Chapter 1 #2
Even before the briefing ended, he felt the first rumble of thunder. The beginning of a storm.
And this time, he was standing right in its path.
* * * * *
One look around the room told Opal everything she needed to know about this operation.
Her ironclad grip on her control almost slipped when her lips twitched at the corner.
She bit down on her bottom lip to stop her smile and turned her head to stare at one of the agents who brought her here.
She knew their names, of course. But in her mind, she’d started calling them Starched Collar and Stiffer Collar.
She flicked her stare from Starched Collar to the guy they called Sinner.
If her cohorts were stuffy, by-the-book types, he was the exact opposite with his bodybuilder physique and tight black T-shirt pulled so tight across his broad chest that it appeared thin in places. Not to mention the sharp angle of his jaw could be a weapon.
She made a derisive noise that always got on people’s nerves—a device she used to her advantage. “He trained at Quantico? You mean flunked out, most likely.”
His gaze landed on hers again, a heavy weight that she kept fighting the urge to look away from, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking eye contact first.
He joked that the suits didn’t fit. Maybe he meant they literally didn’t fit—he was big and buff. The suits probably didn’t fit.
He held her stare without blinking. She matched him, second for second. Intimidation was an art she’d mastered long ago.
Five beats turned into ten. “Do they even make a shirt with your neck size?”
One dark brow cocked upward.
Stiffer Collar cleared his throat, an embarrassed sound like tearing paper. “No one at Quantico scored higher.” He paused, directing his attention to Opal. “Until recently.”
Suddenly, realization struck Opal, and an image loomed in her mind’s eye of a brass plaque in the display case at Quantico. The name inscribed on it? Caius Sinclair.
Sinclair. And from that meeting, she learned his code name was Sinner.
Opal didn’t react to the unexpected. But when she realized she was sitting across from the man who she’d been silently competing with her entire career, heat began to warm her cheeks.
No. No fucking way. She was never a blusher, and she wouldn’t start now. Especially in front of him.
She learned long ago never to reveal her feelings to anyone, ever. Doing so was the equivalent of handing them a bullet with her name etched into it as deep as Sinner’s name was on that plaque.
She fought the sensation, bundling it into a dark corner inside her mind where she stuffed all her feelings.
In reaction to the news that they didn’t know their teammate as well as they thought, murmurs ran through the rest of the special ops team. Sinner himself seemed to be a man of few words and had no response to any of it.
The heat in her cheeks thankfully trickled away, but that didn’t curb her awareness of Sinner’s unending stare.
It gave her a chance to study him, though, and it didn’t surprise her that each time Starched Collar or Stiffer Collar spoke, a small crease winged out from the corner of Sinner’s left eye.
Maybe they had something in common after all. He didn’t respect Starched and Stiffer, and even though she worked for the FBI, she despised the Bureau.
Joining them was the best of her bad options, considering she couldn’t work without a social security number.
And couldn’t get one without a birth certificate.
And had no identity outside the FBI. Because from the very beginning, the government wanted to limit her options to one—working for them. She’d never have more.
Luckily, Con spoke, forcing Sinner’s attention away from her. She dragged her own focus back to the front of the room as Con and the two FBI agents shifted gears from Sinner’s qualifications to the down-and-dirty details of the op.
“We need their backstory in place before they go undercover,” Con said. “Names, history, location, ties to each other. The full cover.”
They.
Meaning her and Sinner.
She was careful to keep her stare away from his so he couldn’t capture it in another of his little staring contests.
Sinner. The name should’ve sounded like a cheap alias chosen by a man with too much ego and not enough imagination. Instead, it fit him with unnerving accuracy.
Dark brown hair with a tiny wave that brushed his collar. Eyes even darker. Olive skin burnished to bronze from the sun. Shoulders so roped with muscle that gripping them would be like scaling a mountain.
He had the kind of physique that didn’t come from gyms or fitness trainers—it came from dangerous ops that didn’t make the news.
Elin, the woman they brought in—Swedish, if Opal had to guess—spoke from the end of the table. “Dante and I will build your full cover immediately.”
Opal scanned the table for Dante. Sharp profile, dark brown eyes, quick fingers already flying across his keyboard before anyone gave the order.
She committed his name to memory along with every other she’d heard so far.
Stiffer Collar mentioned Con being a pain in his ass when they entered the base.
Mason left to fetch Elin, and from a certain look the pair exchanged, Opal guessed they had a little more going on than a working relationship.
Then there was Sinner.
Elin looked between Opal and Sinner. “We’ll call you in once the details are locked.”
Con shifted his attention to the woman hovering near the exit. “Sophie, she’s going to need supplies.”
The woman in question stepped forward—a fragile-looking brunette with a delicate build and a quick eye that missed nothing. Her looks didn’t fool Opal. Fragile on the outside, steel on the inside.
Sophie waved her over. “Come with me.”
Opal rose, ignoring the prickle of heat from Sinner’s stare. She followed Sophie out into the hall and froze.
More women waited there. Not agents or analysts. Women, on a ghost ops base that made outsiders wear blackout hoods to visit.
They didn’t look like they worked here. These women appeared polished, confident—and the real kiss of death, friendly.
Her spine straightened automatically. Women like this didn’t include her in their world. They didn’t gravitate toward her. And in middle school, they beat her up.
“Let’s get her upstairs,” one said.
