Chapter 10
10
TRAVIS
I circle the back lot behind the Hollow Tree Inn, boots crunching through the crusted snow, rifle strapped across my back and eyes sharp. It’s still early—before the town’s usual stir—but I like it that way. Gives me time to run my checks without being watched. Or interrupted.
One turn around the perimeter tells me what I already suspected: no new tracks, no sign of surveillance drones or thermal scans. No disturbed snow near the second fence line Hank and I installed back in October. Still, I don’t trust the quiet. Quiet is what predators use before they pounce.
I cut behind the woodshed, lift the false panel on the back wall, and reach for the stash box bolted into the beam. Inside: another Sig, two extra mags, a narrow satellite uplink tablet, and a strip of C4 I’d rather not have to use. Everything’s untouched. Still, I check each round like someone who doesn’t believe in luck. Only preparation.
Across the lot, the rusted-over woodpile near the chicken coops is another cover. I step into the shadow it casts and crouch low, lifting the base plank. My fingers close around the matte black receiver of a short-barreled rifle. Still here. Still loaded. Exactly where I left it. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that backup plans should have backup plans. Because when the first bullet flies, everything you thought you knew goes to hell.
I slide the weapon back into its foam recess and replace the cover, then rise to my full height and scan the skyline. No movement. Not yet.
A door creaks behind me. Hank’s standing in the open frame of the inn, arms folded, face unreadable except for the way his mouth tightens at the corners. He’s got a thermal hoodie stretched over his broad shoulders, his jeans tucked into snow-caked boots, and his stance says we’re not just chatting for old time’s sake.
“You doing rounds again?” he asks.
“I never stopped.”
His eyes flick toward the ridge behind the church. “You expecting company?”
“I’m expecting a mistake.”
Hank nods like he understands more than he lets on. He jerks his chin toward the side entrance, then disappears back inside. I follow him through the hall that smells like baked cinnamon and gun oil, down to the rear office most guests don’t know exists.
He pours two fingers of scotch, doesn’t ask if I want it, just slides the glass across the desk like it’s habit.
“You want backup?” he asks without looking up.
I shake my head once. “This one’s ours.”
He leans back in the cracked leather chair, fingers drumming against the arm. “Didn’t peg you for taking on a cause again.”
“It’s not a cause,” I say. “It’s a promise.”
“And her?” he asks, quiet now. “She’s just the mission?”
I drain the scotch and meet his eyes dead on. “She was. Not anymore.”
Hank exhales slowly through his nose, like that tells him everything he needs to know.
“She’s got your six?”
“She’s got more than that.” I push the glass back toward him. “But yeah. She’ll hold the line.”
“She doesn’t seem the type to hold anything quietly.”
“She’s not. That’s half the reason I’m still alive.”
Hank leans forward, his gaze sharper now. “You said you weren’t staying long. You planning to run her through and then disappear again?”
I shake my head. “I’m not running. Not this time.”
He grunts and stands, stretches his back like the conversation’s over. It is. Some things don’t need to be said out loud.
I head upstairs. Abby’s at the desk in the room, hair up in a messy twist, Nick’s journal open in front of her and her fingers flying over her laptop. She’s barefoot, legs curled under her on the chair like she doesn’t know we’re about to start a war.
Pulling off my jacket and setting it on the back of the door, I ask, “Any luck?”
“Depends on your definition,” she mutters. “If you mean did I manage to decrypt the channel Carlton used back when Nick was alive—then yes.”
I cross the room, glance at the screen. It’s a secure node interface. Obsolete tech, but that’s probably the point.
She keeps typing. “It’s dirty-code encrypted. But the signature trace matches a contact Nick flagged three months before the op. It’s how he passed notes back to me without routing through Liberty Quill’s email servers.”
“You’re sure it’s the right node?”
“Positive.” She sits back, spins slowly in the chair. “I masked our IP with a bouncing signal chain. And I used your old burner ID from the Zurich wire transfer to authenticate the sender tag.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You used my offshore credentials?”
She grins. “I’m not going to say I broke the law, but I definitely bent it like a gymnast on Red Bull.”
I shake my head. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
She stands, walks toward the bed, and leans against the frame. “What do we tell him?”
I move closer, crowding her a little. She doesn’t move back. Abby doesn’t give ground easily. It’s one trait we share in common.
“We tell him we have the journal,” I say. “We give him a taste. Enough to verify. Then we set the terms. In public. Secure location. No tricks. He won’t resist. He can’t. He’s too paranoid to leave it alone.”
“And when he shows up?”
“I finish what Nick started.”
Abby watches me for a beat, her mouth tilting like she wants to argue—but doesn’t. Instead, she picks up the notebook, thumbs through the pages, and selects one. She tears it out cleanly, folds it twice, and slides it into an envelope.
“I picked a page that doesn’t mention names, but does reference the Syria op,” she says. “It’ll be enough.”
