CHAPTER 17
Gemma
The morning light filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains is a pale, sickly gray.
I wake up slowly, the dull, throbbing ache in my left side serving as a harsh reminder of exactly where I am and what happened yesterday. I don't move immediately. I keep my eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the motel room.
There is a low, rhythmic metallic clack coming from the small table near the window.
It isn't the sound of Callum’s Zippo lighter. It sounds heavier. It sounds like a magazine being repeatedly slotted into the grip of a handgun and ejected again.
I open my eyes.
Callum is sitting in one of the cheap plastic chairs, his back completely straight. He is wearing the same black henley from last night, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. A massive black duffel bag is sitting open on the table in front of him.
He isn't looking at the weapons. He is looking at the wall, his hands moving with absolute, terrifying muscle memory as he strips a handgun down to its components, inspects the firing pin, and reassembles it in under ten seconds.
I watch him, the memory of last night hitting me so hard it actually makes my chest tight.
The kiss wasn't a mistake. It wasn't an accident born of adrenaline or proximity.
It was a deliberate, violent collision of two people who had entirely run out of reasons to pretend they didn't want each other.
I can still feel the heavy, solid weight of him leaning over me, the desperate grip of his hands in my hair, the absolute certainty in his voice when he promised he was coming back to me.
He slides the magazine into the grip of the gun. Clack.
"You're awake," he says, his voice low, not turning his head.
"I am," I reply, my voice thick with sleep. I push myself up onto my right elbow, wincing as the stitches pull tight against my skin. "Where is Ben?"
"He went to secure the secondary transport," Callum says, setting the handgun down on the table and picking up a sleek, matte-black suppressor. He begins threading it onto the barrel. "He will be back in twenty minutes."
I sit up fully, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress. The floor is cold through my socks. I pull the edges of the tactical jacket tighter around my chest.
"Did he get the C4?" I ask.
"Yes." Callum finally turns his head to look at me. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, a silent, heavy acknowledgment of what happened on this bed a few hours ago, before returning to my eyes. "He got everything on the list."
I swallow hard, the reality of the day settling over me like a wet blanket.
"So," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "We blow up a water main, trigger a fire alarm, and murder a billionaire in his own house. Just a typical morning."
"There is nothing typical about this morning," he corrects automatically.
"Right. Excellent point." I rub my eyes, letting out a long breath. "I need coffee. If I’m going to sit in a getaway car while you storm a castle, I need caffeine."
Callum stands up. He walks over to the small, miserable-looking coffee maker sitting on the dresser. He doesn't use the cheap motel packets. He reaches into his tactical bag, pulls out a sleek thermos, and pours a dark, steaming liquid into one of the styrofoam cups.
He walks over and hands it to me.
"Ben picked it up from a diner down the street," he says. "It’s black. No sugar."
"I’ll survive," I murmur, taking the cup. Our fingers brush. The contact is brief, but the static charge between us is undeniable.
I take a sip. It’s bitter and strong, exactly what I need to clear the fog from my brain.
"How are your ribs?" he asks, his gaze dropping to my side.
"They hurt," I answer honestly. "But it’s manageable. The stitches are holding."
"Keep your movements limited today. If you tear the sutures, I will not have time to close the wound again before the breach."
"I’m just sitting in a van, Callum. I think my stitches will be fine."
He doesn't smile. He turns back to the table, pulling a heavy, black tactical vest from the duffel bag. He begins loading the pouches with spare magazines.
I watch him work. The cold, clinical detachment is back. The man who kissed me like the world was ending is currently buried beneath the armor of the professional assassin preparing for a contract.
I set the coffee cup on the nightstand and stand up.
I walk over to the table, stopping just out of arm’s reach. I look down at the duffel bag. There are two suppressed handguns, a compact submachine gun, three blocks of C4 explosive, and a pile of detonators.
"Ben said Marcus has a private security detail," I say, my eyes tracing the lethal lines of the submachine gun. "How many men?"
"Standard rotation for a property that size is twelve," Callum replies, securing a combat knife to the shoulder strap of the vest. "Four on the gate. Four on perimeter patrol. Four inside the house."
"Twelve against one."
"Twelve against one," he confirms, looking up at me. "But I have the element of surprise, and I have the blueprints. They are guarding a house. I am hunting a specific room."
"What if he isn't in the master suite?" I push, the anxiety bubbling up in my chest again. "What if the fire alarm triggers a lockdown instead of an evacuation protocol? What if the biometric lock has a manual override?"
Callum stops loading the vest. He rests his hands flat on the table, leaning forward slightly.
"Gemma," he says, his voice dropping to that low, commanding register that demands absolute attention. "There are a thousand variables that could go wrong today. If I focus on the 'what ifs', I hesitate. If I hesitate, I die. I need you to trust that I know how to navigate a hostile environment."
"I trust you," I say instantly. And it’s the truth. I trust his competence more than I trust gravity. "I just... I don't like the math."
"The math is irrelevant." He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around my upper arm.
He pulls me a half-step closer. "You are going to sit in the transport with Ben.
You are going to monitor the police scanners.
If you hear local law enforcement mobilizing toward the compound, you tell Ben to drive away. "
I freeze, staring at him. "What?"
"If the police arrive before I extract, you leave me behind," he says, his dark eyes boring into mine. "You do not wait. You do not try to help. You leave."
"I am not leaving you behind," I snap, pulling my arm out of his grip. The sudden movement sends a sharp spike of pain through my ribs, but I ignore it. "We made a deal. We get out of this together."
