Chapter 3
THREE
Sinner had already organized the kitchen twice.
The pantry didn’t need it. Neither did the shelves or the drawers. Everything in the Blackout Charlie base ran clean and efficiently, same as the men who lived here. The kitchen was no exception—it was his domain, and he kept it tight.
Right now, he just needed to occupy his hands while he waited for Con to call him to the war room. No time to hit reps in the gym or fire rounds at a target. So instead he lined up knives by length and faced all the cans in the pantry label-forward.
Kitchens grounded him. Always had. As a kid, it gave him a task to focus on when his thoughts started circling instead of landing. That habit carried into his life in Blackout.
When they signed up, they were given death certificates, their identities stripped away so they could operate like ghosts. Living that way, with no ties to family, old friends or the world, could fuck a man up. Sinner didn’t always know how to exist outside of missions.
But he knew his way around a kitchen.
A quiet footstep coming from behind made him glance around. The last person he expected to see walk into his kitchen was Opal.
She didn’t speak, just took him in and the overly-neat surroundings.
“If you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich.”
One thin, dark brow winged upward. “Why would you do that?”
He wasn’t a man who got tripped up by being questioned. Waterboarding in North Korea kicked that out of him some time ago. But the suspicion behind Opal’s question had him wondering what her life was like.
He shrugged to show her he didn’t care if she wanted a sandwich or not.
She circled the island, fingertip running around the perimeter. “You’re not in the meeting with Con and the team.”
“I’m waiting to be called in.”
“So you just…hang out in the kitchen?” She flicked her stare over his body as if searching for a lie she would never spot even if he had something to hide.
“I’ve been organizing.”
She tilted her head, which brought his focus to the fine bones of her face. “Organizing? What? Does a SEAL team keep their ammo in the kitchen cupboards?”
His own lips quirked in amusement. He lifted a hand and flipped open one of the cupboard doors to show a neat display of coffee in about ten varieties the people who lived here liked.
She pulled away from the island and crossed the room in the softest footsteps. As she neared, his whole body locked in with awareness. He’d seen a few women like her before—their diminutive size belied an inner core made of iron. He suspected this was why Opal was hand-picked for this op.
Folding his arms, he leaned on the counter. “Do my skills meet with your approval?”
She scanned the labels. Then reached in and started pulling out the bags. She set them all on the counter. “Someone who has plaques in Quantico can do better.”
He snorted. “By all means, show me what you can do with coffee.”
“Don’t worry,” she said offhandedly. “I will.”
They were both hyperaware—of each other, of course, but also of the fact that their past made them natural competitors.
She started moving the bags around like they were some hide-the-object carnival game. At first, he thought she might be sorting them by color—some of the ladies in the house would. But soon he realized that wasn’t the case.
When she had them lined up to her liking, she placed them on the shelves.
He stood back, trying to puzzle out her method. “You organized them by font?”
She sliced a look at him, her eyes burning with what he could only guess was amusement. “That’s the best a man in ghost ops can do?”
He eyed the bags. After a moment, he said, “They’re in order of country of origin.”
“Is that all?”
Being tested by this woman chafed a bit, but some of his best trainers of his career were women. He picked up a bag and skimmed the back. After he read a few, he realized this had nothing to do with the richness, where it was grown or how it was roasted.
He carefully placed a bag on the shelf and turned to Opal. “You ranked them by country of origin and a loose assessment of their power in the world.”
She blinked at him. “What makes you say it’s ‘loose?’”
“Because you didn’t start with the oldest power. You started with the heaviest. Sumatra on the left. Brazil next. Then Yemen and Ethiopia. After that, it softens—Colombia, Guatemala. Kenya’s too sharp to sit higher, Rwanda’s still climbing. And Peru?”
His mouth tipped. “That’s where you end when you’re done proving something.”
She didn’t answer right away. They locked eyes in one of those challenging stares again. Finally, she pulled out the Sumatran blend, turned on her heels and walked out.
“Next time, we’ll make pizza sauce!” he called after her.
She didn’t look back.
He watched her go, not feeling a victory in the encounter, but he did feel as if he’d learned a little more about the woman he was partnered with.