“Yeah, we need clothes.” Opal would call this woman Barbie for her blonde hair and designer labels.
Her mind tripped over the word. Clothes?
Opal wasn’t the link-arms-and-roam-the-shopping-mall-in-packs type.
She slapped another layer of armor over the one she already wore as they swept her up in their midst and ushered her up a wide staircase.
From the marble floors to the high ceilings and ornate trim, there was nothing military about this base.
She’d seen some strange things in her life, but a ghost ops team hiding in plain sight in a mansion was one of the weirdest.
Finally, the ladies filed into a huge bedroom. It was decked out like the cover of a home magazine, complete with a walk-in closet she guessed was larger than her last apartment.
Barbie stepped forward, assessing Opal from head to toe. She looked like an editor for a women’s magazine, but the authority in her voice said she was more.
“I’m Kennedy.”
“Opal.”
She offered a smile that put Opal on edge all over again. At the age of twelve when two girl bullies cornered her after school and gave her a black eye, she learned that women didn’t play nice. Especially with a young girl with too many secrets.
Kennedy circled her. “She’s a size two. Who’s that size?”
Every head swiveled to Sophie.
They did have a similar build, but Opal knew for a fact she was more muscular than Sophie.
“Perfect.” Kennedy clapped her hands. “We’ll start with clothes.” She circled to stand in front of Opal again. “I’m already guessing that Elin’s putting you into some kind of government job.”
“How do you know that?” she asked in a flat tone.
“Because Cipher has been using a lot of insiders who work in the government. That means we need office clothes.”
Sophie bobbed her head. “I have a whole closet full of professional clothes I wore when I taught at the university. I’ll grab a selection. Izzy, will you help me carry them?”
A stunning, curvy woman with the softest brown eyes Opal had ever seen flashed a smile at Opal before hurrying after Sophie.
Opal stood in the middle of the room, chin raised against the awkward tingle riding along her spine—the tingle that reminded her too much of twelve-year-old Opal…before she met Smith.
Kennedy was staring at her feet. “You look like a seven. Is that right?”
She gave her a stoic blink. “Yeah.”
Kennedy glanced around at the remaining women. “Alyssa’s a seven.”
The woman named Alyssa nodded, her shiny hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Heels and boots?”
Kennedy grinned. “Yes.”
“Be right back.” Alyssa shot Opal a smile that felt too welcoming to be sincere.
Her back snapped straighter but she continued to observe the women who clustered around her, going over their names in her head. So far, she’d caught all but one.
The woman was what a person could only call lovely, with a sheet of smooth jet-black hair. She was dressed simply, in dove-gray trousers and a soft sweater. No jewelry. Nothing to make her stand out in a crowd, yet her eyes were an accessory of their own thanks to the intelligence sparking there.
Another wave of unease struck Opal. She’d been in a lot of bad situations in her lifetime, but this was one of the more irritating she could remember.
She wasn’t off her game—she was never off her game.
But playing the part of a normal woman, one who cared about shoes and clothes and polished nails, would require skills that Smith didn’t exactly teach her.
Alyssa returned first, arms overflowing with ankle boots, sleek black heels and a pair of soft leather flats. As she walked to the bench at the end of the king-sized bed and set them down, her sweater pulled tight across her abdomen to reveal the rounded curve of pregnancy.
Next, Sophie and Izzy entered with clothes still on hangers draped over their arms. They went straight to the bed piled with half a dozen pillows in shades of deep blue and laid it all out.
The woman wearing dove gray gave her a simple nod. “Want to see what they brought?”
“I guess so.”
She offered a small smile, almost private, in a way that put Opal at ease even as it made her suspicious. “I’m May. Weapons specialist for the team. I mostly deal with bombs…but this is fun too.”
Taking in the information, Opal drifted to the bed where Kennedy was organizing the clothing and shoes into piles of blazers, skirts, soft sweatshirts and leggings, more clothes than Opal had ever owned.
“Casual day clothes here. Office wear goes in this pile.”
She shook her head. “This is an op. Where the hell am I wearing heels?”
Kennedy arched a brow. “Sometimes you run in boots. Sometimes you run in heels. Either way, you’ll be prepared.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Opal muttered.
Kennedy grinned. “Welcome to Blackout Charlie, where things aren’t always what they seem.”
Before she could argue, the women began neatly folding the clothes and filled a duffel. Izzy topped it off with a small bag of travel essentials. And Kennedy disappeared into the walk-in closet and returned cradling—of all things—a designer handbag.
“I really don’t need that.” Opal jabbed a finger at it in distaste.
“It’s a knockoff. But maybe you’re right—someone might try to mug you.”
I’d like to see them try.
Senses prickling, Opal glanced up to find Izzy studying her closely. When Opal caught her staring, Izzy gave her a soft smile. “I was going to bring my makeup box, but your skin is flawless. And those eyelashes are a mile long. You don’t need any makeup.”
“I never wear makeup except the one time I covered a black eye.” The moment the words left her mouth, conversation stalled like someone had cut a wire.
To her utter surprise, Alyssa giggled. Izzy grinned. May laughed next, and then all of them joined in until the room pulsed with a weird, pajama-party energy Opal had zero experience with. She had run through gunfire with less confusion than she felt right now.
Sophie caught her expression and nodded as if everything was settled.
They were wrong. She didn’t fit anywhere. Not in the FBI. Not in the world she grew up in. But fitting in had never been a requirement.
Surviving was.