"If I am pinned down by law enforcement, I am already dead or captured," Callum says, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "If you stay, you get captured with me. The syndicate still has people inside the federal system. If you go to prison, you will not survive the week. You leave."
"No."
"It is an order, Gemma."
"I don't take orders from you!" I raise my voice, the fear masking itself as anger. "You don't get to make unilateral decisions about my life anymore. You brought me into this. You kept me alive. You do not get to play the tragic martyr now just because the math is bad!"
Callum stares down at me. The muscle in his jaw jumps. He is furious that I am challenging his tactical authority, but beneath the anger, I can see the brutal, agonizing weight of what he is asking me to do.
He wants me to be safe. Even if it costs him everything.
Before he can argue, the heavy deadbolt on the motel door clicks.
We both turn sharply. Callum’s hand drops instantly to the Glock at his waist.
The door pushes open, and Ben steps inside, carrying two large paper bags that smell heavily of grease and fried eggs. He takes one look at the two of us standing inches apart, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife, and stops in his tracks.
"Wow," Ben says, slowly closing the door behind him with his foot. "I was gone for twenty minutes. Did you two try to kill each other, or did you just skip straight to the heavy emotional trauma?"
"Did you secure the vehicle?" Callum asks, his hand moving away from his weapon.
"Yeah. It’s parked behind the motel." Ben walks over to the table, dropping the paper bags next to the C4. "It’s a utility van. Local plates. Looks like it belongs to a landscaping company. I also got breakfast sandwiches, because unlike some people in this room, I believe in morale."
He pulls a foil-wrapped sandwich out of the bag and holds it out to me.
I take it, though my stomach is currently tied in a tight, anxious knot.
"Eat," Callum tells me, turning back to the duffel bag.
I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. It’s greasy, heavy, and exactly what my body needs, even if my brain is rejecting it.
Ben pulls out his laptop, setting it up on the small sliver of table space not covered in weapons. He boots it up, the screen casting a pale blue light over his face.
"Okay," Ben says, typing rapidly. "I tapped into the local municipal grid. The water main outside Marcus’s compound is monitored by a digital pressure valve.
If you blow the pipe, the system will register a catastrophic pressure drop.
It will automatically dispatch a utility crew from the Riverhead depot. "
"How long is the response time?" Callum asks.
"Twenty-five minutes, minimum," Ben says. "Which means you have to blow the pipe, wait in the tree line for twenty-five minutes, and breach the gates the exact second the utility trucks arrive."
"I can hold a position for twenty-five minutes," Callum says, zipping the duffel bag shut.
"What about the fire alarm?" I ask, stepping closer to the table. "How do you trigger it without setting off the smoke detectors in the hallways?"
Ben looks at me, a small, impressed smile touching his lips. "Good question. You can't just light a match. The system is zoned. If you trigger a hallway detector, the security team isolates that zone. You have to trigger the primary suppression manifold in the basement."
"So he has to breach the gates, get into the house, go down to the basement, trigger the manifold, and then fight his way up to the second floor?" I look at Callum. "That’s insane. The security team will be waiting for you on the stairs."
"They won't be on the stairs," Callum says calmly. "They will be securing the perimeter because of the water main breach."
"You’re assuming they follow protocol," I argue. "Marcus is paranoid. If the water main blows, he might order his internal detail to lock down the master suite."
Callum looks at me, his dark eyes steady. "Then I will blow the door off the hinges."
He picks up the heavy tactical vest and pulls it over his head, securing the velcro straps tightly across his ribs. The transformation is complete. He looks entirely lethal.
"We leave in ten minutes," Callum says, picking up the duffel bag. "Get your gear."
He walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
I stand in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door. The foil-wrapped sandwich feels heavy in my hand.
"He’s going to be fine," Ben says quietly from the table.
I look over at him. Ben is watching me, his expression sympathetic.
"You don't know that," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I’ve worked with Callum for six years," Ben says, turning back to his laptop. "I’ve seen him walk into situations that were mathematically impossible to survive. He doesn't just win. He dismantles the opposition. Marcus Thorne is a rich coward with a rented army. Callum is a ghost."
"He isn't a ghost anymore," I say, looking down at the cheap motel carpet. "Ghosts don't care if they come back."
Ben pauses his typing. He looks at me for a long moment, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his eyes.
"No," Ben agrees softly. "They don't."
Ten minutes later, we walk out into the cold morning air.
The utility van Ben secured is parked in the alley behind the motel. It’s a dark blue Ford Transit van with a faded logo for a landscaping company on the side panels. It looks entirely unremarkable.
Callum opens the back doors and throws the duffel bag inside.
"You’re driving," Callum tells Ben.
"Obviously," Ben mutters, walking around to the driver’s side.
Callum turns to me. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me, his eyes tracing the pale lines of my face in the morning light. He reaches out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck.
He pulls me forward, pressing a hard, brief kiss against my forehead.
"Get in," he says, his voice thick with unspoken promises.
I climb into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind me.
Callum climbs into the back of the van, pulling the heavy metal doors shut. The lock clicks, sealing him in the dark cargo area with the weapons and the explosives.
Ben starts the engine, putting the van in gear.
We pull out of the alley, merging onto the main road heading east toward the Hamptons.
I sit in the passenger seat, my hands resting on my knees, staring out the windshield at the passing trees. The pain in my ribs is a dull, constant throb, but I barely feel it. My entire focus is on the man sitting in the dark behind me.
I am not going to leave him behind.
If the math goes bad, I am going to change the equation.