He picked up the bag. Either she was telling him that she was ranked highest…or she just preferred Sumatran coffee.
A light step sounded behind him, and he turned, thinking Opal returned. But Sophie popped her head in. “Con’s ready for you.” Before he could react, she’d already popped out again.
As he made his way to the war room, the conversation he’d listened to between Con and Opal rose in his mind. His commanding officer called her out on not being a team player and all but warned her not to compromise Sinner.
He was glad he was important to Charlie, but wasn’t thrilled about what he was walking into with Opal.
When he entered the war room Con, Elin, Dante and Opal were already seated. Dante took up his post behind his laptop. Elin stood behind him, coffee in hand, watching the screen.
And Opal…she was as still as a statue, straight-backed and focused.
Con headed the table, computer tablet in his hand, his expression unreadable. He waited until Sinner joined them before speaking.
“The plan’s finalized. We’re going to walk through your covers together.”
Opal was seated across from Sinner. They were about to drop into unknown territory—together.
Elin settled next to Dante and passed a sheet of paper to him and one to Opal.
Sinner skimmed the first line. Mike Franklin. The name he’d be going by.
“Read them out loud. Don’t be shy,” Con instructed.
Sinner darted a look at Opal before taking the lead. “Mike Franklin. Construction worker. Injured on the job.”
Opal picked up on her part of the script. “Kelly Franklin.”
She looked nothing like a Kelly.
She continued, “Medical bills from Mike’s back surgeries and missed time from work put us in debt.
We were going to lose the house and everything else.
So we sold the house and downsized our cars.
I switched to a government job in New York City as an accounting technician for the…
” She looked up. “Really? The Department of Defense?”
Looking pleased with herself, Elin nodded. “We pulled some strings to get you into that position.”
“Even more reason for Cipher to try to use Opal—er, Kelly,” Sinner corrected.
Elin bobbed her head. “Cipher loves giving money and gifts as leverage. Your sob story is the perfect bait. And he likes using government workers so he can pry out insider info.”
Opal focused on her paper again. “We went from a modest two-story home in the suburbs to an extended-stay place on the outskirts of the city.”
Sinner was watching her face carefully, taking note that she didn’t give any outward reaction to the fact they’d be living in a cheap place and driving crap cars.
“Sinner,” Con prompted.
He read his part. “Mike is addicted to pain pills after his job-related accident. He has a pending claim to pay his medical bills, but the old employer is trying to say the injury was caused by a previous medical condition, therefore not their fault.”
He pushed the paper away. “I’m not sitting around all day playing a junkie while Opal is in the trenches.”
Her stare hit his so hard the whole table went quiet.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who sat on his hands in any op, and no matter what this cover said, he wouldn’t let her carry this alone. Her eyes narrowed a fraction—she knew it too.
Con made a noise in his throat that severed their stare. “Don’t worry, Sinner. You’re getting a job where you can still work with your hands on your new construction crew.”
Sinner skimmed the next lines.
No. He did not just read that.
He looked up and summarized. “Mike is addicted to pills and Opal’s going to be making drug deals for my goods.” He tossed the paper, and it slid across the surface. “Fucking great.”
He knew what went on in the dark corners of the world. And he knew what happened to women who walked into them alone.
If she had to do this, his real fight wouldn’t be against Cipher.
It would be staying in character while she put herself in the crosshairs.
* * * * *
Opal’s composure held—because it always held, and she refused to crack like Sinner just did—but it took a hell of a lot of effort.
Not with Sinner looking like he wanted to put his fist through the table. Not with Con watching them both the way men traced a bullet to the target—respecting danger and still needing to know if they hit the mark.
Dante put their covers on the big screens. She scanned the documents that would back their narrative. Hotel booking, medical claim numbers, emails, receipts. All the kind of proof that Cipher would love.
Elin took a sip of her coffee as if she needed it to fortify herself for what came next.
“Cipher doesn’t recruit people at random.
He uses a methodology to corrupt people.
We know how each person was turned. What they wanted, what they feared, what they couldn’t afford to lose.
He looks for weaknesses. Yours”—her gaze flicked to Opal—“is your love for your husband.”
The word felt like someone shoved her in the chest, but she didn’t rock from the blow. Wouldn’t flinch.