Chapter 2
TWO
The meeting ended, but the questions were just beginning.
Sinner slipped out of the war room before anyone could voice them. Before the word Quantico lit a wildfire he couldn’t smother with jokes or deflection.
He’d already clocked the looks from the Charlie team—curiosity, shock, disbelief. A few flickers of respect mixed in.
They all had pasts. His just happened to be something he didn’t advertise.
After meetings like this, the mansion usually buzzed with restless energy. Guys hit the shooting range or gathered around the pool table. But this time, every corner he turned, he felt eyes tracking him. Weighing him.
They wanted answers.
Instead of going through the kitchen, where he was bound to run into a couple teammates, he took the side door and cut across the lawn, headed for the outdoor kitchen and the pizza oven.
It might be a joke that he made the pizzas, but it kept his hands busy, which he needed right now.
The thick grass whispered against his boots as he strode toward the paver walkway leading to the patio. The acres surrounding the mansion were kept as tidy as the team could manage, but they didn’t have a lot of time for cutting the lawn when they were deployed.
Izzy had taken up gardening, so the flower garden was less wild than it once was, but it didn’t do anything to ease his soul. What he needed was the dough under his hands…and time to think.
Thankfully, no one was on the patio—yet. But they would be, as soon as he fired up the oven, and they’d be firing questions at him.
He grabbed a couple logs off the pile and built a small fire for the perfect crispy crust. While the oven was heating, he puttered around the outdoor kitchen—his domain—gathering supplies.
The dough he’d been working with earlier could be salvaged if he wanted to risk going into the house to get it. Through the patio door leading to the kitchen, he could see guys grabbing snacks and probably talking about him.
Not that a SEAL cared about crap like that.
With practiced hands, he rolled out a batch of dough he had stocked in the fridge, muscle memory taking over when his thoughts refused to settle.
His mind kept straying to the meeting, to the woman with eyes as dark as a midnight raid. He couldn’t stop questioning what made her the most qualified for this op besides FBI training. Hell, he didn’t even know the entire scope of the operation at all.
He tossed the dough over and over until he achieved the shape and thickness required. He placed it on a pizza stone and spread the sauce he canned himself. He needed to make more sauce—he didn’t like running low. Next was cheese. Basil last.
This was better than questions. Out here, he could even ignore the questions he was asking himself.
The patio door cracked open, ending his peace.
“Of course this is where you went,” Elin’s voice carried to him.
He didn’t look up right away. If he had to be interrupted, at least it was Elin.
They’d formed a solid friendship in the short time she’d been here. He liked her easy, carefree manner, and she claimed to appreciate that he didn’t fill the pauses in their conversations with unnecessary chatter.
Her quiet footsteps crossed the pavers, and she stopped a few steps away.
“You hiding?”
“I’m working. Somebody has to keep everyone fed. On a SEAL team, food boosts morale.”
“So you’re hiding.”
That earned her a glance. She propped a hip against the counter, one of the enormous cardigans she was so fond of wearing, pulled over her hands, hair tucked behind her ears. She reminded him—annoyingly—of one of his cousins. The one who never pushed too hard but always noticed when he was off.
“Thought you were busy working on the op,” he said.
“We’ve got a working framework. I’m waiting on some responses before I move forward.”
He didn’t look up from the toppings he was sprinkling over the dough. He didn’t ask questions—he waited for orders.
Before either of them could say more, two of the guys walked out. Mason made a beeline to Elin and slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned into him without missing a beat. Angelo Ash—the rookie—grabbed a bottled water from the fridge.
For a moment, no one spoke. The wood crackled and popped in the oven, nearly hot enough to fire the pizza.
Ash took a swig, his stare steady on Sinner. The questions were there, simmering just beneath the surface. At least Ash had the restraint to keep them quiet.
Mason didn’t. “So. Quantico?”
He forced his lips to quirk at one corner in a smile he didn’t feel. “What happens in the field stays in the field.”
Elin leaned over to snag a slice of bell pepper. “Doesn’t seem like your secret stayed in the field.”
A grunt was his only response. What was there to say to that? He slid the pizza into the oven.
Ash replaced the cap on the bottle and set it on the counter. “I knew more than a few suits in the FBI. Lots of ego there. I can see why Charlie is a better fit.”
“Yup.” He pulled another dough round toward him and began tossing it.
He didn’t have more to say on the topic, and there wasn’t time anyway. The door opened, and Con beckoned for him to follow.
With an internal groan at being pulled away from his task twice that day, he set the tossed dough on the next stone.
Elin stepped closer. “Go on, Zaddy. I’ve got it from here.”
Not even the nickname the women of the house had graced him with could make Sinner smile right now.
Wiping his hands on a towel, he gave her a quick nod and followed Con into the house. The conversation in the kitchen stopped as he passed through.
Con strode into the war room, and Sinner entered on his heels. Dante was behind his laptop, and Opal sat near him, wearing that same aloof expression from before.
For someone who appeared so detached, her stare still locked with his the instant he sat down.
Con got right down to business. “Dante, tell us what you and Elin compiled.”
Dante passed two sheets of paper across the desk. Sinner slid one to Opal and picked up the other. As he read, he caught the shift in her posture—shoulders tighter, breath shallower. Whatever was on that page hit a nerve.
After a quick scan of the first few lines, he saw why. “This is the framework you and Elin came up with?”
Dante sat back. “It was Elin’s idea, and it’s brilliant. Right now, it’s a loose plan. Con just wanted me to run it past you before we solidify it.”
His nostrils flared on the big pull of air he filled his lungs with.
“It’s smart.” It was one of the only times he’d heard Opal speak. “I can do it.”
