Chapter 2
RYDER
Big cities make my skin crawl. They always have.
It’s not the noise, though that’s part of it—the lights, or the way everything feels stacked too close together, like one wrong move could send the whole place collapsing in on itself.
It’s the people—the density of them. Too many lives overlapping, intersecting, brushing past one another without ever really seeing.
The holidays make cities even worse. There’s something obscene about the way Christmas dresses everything up in twinkling lights wrapped around steel and concrete like they can soften what this place really is—fake warmth layered over rot.
Music drifts up from somewhere below, muffled but unmistakable, cheerful in a way that grates instead of comforts. I scoff internally and shift my weight, adjusting my position on the rooftop. The cold air cuts across my face as I take a deep breath and force my attention back to the job.
The rifle rests against my shoulder, the weight grounding me in a way nothing else ever has. The stock fits me perfectly, the way it always has. Some things, no matter how much time passes, never feel foreign.
I slow my breathing deliberately—in through my nose, out through my mouth—letting everything else fall away. The city noise fades to a dull hum at the edges of my awareness as I look through the scope, the world narrowing to clean lines and measured distances.
My target, Yusuf Aden Barre, steps into view.
I track him through the scope, following without conscious effort as he moves near the private terminal gate, surrounded by security that looks competent but complacent.
Yusuf is shorter than the images suggested, thicker around the middle, his confidence bloated by the belief that airports are sanctuaries.
He hasn’t left LAX in days, convinced that if death comes for him, it won’t do so under fluorescent lights and TSA signage.
He’s wrong.
I know exactly who he is. I’ve read the files, watched the footage, and studied the aftermath he left behind.
He’s one of al-Shabaab’s most visible leaders, a name that comes up again and again in intelligence briefings, always attached to blood.
Entire villages erased. Families torn apart.
Bodies piled up in the name of something he never even truly believed in—just power dressed up as righteousness.
I don’t feel guilty that I’m about to take his life.
I used to think that was something I should interrogate, that the absence of it meant something was broken in me.
But years ago, I learned the difference between killing and murder.
This man crossed that line so long ago it’s laughable to pretend he deserves mercy now.
Millions of people will be safer without him, and that’s justification enough.
The crosshairs settle at the center of his chest as he pauses, checking his watch, impatience flickering across his face. He’s close to boarding. This is my window, so my finger takes up the slack on the trigger.
I exhale slowly, steadying for the shot. And then—
The rooftop door opens. My body reacts before my mind does.
I pull back instantly, the rifle lowering as I break the line of sight, muscles moving on instinct honed by years on the job.
I don’t look toward the door yet. I don’t need to.
My ears are sharp enough to pick up on the footsteps that follow—light, uneven, and female.
Whoever she is, is not security or a threat, but still a complication.
I begin breaking the rifle down in silence, each piece sliding into the foam-lined interior of the guitar case at my feet. The metal disappears, the weapon reduced to nothing more than an idea before the woman ever reaches the railing.
Through naked eyes now, I watch my target board the plane. The engines spin, the lights blink, and the aircraft pulls away from the gate and taxis toward the runway.
I’ve missed. Not because I hesitated, but because of someone who shouldn’t be here.
I turn slowly, irritation coiling tight in my chest, already cataloging the failure, adjusting timelines and contingencies in my head.
The contract will adapt; there’s always another window, but still, this one was clean.
I don’t like losing clean. Matter of fact, I don’t lose clean.
When she finally steps into my line of sight, I recognize her as the woman from the elevator earlier, as I was coming up. The one with the curious eyes. She stands a few feet away now, completely unaware that she has just ruined my mission.
She shifts, and that’s when she notices me hidden in the shadows. She looks startled at first, but recovers quickly once recognition sets in her eyes.
“Hi.” She waves a bit shyly.
She’s a whole foot shorter than I am, bundled in a coat that doesn’t quite hide the curves beneath it. Her eyes are bright, too bright, reflecting city lights and something unguarded. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and alcohol, lips slightly parted.