I take it from her, feel the edge of the paper, the ink pressed hard into the fibers from her brother’s hand. She’s trusting me with this. With everything. I tuck the envelope into my jacket and nod once.
Abby turns back to the laptop, keys in the message:
TO: CORMORANT
You missed the first shot. I won’t miss mine. I have the notebook. One page is attached. If you want the rest, you meet me in Denver. 24 hours. The signal will tell you where. No tail. No weapons. You don’t get another chance.
A. Westwood
She attaches the scan and hits send. It’s done. The silence after the message goes out isn’t comforting. It’s heavy. Coiled.
The quiet before the hammer drops. Abby steps away from the laptop and comes to stand beside me. “What now?” she asks.
I turn her to face me, slide my hands along her hips, anchor her close. “Now we wait. And then we kill him.”
She lifts her chin, eyes steady on mine. “You’re not going in alone.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Her smile is fast, wicked. “Good. Because if he thinks he’s going to walk away from this, he’s got no idea what team he just picked a fight with.”
I kiss her then—not because it’s safe or smart—but because she’s fire in my hands and I don’t want to forget the way her mouth tastes before the storm hits. She grips the front of my shirt, pulling me deeper.
Tonight, we make a plan. And maybe… maybe a promise.
We left the Inn, hoping to move the danger away from Misty Mountain. We’ve made our way back up to the cabin, taking a circuitous route, doubling back to make sure no one is following us. After I make a thorough sweep of the area and ensure the perimeter alarms are still intact, we move inside.
I watch her as the sun sets behind the pine-covered ridge, casting gold and fire across the frost-laced windows of the cabin. I stand near the stove, arms crossed, jaw tight. She's curled on the edge of the bed, laptop closed, the journal tucked beneath her arm like a shield she’s not planning to drop. I’m waiting for the panic, for her to crack, to second-guess what we just did. But it never comes.
She meets my gaze, chin up, eyes clear.
That’s when I know for sure—Abby Westwood isn’t a liability. She’s the blade you keep up your sleeve. The one they didn’t see coming.
Behind me, I hear her shifting—bare feet on the wood floor, the soft creak of the mattress. Her steps are slow, deliberate, like she’s trying not to startle me. Like she already knows something’s coming, and she’s giving me space to say it first.
“Travis,” she whispers.
I don’t turn. “You should sleep.”
“You think I can sleep after sending a direct challenge to a CIA ghost who wants me dead?”
I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s standing there in one of my flannel shirts again—damn woman keeps stealing them—and nothing else that I can see. It hangs off her like temptation stitched from cotton and bad ideas.
I stare too long. She notices.
“Problem?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow.
“Several,” I say.
She walks toward me, barefoot and brave, like she’s got no idea what I’m holding back. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she’s doing it. Poking the bear just to see how far I’ll let her push.
“You’re waiting for me to lose it,” she says.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
She stops a foot away, close enough I can smell the hint of lavender in her skin, the citrus shampoo she stole from Clara’s stash in the bathroom. “I’m not going to.”
“You should.”
Her voice is soft, but there’s no weakness in it. “You don’t get to decide when I break, Travis.”
I finally turn to face her fully, eyes locked on hers. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m watching you. Preparing. I’ve seen what this kind of pressure does to people. You’re not trained for this.”
“No. But I’m not stupid. And I’m not fragile. Stop looking at me like I’m going to shatter if the wind hits too hard.”
I take a slow step toward her. “I know exactly how strong you are, Abby. I also know what it feels like when you’ve been holding it together for too long.”
She tilts her head, expression calm. “So maybe don’t stand there waiting for the fall. Maybe stand here with me. Where it matters.”
That... that does something to me. The steady way she meets my fire with her own. The calm inside the chaos. I want to protect her, yes—but I also want to strip her bare and worship the fact that she hasn’t run. Not from me. Not from this.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I say, voice low.
“Maybe not, but you need to trust that I can handle it.”
My hands fist at my sides. I want to grab her, haul her against me and kiss her until she forgets her own name. I want to bury everything I’ve been carrying in her warmth, lose myself in the only thing that’s made sense since the second she showed up on my porch in the middle of a snowstorm with nothing but a name and a target on her back.
“Abby.” Her name comes out rough. “They trained me to compartmentalize. To wall things off. If I let go…”
Her hands reach up, slide along my chest, fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt. “Then let go.”
I close my eyes for a beat, my control hanging by a thread. I’ve killed men for less than the way she looks at me now.
“You don’t get to kiss me like that,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “hold me like that, protect me like that—and then act like you don’t want this.”
My eyes snap open. She’s close now, lips parted, eyes defiant and full of something that slices through me with pinpoint precision.
Need. Trust. A challenge wrapped in a promise.
I reach for her, grip her hips hard enough to make her gasp. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I know,” she says, breath catching. “Why do you think I brought the matches?”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Abby.”
“I’m not starting it,” she says. “I’m finishing it.”
That’s it. I back her up fast until her spine hits the wall and her breath stutters. My mouth is a breath from hers. I watch her eyes—watch her pupils blow wide, her hands tightening on my chest.