He flattened a palm on the sheet of paper. “I can do anything,” he said, too aware that it would come off like he was challenging her.
But his comment got no rise from the woman. He was starting to believe she wasn’t an FBI asset at all—she was a robot.
When she locked her gaze on him, whatever was going on in her mind was shuttered behind training and rigid rules.
“Any concerns before we finalize?” Con’s gaze moved deliberately between them.
Opal continued to stare at Sinner. “No.”
“I’m good.”
Con met his eyes, and there it was—a fractional tightening at the corner of his mouth. A small thing that few people would ever notice.
But Sinner did.
It was a directive.
He readied himself for the order about to come.
“Alyssa needs a file from Sophie’s office,” Con told him, attention fixed on Opal.
Sophie’s office was next door to the war room where they were convened right now.
“See if you can find it for her.”
Without comment, Sinner stood and walked out. He didn’t need clarification. Sophie’s office was close enough to hear every word.
As he passed Opal, she didn’t look at him, but the air between them tightened anyway.
He stepped into the hall knowing exactly what Con just asked him to do.
Listen. Whatever came next, Con wanted a second set of ears on it.
* * * * *
Opal took everything in because she didn’t know how not to.
The habit had been carved into her long before Quantico, before handlers and sealed files.
You survive by seeing what others miss.
Smith’s training echoed in her mind. And when Smith spoke—even in her memory—she listened.
She picked up the low hum of voices and footsteps. Nearby, someone laughed—instead of the forced office laughter heard in the halls of Quantico, it was genuine.
She smelled pizza. Not the kind from a box. It was fresh and hot.
Con watched her silently, giving her time to work through everything running through her mind, even if it only took seconds. That alone told her more about the leader of the SEAL team than any medals of honor or thick files ever could. She didn’t know many men with such patience.
He sat back in his seat, head cocked as he studied her. “You’ve been profiling everyone here.” He wasn’t observing her, he was measuring her.
She schooled her expression. “You brought me in blind. Curiosity is a predictable response.”
Amusement flickered across his face. “What do you think of us?”
She calculated the answer he was looking for: a guarded response with vague undertones.
“Nice place. Nice people. Should be a great op.”
“You just gave me the equivalent of a Yelp review.”
She realized she had to give him something substantial or they’d be sitting here all day. “I can eat pizza by the pool. The bedrooms are decent-sized. When you turn on the light in the bathroom, no cockroaches scatter. And the toilet doesn’t feel like it’s going to fall through the floor.”
Amusement flashed in his eyes. But his silence was prodding for more from her.
What she didn’t say was…this was a lot to take in. The team—and the women—felt like a big family. She’d never experienced that and didn’t expect to in her lifetime.
Con arched a brow. “So…four? Five stars?”
“Four,” she breezed out. “Nothing’s perfect.”
He nodded as if that answer satisfied him. After another long pause, he leaned forward. “Your handler isn’t here. You don’t have to watch yourself.”
Forcing down her own reactions was second nature, but she still concentrated on keeping her shoulders in a relaxed pose.
“What are you getting at?”
“Just like you did, I’m getting a read on you,” he said easily. “On what you think of us. Because you’re going to be out there with my special operative. And Sinner’s important.”
She met his gaze, unblinking and unflinching.
“I read your file. It says you’re not a team player.”
She had to choose her words carefully. “I could be a team player. If I ever felt there was a team that had my back.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was deliberate. Con was good at interrogation tactics, she’d give him that. He was giving her space to talk and reading between the lines when she didn’t.
“You have the FBI at your back.”
She issued a soft snort. “They only have their own backs.”
“You’ve never had anyone in your whole life.”
“I did once. But he’s dead.” She didn’t soften it. Didn’t dress it up.
“Smith?” His gaze drilled into her, mining for some reaction from her.
Her breath hitched before she could stop it. Her eyes flared wider, just for a split second before she regained control.
He knew about Smith.
And just hearing that name tossed out so casually, like people mentioned the man every single day, sent a twinge of pain to her chest.
Smith. Not a day passed when she didn’t think about her friend. He’d saved her more times than she could count.
But in the end, she wasn’t able to save him. She’d failed him.
She carefully swallowed around the lump in her throat, forcing the memory back into the box.
Con knew more than he should. But how? Not even the FBI knew her history.
“I know you have the skill for this op, Opal. The intellect, too. That’s not what I’m questioning.”
She waited, forcing her pulse to steady.
“I’m trying to see if you have the heart.”
The words lodged beneath her ribs. And in that instant, she knew what this was all about.
Con was ordering her to be the partner Sinner deserved. And that told her just how much Caius Sinclair meant to his team.
She gave him a single nod of understanding.
Without another word, Con tipped his head toward the door in dismissal.
In measured movements, she pushed away from the table and walked out. Using the mental map of the mansion she’d created when the women led her upstairs, she returned to the guest room they assigned her. The bag sat by the door, packed with borrowed things for her upcoming performance.
Soon she’d have all the details about her role, but the goal was simple—she and Sinner would force a terrorist out of hiding.
Voices rose, laughter carrying through the base. Someone called for more food. It sounded like a party—but it wasn’t a party so much as a family gathering.
The last time she’d been part of a situation that looked like a family, it ended with her mother dragging her out of bed in the dead of night and shoving her in the back seat of a car.
No explanations. No goodbyes.
She reached into her bag and checked her knife just to remind herself that no matter what happened, she wasn’t helpless.
But Con told her—in very few words—to be a team player. And not to put Sinner in jeopardy. What Con didn’t know was she already lived by a code.
Don’t be the reason someone else doesn’t make it out.
“I hear you, Smith,” she murmured.
When everything went to hell, she’d get him out.
Even if it meant she didn’t.