Chapter 12
CHRIS
Three rounds left. One spare magazine. Not enough to win a firefight, but enough to buy time.
"Move!" I shove Sierra toward the tree line as bullets chew through the snow where we were standing three seconds ago. The operators are closing in from two directions, trying to flank us. Healy's playing for keeps now.
Sierra runs, favoring her injured shoulder but keeping pace. Behind us, engines rev—they're trying to cut off our escape route. Not going to happen.
"Cave system," I gasp, pulling her left at a deadfall. "Half a klick northeast. Defensible."
"They'll follow."
"Let them. We need to buy time for your failsafe."
Two hours. We just need to survive two more hours and everything uploads automatically. Then it won't matter if Healy's men find us—the evidence will already be out there.
If we can last that long.
I fire three rounds behind us without looking, forcing the pursuers to take cover. We're down to critical ammunition levels, but noise might make them think twice about charging blindly after us.
The terrain works in our favor—steep grade, dense forest, plenty of cover. I know these mountains. Spent three weeks up here during the op that went sideways. There's a cave network in this sector, multiple entrances and exits, natural choke points.
Perfect for a last stand.
We reach the cave entrance as the sun starts its final descent, bleeding orange across the snowpack. No time to appreciate the view. I pull Sierra inside, both of us gasping, weapons ready.
"Check the perimeter," she pants. "I'll secure the entrance."
I move fast, clearing the cave system. Main chamber about fifteen feet across, tall enough to stand in. Two secondary exits—one to the south, one west. Good. We won't be trapped if they breach the main entrance.
By the time I return, Sierra's already spreading our gear in the main chamber. Sleeping bags on thermal mats. Weapons within reach. The battery lantern casts shadows across stone walls.
"They're not following yet," she reports, peering out into the gathering dusk. "I think we lost them in the forest. But they know this general area."
"Then we fortify." I grab the tripwires from my pack. "They come at us again, it'll be on our terms."
We work in near silence, setting traps along the northern approach—the most likely attack vector. Sierra moves efficiently despite her shoulder, her training showing in every precise motion. The sun sinks lower with each passing minute, darkness creeping across the mountain like a living thing.
When we finish, full night has fallen. Sierra picks her way back through the trap pattern only we can navigate, her breath misting in the frigid air.
"That's done," she says quietly. "Anyone coming up that ridge is going to have a very bad night."
"Good." I scan the tree line one last time, cataloging shadows and distances. Nothing moves out there. Yet. "They'll regroup and hit us at dawn. Standard tactical timing."
She stands beside me at the cave mouth, still breathing hard from our retreat. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion and adrenaline, strands of dark hair escaping her braid. Fresh blood seeps through her shoulder bandage—the wound likely pulled open during our run.
"Then we have tonight," she says.
The weight of those words settles between us. Tonight. Maybe our last one.
"Come on." I touch her elbow, guiding her back into the cave. "Let me check that shoulder."
Inside, the temperature hovers just above freezing, but the cave blocks the wind that's been cutting through our layers all day. Sierra shrugs out of her tactical vest with a wince, the straps catching her injured shoulder.
"Sit." I kneel beside the sleeping bags, pulling out the medical supplies.
She obeys without argument, which tells me how much it hurts. I peel back the layers carefully—fleece jacket, thermal base layer, the blood-soaked bandage beneath.
"Damn it." I clean the wound with antiseptic, then apply fresh gauze. "You need to take it easy."
"Kind of hard when people are shooting at us."
"Fair point." I secure the new bandage, checking the tape edges. "But we've got maybe eight hours before they come again. Rest now. Fight later."
Sierra catches my wrist as I reach for the medical kit. "Chris, I need to say something."
My pulse kicks up despite myself. "You don't—"
"Yes, I do." Her fingers tighten around my wrist, warm against my skin. "I've been hunting ghosts for so long. Evidence, patterns, proof. Cold cases and dead ends and suspects who slip away. I forgot what it feels like to just... be human with someone."