“You sure you can handle this?” I ask, voice low, dangerous.
“I’m not the one who’s been holding back.”
My lips crash to hers. There’s nothing gentle about it. No slow build. Just two people burning in the same fire and finally giving in. Her fingers claw into my hair, her legs parting as I press my body into hers, the friction already too much and not enough.
I tear my mouth away just long enough to growl, “Bed. Now.”
She pushes off the wall and walks backward, eyes locked on mine, each step daring me to come take what I want. What we both want.
I follow.
The second she’s near the mattress, I grab her wrist, spin her, and pull her flush against me. One arm locks around her waist. The other slides into her hair, tipping her head back so I can drag my lips along her neck.
“You don’t get to run from this,” I whisper into her skin.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You want me to fall?” I say, voice thick.
She nods, lips parted. “Fall with me.”
The tension between us has been building all night in a way that's impossible to ignore. Every accidental touch of her fingers against mine, every lingering glance—it all carries a quiet, simmering heat, just waiting to ignite. We’ve been circling each other like wary predators, acting cool even as the desire grows. But now, I’m done with pretenses.
She softly utters my name, almost in a whisper. I don’t hesitate any longer. My hands secure themselves around her waist, drawing her close in one decisive move, leaving no time for her to think twice. “Quiet,” I murmur against her lips before capturing them in a kiss that wipes away any uncertainty clinging to her.
She doesn’t recoil. Instead, she leans in and melts against me, as if her very structure has surrendered to the moment. Her body presses warmly against mine, exuding both intensity and softness. There’s no sign of hesitation in the way her lips now answer mine. I have her, and she has me.
“Abby,” I say in a low, husky tone, the restraint in my voice barely concealing my eagerness.
I step forward, close enough to catch the scent of her skin—citrus mingled with the lingering trace of her shower soap. I reach for her shirt, letting my fingers tease along the hem before smoothly pulling it over her head. Her arms rise instinctively—there’s no resistance.
“You’re beautiful,” I confess quietly, a gentleness in my tone that betrays my intent. “I never imagined I’d want this, not like this, not ever—until you walked in and upended every plan I had.”
She blinks, torn between smiling and crying.
“Travis…” she begins.
“Lie down,” I command in a steadier tone.
She complies, settling onto the bed as though it were second nature. I kneel beside her and press a soft kiss to her stomach, just above her navel. Her gasp strikes me like a physical blow.
She lifts her head to watch me, and as I meet her eyes, my fingers begin to part her thighs. Her breath catches sharply as I lower myself between her legs and let my tongue explore her, tasting her warmth and surrender. I know I won’t stop—not until I’ve unraveled every piece of the composure she once clung to.
She writhes beneath me, her hips undulating. My hands grip her thighs firmly, holding her steady. She tries to speak, but I cut her off.
"Don’t speak," I command, my hand resting across her stomach. "Just feel."
Her moan starts soft, then deepens as I work her with slow, circular motions of my mouth followed by firmer strokes. I can feel she’s nearly there; her body arches and her fingers dig into the sheets.
"Travis," she gasps, her breath ragged and her voice trembling.
"Let go," I insist. "Give it to me."
I’m nearly overwhelmed watching her come undone. Her back arches further, her thighs tremble, and when she finally shatters, it’s with my name on her lips—sharp, desperate, real. I stay with her, holding her close, licking her until she can take no more. Her trembling hands find their way to my shoulders.
I crawl up her body and kiss her as though staking a claim—she wraps around me like we’re already one. Her hand slips between us and encircles me, making my jaw tighten.
"Are you sure?" I rasp, needing to hear her say it—not because I doubt, but because I want it carved in stone between us.
"More than sure," she whispers. "I want all of you."
No further words are necessary.
I move into her slowly, and deliberately, keeping her gaze locked on mine. When her eyes flutter closed, I pause.
"Look at me," I growl.
She obeys, her eyes wide open and unguarded. Her legs wrap around my waist, and I begin to move.
Deep. Controlled. I want her to feel every inch, every thrust. She meets me stroke for stroke, and it’s not just physical—it’s a connection I never imagined I’d feel.
The bed creaks, her breath hitches, and I drive deeper, each movement grinding against her. She moans, clutching my back, her nails biting into my skin.
"Travis," she cries as her orgasm closes in on her.
"Come with me," I growl. "Give it to me."
She spirals, gasping and crying my name as she shatters once more, and I follow with my release, a burst that hits me like a punch to the gut. I bury myself deep, my hips jerking with the force of it, groaning against her mouth.
When it’s finally over, I collapse beside her, pulling her into my arms. Her skin is warm, her breath still unsteady.
I press a kiss to her temple. "I love you."
She shifts closer. "I love you too."
And in that moment, everything I thought I had under control slips through my fingers.
Because now I know—I’d burn down the world to keep her safe.
And Carlton? He has no idea what’s coming.