She smells faintly of citrus—sharp and bright, like she belongs in daylight instead of shadows. She looks at me like she expects an answer, but I give her nothing.
She laughs softly, rubbing her palms against her sleeves. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I shake my head once. There is no point in telling her the truth. It won’t do me or her any good.
Her shoulders relax, just a fraction. “Good. I just needed some air.” She gestures vaguely behind her. “It’s warm in there, a bit too loud, and I might’ve had a drink that was stronger than advertised.”
Her voice fills the space easily, like silence makes her uncomfortable. It’s quite the opposite for me.
I should leave. The mission is toast, there is nothing keeping me here any longer, yet I still find myself staying.
She’s the first person I’m interacting with, this close and personal, in a really long time, so I let myself indulge, even just for a few more minutes.
“I’m Kate, short for Katherine. But only my mother uses the full version, and only when she’s disappointed in me, which is often.” She introduces herself and then waits, but I don’t respond. Her mouth quirks. “Okay. So you’re the strong, silent type. Noted.”
Kate? Sweet, strong, charismatic. It suits her.
When I fail to give a name in response, she continues undeterred. “It’s my birthday. My best friend, Addy—the one I was with in the elevator—just ditched me to fuck some guy she met while away at work, leaving me all alone on my big day.” She pouts.
That earns her a reaction. It’s not much, just a subtle shift of my weight and a tightening in my chest I don’t recognize right away.
“December birthday,” she continues, unbothered by my silence. “Which is both magical and emotionally devastating. Everyone forgets it because Christmas exists, but also everything smells like cinnamon, so it balances out.”
The wind lifts, tugging her hair loose. She tucks it behind her ear, unaware of the way my eyes track the movement automatically, the way my body registers it as a point of focus.
“Do you hate Christmas?” she asks, tilting her head. “You look like a man who avoids holiday cheer on principle.”
My jaw tightens, and she takes note of this. “Oh,” she adds quickly. “Okay. We don’t have to unpack that. I overshare. It’s a character flaw.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and shifts closer—close enough that her sleeve brushes my arm.
“You smell like my favorite season,” she murmurs, then freezes. “That came out wrong. Or right. I don’t know. Ignore me.”
I don’t ignore her. I look at her. Really look. Her eyes widen slightly under the weight of it, breath hitching when she realizes she has my full attention.
“I talk when I’m nervous,” she confesses. “And when I’m not nervous. And when someone is standing silently beside me, smelling like my favorite thing in the world.”
I exhale through my nose. It’s a quiet sound, almost a laugh.
Her face lights up like she’s won something. She swallows, stepping even closer—close enough that her breath warms the space between us. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, back to my eyes, and back to my mouth again before she kisses me.
It’s impulsive and hits like a live wire. All I feel is heat, breath, and the way she melts into me without resistance. The world narrows, and the city fades away as its noise fades into the background.
I should push her away. I know better than to indulge. Instead, my hand comes up, fingers threading into her hair, holding her steady as I take control of the kiss. She gasps softly against my mouth, hands curling into my jacket like she needs something solid to anchor herself.
She breaks away first, breathless, laughing quietly like she can’t quite believe herself. “I’m sorry. I—“
I don’t let her complete that sentence as I kiss her again. Harder this time.
She makes a sound low in her throat—one that goes straight through me—and suddenly, restraint feels optional instead of mandatory. I back her against the wall, using my body to shield her from the wind, the world, and anything else that might interrupt.
Her hands slide under my shirt, tentative at first, then bolder when I don’t stop her. My mouth follows the line of her jaw and her throat—the pulse there beating fast and wild.
She smells like oranges, heat, and want. I angle her head back just enough to deepen the kiss, slow it down, make her feel the difference between what she offered and what I’m willing to give. She makes a small, surprised sound, and it goes straight through me.
