Operation: Wingman (Cupid City Security #8)

Chapter 1

Hawk

Cupid City doesn’t sleep in February. It glitters harder than it does during the Christmas and New Year celebrations.

Valentine’s week turns the city into a live wire with lights strung between rooftops, traffic rerouted for galas and charity events, trucks with deliveries idling in alleys that are normally empty. Romance sells well here. Along with that, there’s an uptick in crime and danger.

I’ve memorized the client file for tonight’s event. It was sparse and seemed sanitized. A name flagged more for what’s missing than what’s there.

My client is Katerina Morozov. Originally from Russia. She hasn’t met me … yet. If all goes well for her, she won’t.

She has no named enemies, but must have some to warrant the risk. No clean explanation for why Heartline was contracted to shadow her during Valentine week in Cupid City. Just a quiet directive from command: High discretion. Immediate extraction if exposure changes.

I stand on the mezzanine above the ballroom, one hand resting at my side, eyes scanning the crowd below as if I’m bored. I’m not. Even though I was offered limited details in the client file, my subdued appearance is all an act.

This venue has three exits and two stairwells. One service corridor is masked by a velvet drape and florals no one would notice unless it’s on fire.

Each corridor is mapped in my head before I ever step inside a venue. When Command flags a feed, I don’t need the video. I know the blind spots. I know the choke points.

Security cameras stream to Heartline’s command station, dozens of angles feeding into a system designed to catch what the human eye misses. The information reaches me through my earpiece in clipped alerts — not images.

I don’t need to hear the details to know what they’re showing me. After years of flying blind at supersonic speed, patterns announce themselves before words ever could. I’m always noticing patterns.

The band beneath my cuff is Heartline issue. Encrypted. Off-grid. If it fails, we go analog. Morse. We always have a fallback.

At this moment, everything looks perfect. That’s when I see her.

She arrives exactly the way the file warned she would — without drawing attention, and yet impossible to miss once she’s inside the room.

The crowd adjusts around her, not because she commands it, but because people instinctively make space for people that hold a certain presence.

She definitely has a persona that almost emulates royalty.

A ripple moves through the crowd, not obvious, just a subtle shift in attention as heads turn and conversations thin.

Katerina has dark hair contrasted against pale skin. Her gown knows exactly what it’s doing, covering in a minimal way and accenting her curves.

She doesn’t smile when people look at her. She doesn’t try to make friends or admirers. That’s my first red flag.

Most women in rooms like this are performing.

She isn’t. She moves like she’s already calculated the cost of every step and decided it’s worth paying.

Her posture is elegant, but her eyes —sharp, alert — track reflections in mirrors and glass instead of faces.

She’s checking for tails. I know that look.

A single pulse vibrates against the band beneath my cuff. Level One anomaly. “Corridor six,” Command murmurs a second later. “Two-second interruption. Restored.”

Not an alert — a deviation. One of the cameras covering that service corridor stutters, then corrects itself. Too fast to be a failure and too clean to be coincidence.

Exposure just changed. I thumb my comm once. “Eyes up,” I murmur. “We’ve got a live variable.”

Katerina reaches the bar, ordering something without glancing at the bartender. He leans in anyway, probably unable to resist a closer glance. She tilts her head just enough to acknowledge him, just enough to reward the effort without inviting conversation.

This woman is very controlled in her demeanor. She’s schooled in the art of being very visible, but dangerous like a flower that contains poison.

I start down the stairs.

Once on the main, the atmosphere changes. The noise thickens. Laughter slides too easily into proximity. This is where threats disappear into bodies and cameras become suggestions instead of safeguards.

She feels me before she sees me.

That’s my second red flag.

Her shoulders don’t tense. She doesn’t flinch. She simply turns, slow and deliberate, gaze lifting to meet mine as if she’s been waiting for me to step into her line of sight … even though she doesn’t know who I am or what I do. Or, does she?

Dark curious eyes, but not surprised.

I stop two feet from her. Close enough to block, close enough to shield. Close enough that her perfume isn’t just scent — it’s heat.

The air between us tightens. It’s subtle, but electrically charged. She studies me like she’s cataloging a weapon.

“Are you always this subtle,” she asks, voice low, accented just enough to make people lean closer, “or is tonight special?”

Her Russian accent is educated and clean. Not the kind learned from television.

I adjust my stance without thinking. Closer. Protective.

I don’t remember deciding to move as I respond to her.

“You’re already under our protection. And your exposure just changed,” I say, quietly.

One eyebrow lifts. Not fear, but interest.

“I haven’t noticed anything different,” she says.

“You wouldn’t have,” I say. “But you were flagged. And right now, someone else has noticed you.”

Her gaze moves beyond me to the mirrors, exits, and the corridor that just went quiet. Her eyes finally land back on my face. She’s calculating and measuring. Whatever she sees there makes her decision for her.

“Fine,” she says. “But if this is a mistake, it’s yours.”

For the first time, something cracks through her composure. A woman realizing she’s been seen by someone. She exhales once slowly.

“Just so you know,” she says. “I don’t like being handled.”

My jaw flexes once. Good.

“Neither do I,” I reply. “So don’t make me.”

Her lips curve, but it’s not quite a smile.

We move together, her arm brushing mine as I guide her toward the corridor.

She doesn’t resist or draw extra attention to herself.

Katarina glides elegantly like a lady trained in the art of walking with posture that is perfect.

She walks like someone who knows when to disappear — and how badly it can go if she doesn’t.

As the doors close behind us, my comm comes alive.

“Command confirms,” the voice murmurs. “You were right to move.”

I glance at the woman walking beside me — composed, unreadable, already planning three steps ahead.

Whatever she’s running from followed her into Cupid City. Something tells me that I’ve just stepped directly into its path.

As the doors close behind us, my comm comes alive.

“Hawk,” a voice murmurs. “We’ve got movement.”

I glance down at the woman beside me.

Whatever her name is, whatever she’s hiding … whatever she’s running from, she’s been doing it a long time.

Cupid City just got a lot more dangerous.