He shifts angle slightly and hits something inside me that makes my vision white out. I cry out, muffling the sound against his shoulder, teeth scraping skin.
"There," he growls, doing it again. "Right there."
The rhythm turns frantic. Hard and fast, chasing release like it's survival. Like we might not get another chance. His hand finds my hip, grips hard enough to bruise, holding me steady as he drives into me with single-minded focus.
When I climax, it's sudden and overwhelming—pleasure crashes through me like an avalanche, leaving me shaking, clenching around him, pulling him impossibly deeper. I feel him swell inside me, hear his breathing go ragged.
Chris follows seconds later with a choked sound, body locked against mine, every muscle going rigid as he spills into me. His face is buried in the curve of my neck, beard rough against sensitive skin.
We collapse together, trembling with aftershocks. My arm wraps around his back, holding him to me as the pleasure slowly ebbs. His weight presses me into the sleeping bag and I've never felt safer, more whole, more utterly wrecked in the best possible way.
Sweat cools on our skin. The propane heater chugs steadily in the corner, but it's his body heat that keeps me warm—this man who's been alone so long that touch must feel foreign. Yet he holds me like he's afraid to let go.
Neither of us speaks. There's nothing to say. We needed this. Needed each other. The world outside can wait.
Eventually he shifts, rolls to his side and pulls me with him so we're facing each other in the narrow sleeping bag. His arm stays locked around my waist, keeping me close. Our legs tangle together, skin still damp with sweat.
I rest my head against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear—strong, rhythmic, alive. My shoulder throbs but it's distant now, muted by endorphins and satisfaction that runs marrow-deep.
Chris's hand moves in slow circles on my back, tracing patterns I can't decipher. His breathing has evened out but he's not sleeping—too alert, too aware of every sound beyond the shelter walls.
"You okay?" he murmurs into my hair.
"Better than okay." I press a kiss to his collarbone, taste salt on his skin. "You?"
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. "Haven't felt this alive in a long, long time."
The admission settles between us, heavy with meaning. This man who's been surviving alone on this mountain, isolated and hunted, treating every day like it might be his last. And now he's here, holding me like I'm something precious instead of a complication that could get him killed.
My fingers find the scar on his ribs—old bullet wound, judging by the size. I trace the puckered edges. "Tell me about this one."
"Helmand Province. Sniper round. Missed my lung by an inch." His hand covers mine, stilling the movement. "That was a good day."
"A good day?"
"Everyone on my team made it out alive." His voice goes distant, haunted. "Can’t say that about the last mission."
Joel Martinez and Tate Bishop. The names from the file. His team members who died when the operation went sideways.
"That wasn't your fault," I say quietly.
"Wasn't it?" He shifts, pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "I was team leader. I approved the op plan. I trusted the intel that Shepherd fed us. And when the ambush came, I survived while they didn't."
His jaw is tight, every word laced with self-recrimination. Survivor's guilt mixed with the weight of command. I've seen it before in cops who lost their partners, in soldiers who came home when their friends didn't.
"Shepherd set you up," I say. "That's on them, not you."
"Doesn't change the fact that Joel and Tate are dead." His jaw tightens. "Or that I've been hiding on this mountain for almost a year while the person responsible walks free."
"Not for much longer." I shift closer, press my forehead to his. "Shepherd made a mistake. Left a trail. And I'm going to follow it straight to them."
Chris's arm tightens around me, his hand splaying across my lower back. "We will."
Not just me. We. Together.
The word wraps around me like a promise. For the first time since Chicago, since the warehouse and the blown cover and the bullet that should've killed me, I don't feel alone.
Outside, an owl calls—low and haunting in the darkness. The sound echoes off the mountain, mournful and ancient. Then another answers, closer to the shelter.
But the second one sounds wrong. Too short. Too sharp. The cadence is off, like someone trying to imitate a sound they've only heard on a recording.
Chris tenses beneath me, every muscle going rigid in the space of a heartbeat. His arm leaves my waist, hand shooting out to find the rifle propped against the wall. He moves so fast I barely register the motion—one second holding me, the next dressed, armed and alert.
"That's not an owl," he breathes, voice barely audible.
The forest goes silent. No wind in the trees. No small animals rustling through underbrush. Even the normal creaks and settling sounds of the mountain seem to hold their breath.
And in that silence, I hear it—something moving through the trees. Not the random pattern of wildlife. Deliberate. Measured. The kind of movement that comes from training, from knowing how to stalk prey without alerting it.
Chris's hand finds my arm, squeezes once. Stay quiet. Stay down.
My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system. We're naked, vulnerable, trapped in a shelter with one exit. If someone's found us—if Shepherd's people tracked us back here—we're sitting targets.
The movement stops. Whoever's out there is close now. Maybe twenty yards. Maybe less.
Chris inches toward the entrance, rifle raised, moving with the silence of a predator. I reach for my clothes, pull on the thermal layer as quietly as possible. My shoulder screams in protest but I ignore it.
A twig snaps. Too close. Right outside the shelter.
Chris's finger moves to the trigger.