I don’t rush. I never do. I take my time showing her how this works, how I work, letting my mouth move against hers with measured intent, drawing it out until her grip tightens, until her body presses closer without her realizing she’s doing it.
When I pull back, her eyes are unfocused, breathing shallow. My jacket slips from my shoulders first, hitting the concrete somewhere behind us. Her hands follow instinctively, palms flattening against my chest like she’s checking I’m real. I let her touch, explore, and think she’s in control.
I step in, backing her toward the wall, one arm braced beside her head, my body close enough that she can feel the heat of me without being crushed by it. Close enough that every breath she takes drags my scent into her lungs.
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but I silence her with my mouth. She’s talked enough.
This kiss is slower, deeper. The kind that doesn’t ask permission and tells her exactly what’s coming. Her hands slide up my arms, nails scraping lightly over skin, sending sparks straight down my spine. I catch her wrists mid-movement and pin them above her head with one hand.
Her breath stutters. “Oh.”
That single sound does things to me. Things I haven’t felt in a long time.
I lift her easily, setting her on the low ledge beside the wall.
Her legs fall open around me without hesitation, heels digging into my hips as if she’s already decided where this is going.
She’s responsive, eager, and so open it borders on reckless.
I let her feel my need for her between her knees before I touch her again. She swallows hard, eyes dark.
My hands wander under her blouse, and I pull her bra down to free her breasts. They are warm, soft, and enticing, fitting into my rough hands perfectly. She moans when I flick my thumbs against her nipples, arching her back to my touch.
I step further in between her legs, her skirt bunching up further around her waist, exposing her bare thighs to the cold wind.
She might as well not feel it as she wraps her legs around my waist, bringing me closer, my dick rubbing against her.
She moans at the contact as I lower one of my hands to push her panties to the side and feel her.
“Fuck.”
She gasps, eyes wide, and I realize that’s the first word I’ve uttered to her all night. She’s dripping wet, and when I slide a finger into her pussy, her tight walls welcome me deeper.
Fucking a beautiful, strange woman out in the cold, on an airport rooftop bar, is the last thing I should be doing, but she’s too delectable to resist.
Making quick work of the button on my pants, she frees my raging hard-on, wrapping her hands around me, pumping me a couple of times.
“Fuck, that feels good,” I groan, lowering my head to her neck and bite, leaving a mark.
She swipes her thumb over the mushroomed head, and I nearly blow my load. “Stop,” I demand, needing to be in her.
Replacing her hand with mine, I align myself with her and look into her eyes for permission. She nods, and that’s all I need.
Pushing my hips forward, I sink into her till I’m buried to the hilt—not a single space left between us.
“Fuck, you’re big,” she mewls, letting out a long moan, her lips finding mine.
I smirk as I kiss her deeper, letting her adjust for a moment before I start moving.
It’s slow, since there is no rush; the whole city is loud beneath us, but muffled since all I can hear are her moans.
I move with purpose, barely holding control, the sound she makes cutting straight through whatever defenses I thought I had left.
She meets me stroke for stroke, nails biting into my shoulders, mouth open in silent sound as LA watches from below without knowing a thing.
I guide her through it, setting the pace, keeping her right on the edge of losing control without letting her fall over it until I decide. She clings to me, breath broken, whispering half-formed things into my shoulder that I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
The cold night air contrasts sharply with the heat between us, the urgency building fast and unfiltered.
My hands find her breasts once more as I play with her nipples under her blouse.
My touch is slow and controlled enough to make her gasp, but fast enough to make her impatient.
I learn her reactions quickly—what makes her arch, what makes her whimper, what makes her go still because it’s too much all at once.
I move with the same discipline I use everywhere else—steady, intentional, and fully present—watching her come undone piece by piece beneath my hands, beneath my mouth, beneath the weight of my attention.
When she finally breaks, it’s with her fingers digging into my shoulders, her body trembling against mine, breath coming apart in short, desperate gasps.
I follow not long after, restraint snapping cleanly, my grip tightening as I bury my face against her neck to keep quiet.