The lantern light catches in her eyes, turning them amber and gold. Fierce and vulnerable and absolutely terrifying in what she's offering.
"Sierra." Her name comes out rough.
"I know the timing is shit." A smile tugs at her mouth.
"Tomorrow we face down God knows how many armed men who want us dead.
We might not make it. But tonight?" She steps closer, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
"Tonight I don't want to be chasing ghosts or hunting evidence or anything except exactly who I am. With you."
Every reason why this is a bad idea lines up in my head.
The mission. The danger. The fact that people I care about tend to end up in body bags.
But when she looks at me like that, when her hand spreads across my chest and I can feel my heartbeat pounding against her palm, all those reasons dissolve.
"I don't want to rest," I admit.
"Neither do I." Her other hand slides up my neck, fingers threading through my hair. "Then don't."
Permission. Invitation. Everything I've been trying not to want for the past few hours.
I kiss her hard, no hesitation this time.
No careful distance or professional boundaries.
Just hunger and need and the knowledge that tomorrow might steal this chance forever.
Sierra responds with equal fire, her mouth opening under mine, body pressing close.
She tastes like coffee and determination and something uniquely her.
My hands find her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as I pull her flush against me. Her body collides with mine and she gasps—a sharp inhale that cuts off mid-breath. Her right hand flies to my shoulder for balance while her left arm stiffens, held slightly away from her body.
The bandage. I'm pulling on her injured side.
I loosen my grip instantly, sliding my hands to her lower back instead, supporting rather than gripping. "Sierra—"
"Don't you dare stop." She rocks her hips forward deliberately, erasing the space I just created, her mouth finding mine again. "I've had worse than a shoulder wound."
"So have I." I nip at her lower lip. "Doesn't mean I want to hurt you."
"Then touch me." Her hands are already working at my layers, yanking up my thermal shirt. "Touch me like you mean it."
Heat floods through me at the demand in her voice.
I help her strip the shirt over my head, then reach for hers.
We move toward the sleeping bags as we shed cold-weather gear and tactical vests and base layers in a tangle of fabric and zippers and desperate hands.
The cave's chill bites at newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, but the heat between us drives back the cold.
Each piece that hits the cave floor feels like armor falling away, leaving only skin and truth.
Sierra's fingers trace across my chest, mapping the constellation of scars that mark my years in the field.
Old bullet wound near my collarbone. Shrapnel damage along my ribs.
Burns on my left forearm from surviving a fire that got out of control in Afghanistan.
Her touch is gentle but unflinching, acknowledging each piece of damage without pity.
"You're beautiful," she murmurs.
"I'm a mess."
"You're alive." She kisses the scar near my collarbone, her lips warm and soft against the puckered tissue. Then lower, tracing the path of shrapnel across my ribs with her mouth. Each kiss sends heat pooling low in my gut. "Every mark is proof you survived."
My throat tightens at those words. I frame her face in my hands, studying her in the lantern light. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Eyes that see too much and never look away. "You're the most stunning woman I've ever seen."
Color rises in her cheeks. "Chris—"
"It's true." I kiss her slowly this time, savoring the taste of her, the way her mouth opens under mine.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips before delving deeper, exploring.
She tastes like coffee and determination and something uniquely her that makes me want more.
"And not just because you shoot as well as you kiss. "
She laughs against my mouth, the sound bright and genuine.
Then her hands are on my belt, fumbling with the buckle.
The laughter fades into something darker and infinitely more compelling.
I help her, shoving my pants down and kicking them aside.
The cold air hits my overheated skin for a moment before she's pressed against me again, nothing but thin fabric between us.
I walk her backward toward the sleeping bags, careful of her shoulder, cataloging every gasp and shiver as my hands explore her body.
My palms slide down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.
Her skin is impossibly soft, marked with its own history—a thin scar along her ribs, another on her hip.
The curve of her waist fits my hands like she was designed for my touch.
I trace lower, fingertips grazing her hipbones, and she trembles.
"Cold?" I ask against her neck.
"No." Her voice comes out breathless. "Opposite of cold."