Chapter Thirteen
Colton
“You’re distracted.” Stryker’s American accent cut through my thoughts as his fist nearly connected with my jaw. “That would’ve hurt.”
I blocked his next strike, the defensive movement smoother than it would have been six months ago. Back when three drunken idiots had cornered me outside The Wolseley, and I’d realized that all my expensive education meant nothing in a dark alley.
“Just remembering why I started this,” I said, circling him on the training mats.
His eyes, the kind that had seen too much combat during his Special Forces days, gleamed with understanding. “The restaurant incident?”
“Hard to forget.” I threw a combination he’d taught me, remembering how helpless I’d felt that night. How something in me had snapped after years of living in Cooper’s shadow. My brother could handle himself in any situation. I’d needed two waiters and a bus boy to rescue me.
“You’ve come a long way since then.” Stryker shifted his stance, studying my form. “Most guys would’ve taken a few basic self-defense classes and called it done. You stuck with it.”
“Had a good teacher.”
He deflected my next strike easily. “Had good motivation. Nothing like feeling powerless to make a man want to change.”
Early morning sun filtered through the private gym’s windows. For a man who’d spent five years in Delta Force, he was taking it a bit easy on me.
“Your form’s better than fine.” He dropped his guard slightly. “Six months ago, you were a lawyer who fought with words. Now you move like someone who knows how to handle himself.”
The compliment meant something, coming from him. I’d found Stryker through one of the bank’s security consultants after that night at The Wolseley. The gym was high-end but discreet, tucked away in an old warehouse near Canary Wharf. The ex-Delta Force operator studying me didn’t match the polished setting. It was his eyes that gave him away; he looked like he’d seen more than anyone should at his age.
“You’re not here for fitness,” Stryker said, his accent distinct compared to London’s usual tones. “You’re here because you felt helpless. Because you never want to feel that way again.”
The accuracy of his assessment was unnerving. “How did you—”
“Same look I’ve seen in a hundred others. CEOs, diplomats, people who’ve realized money can’t keep them safe.” He moved with controlled grace, demonstrating his point. “Question is, are you willing to do what it takes to change that?”
“You speak from experience,” I said, noting the shadow that crossed his face.
“My sister.” Stryker’s voice went quiet, his American accent thickening with suppressed emotion. “Madelina. Four years ago, she disappeared from a college trip to Europe. She was trafficked. That’s how I ended up here. Searched for years for her. Never even found her body.” He stopped, jaw tight. “I understand what drives men like you. Why you’re here at 5:00 a.m. learning to fight instead of sleeping like a normal corporate lawyer.”
Looking for someone who could teach me to never feel that helpless again.
“Speaking of the legal world,” he said, tossing me a water bottle. “How’s the bank?”
Something in his tone made me look up quickly. “Why?”
“Because you’ve been hitting the training harder lately. With more focus.” He began wrapping his hands for our boxing session, movements practiced. “Like you’re preparing for something specific.”
I thought of what Isabella and I were undercovering. “Just staying sharp.”
“Right.” His voice was dry. “That’s why you added close combat to your training. Just staying sharp.”
Dawn seeped through London’s haze, gilding the city’s slate edges with reluctant light. In a few hours I’d be back in my suit, back in my legal world of paperwork and carefully hidden lies.
“The bank hired some new security consultants,” he said casually. Too casually. “Your boy Rodger reached out last week.”
I stilled. “What?”
“Wanted a security audit. Pretty sure he was testing waters. Seeing if I had connections to you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d think about it.” Stryker finished wrapping his hands. “Man’s got military bearing. Not Special Forces, but something. He’s not just a suit.”
I processed this as I wrapped my own hands. Rodger Ross always struck me as someone who didn’t quite belong in the boardroom.
“You’re not surprised,” Stryker observed.
“Not anymore.” I thought of the files hidden in my office. Of art that existed in documentation only. “Nothing surprises me lately.”
He studied me for a long moment. “That art expert you mentioned last week. The one with the authentication questions.”
“Isabella.” I sighed. Her name felt different in the pre-dawn quiet. Almost forbidden. More real.
“She’s part of what’s got you hitting the training harder?”
I hesitated. “She’s...seeing things at the bank. Things that don’t add up.”
Recognition flickered in his stare. Or maybe it was memory. “Dangerous things?”
“Yeah.” I met his gaze. “The kind of things that make me glad I didn’t stop at basic self-defense.”
He was silent for a moment, just the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of London awakening. When he spoke, his voice had changed. Harder. “Sometimes the worst fights aren’t physical.”
“No,” I agreed. “But being ready for anything helps.”
“Yeah.” He moved back to the mats. “Which is why we’re going to work on something new today.”
For the next hour, he pushed me harder than ever. Close combat in tight spaces. Breaking holds. How to protect someone else while defending yourself.
“Your instinct will be to fight,” he said as we drilled escape techniques. “To take them on. But sometimes the smartest move is getting clear. Understanding?”
I nodded, muscles burning. “Clear first. Fight later.”
“Good.” He demonstrated another hold break. “And Colton?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever need more than training...if whatever’s happening at that bank goes sideways...” He let the offer hang.
The certainty in his voice sent chills down my spine. “You think it might?”
“I think nothing at banks like yours is ever simple.” Something dark crossed his features. “And I think sometimes the most dangerous people wear suits and speak softly.”
Like the men who signed our shipping manifests.
“This Isabella,” he said suddenly. “The art expert. She’s smart?”
“Brilliant.” The word came automatically. “Best in her field.”
“Then she’s probably smart enough to be careful.” But something in his tone suggested he’d seen smart people fail before.
We finished with conditioning work, but my mind was elsewhere. On Isabella’s careful investigation of shipping records. On the way her hands had trembled slightly last week, though her voice stayed steady.
“Hit the showers,” Stryker said finally. “And Colton?”
I turned back.
“This might come in handy,” Stryker said, showing me a device slightly larger than a cell phone. “Military-grade EMP. Short range, but powerful enough to knock out surveillance and electronic locks in about a fifty-foot radius.”
I turned it over in my hands, feeling the weight. “Isn’t this highly regulated?”
His smile was grim. “Let’s just say I still have friends who owe me favors. The trigger’s simple, this switch here. But use it sparingly. It’ll fry your own electronics too, unless they’re hardened like this phone.” He handed me a modified smartphone. “One shot, so make it count.”
I slipped both into my bag, not questioning how or why he had such equipment. Some things were better left unasked.
“Sometimes training isn’t just about being able to fight. Sometimes it’s about being strong enough to protect people who matter.”
I nodded, heading for the locker room. In an hour I’d be back in my suit, back in my own world of corruption and greed.
The training had started because I’d felt powerless in an alley. Because I’d been tired of needing rescue, of living in Cooper’s shadow.
Now it was preparation for something else. Something darker than a drunken confrontation outside a restaurant.
I showered and dressed, the familiar routine of becoming Devereux Bank’s chief counsel. But underneath the perfect suit, my muscles carried new purpose. New strength.
I just hoped it would be enough when everything shattered.
Because lately, watching Isabella dive deeper into the bank’s secrets, I had a feeling that “if” was becoming “when.”
And this time, no waiters would be coming to the rescue.