Chapter 7
FITZ
Idon't sleep. Can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jordan with a gun pointed at her head, stepping in front of Amara Okafor, falling from the chair with blood on her face.
The images loop endlessly—her defiance, the leader's hand around her throat, that split second when I thought the shot had found its mark.
My heart hammers even now, hours later, lying in the dark with her in my arms. The adrenaline won't fade. My body is still primed for combat, muscles tense, ready to fight threats that no longer exist.
She's breathing deeply beside me, her body finally relaxed after the spanking and the emotional release. But there are still questions. Who planned it? How did they know Grace Okafor would be here? How did they also know about Jordan and me?
Too many coincidences. And in my line of work, coincidences usually mean someone orchestrated the circumstances.
I catalog the facts methodically, the way I was trained.
The terrorists knew Jordan's history with the Chibok girls.
They knew Grace would trigger her protective instincts.
They knew we'd be at this resort, on this specific holiday.
That level of intelligence requires resources, planning, and access to information that should be secure.
Someone wanted Jordan in that ballroom. Wanted her vulnerable. Wanted her dead.
My jaw clenches. My arm tightens around her waist automatically, and she stirs slightly, her breath catching.
"Shh," I murmur against her hair. "Sleep, love."
She settles again, trusting me even in unconsciousness to keep her protected. The weight of that trust is crushing. I failed tonight. Let her get hurt. Let her put herself in the line of fire. Twice.
The only reason she's alive is luck and the quick thinking of a former Royal Marine named Paul. Not my planning. Not my protection. Luck.
Unacceptable.
My phone vibrates silently on the nightstand. Sawyer. Of course he'd be working through the night, chasing leads while the trail is still warm.
I ease away from Jordan carefully, watching to make sure she's still deeply asleep before I slip out of bed.
The borrowed sweatpants and t-shirt I'm wearing do nothing against the cold as I step onto the small balcony.
It's freezing—barely past midnight—and snow is falling again, thick flakes that muffle sound and turn the world into a monochrome painting.
I close the door behind me, keeping my voice low. "Talk to me."
"You're not going to like it," Sawyer replies without preamble. His voice is tight, the way it gets when he's been staring at intelligence reports for too long. "The leader Jordan shot? His name was Graham Warner. Former British Army, dishonorably discharged five years ago."
Warner. The name means nothing to me, but if he has a military record, we can trace his connections. "Let me guess. Selling his services to the highest bidder."
"Exactly. And his most recent employer was a shell corporation we've been tracking—one with ties to several groups, including Boko Haram." Papers rustle on his end. "But here's where it gets interesting. The operation was too sophisticated for Boko Haram alone."
"Professional planning."
"Military-grade explosives, coordination across multiple countries. Someone with serious resources and intelligence capabilities helped plan this."
"Who?" I'm watching the snow fall, my mind already running scenarios. Shell corporations are designed to hide ownership. Following the money will take time we might not have.
"We're still digging. But Sully found something in Warner's encrypted communications." He pauses. "The target wasn't just Grace Okafor. It was Jordan."
Ice floods my veins. The falling snow blurs in my vision. "Explain."
"The Okafor girl was bait. They knew Jordan couldn't resist trying to save her."
"How long have they been tracking her?"
"Months, at least. They knew about her work with the Chibok girls. They knew about Baker Street. They knew when you'd be on holiday and where."
The implications settle over me like a weight. Months of surveillance. Of watching my wife, learning her patterns, exploiting her greatest strength—her inability to turn away from someone in danger.
"How did they know about the resort?" The booking was made through a secure channel. Jordan and I are careful about operational security, even on holiday.
"That's the question. Either they hacked the booking service, or they had access to credit card records, travel data, electronic communications that should have been encrypted.
" He pauses, and I hear him take a drink of something.
Coffee, probably. "There's more. The explosives they used—C-4, military grade, with a chemical signature that matches three other attacks across Europe in the past six months. "
"Same supplier?"
"Same network, at least. Paris in July—a French prosecutor investigating human trafficking. Barcelona in September—an Interpol agent who specialized in arms dealing. Rome in October—a journalist exposing illegal weapons sales to African militias." Sawyer's voice drops. "All dead, Fitz."
I look through the window at my sleeping wife. Her dark hair is spread across the white pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. Bruises shadow her face. Her split lip has reopened slightly in her sleep, leaving a small smear of blood on the pillowcase.
She survived tonight, but for how long?
"We need to find out who's behind this," I tell Sawyer, my voice hard. "And we need to make sure they can't try again."
"Already on it. Sully's tracing the financial connections. I've got Malcolm coordinating with Major Adeyemi—apparently she's also been investigating these attacks through her unit. The Nigerian government has an interest in anyone targeting people who help the Chibok survivors."
That's useful. Major Adeyemi struck me as competent and well-connected. "And the team?"
"Wyatt's preparing to bring you home as soon as the Swiss authorities clear you to leave. He's coordinating transport and security. Ghost is running background on every person at that resort—staff, guests, everyone. If there's a mole, we'll find them."
"How soon can we leave?"
"Day after tomorrow at the earliest. You're both witnesses in a major criminal investigation.
The Swiss aren't going to let you leave without full statements and probably depositions.
" He hesitates, and I know there's more.
"There's something else. One of the hostiles survived.
The one you knocked out in the corridor. He's talking."
My mind flashes back to the combat. First guard, throat strike, dying. Second guard, rifle to the temple, unconscious. "And?"
"He says Warner was expecting backup. A second team that didn't show—maybe got delayed by weather or Swiss police activity on the roads." Sawyer's voice is grim. "They're still out there, Fitz. And they know you and Jordan are still alive. They know the operation failed."
Christ. More assassins with a grudge. "What does Swiss intelligence think?"
"They're taking it seriously. Increased patrols, watching the airports and train stations. But we both know that if these people are professionals, they'll find a way to try again when the attention dies down."
"Double security at the hotel. I want eyes on all approaches—front, rear, service entrances, everything. I want someone watching our door at all times." I pause. "And Sawyer? Find out who's funding this. I want names and locations. I want to know who decided my wife needed to die."
"On it. How's Jordan?"
I glance back through the window. She's shifted in her sleep, reaching for where I should be, her hand patting the empty space before settling back. "Asleep. Bruised. Still the most stubborn woman I've ever met."
"She saved a lot of lives tonight. That warning she gave during the video—Major Adeyemi confirmed that several of the escaped girls have already gone dark. Changed locations, new identities. Jordan bought them time."
"She also nearly got herself killed. Again." I run my hand through my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. "I gave her a direct order to follow my lead. She agreed. And then she threw herself in front of a gun the first chance she got."
"You married a crusader, boss. Comes with the territory."
"Don't remind me." But there's no real heat in it. I knew who Jordan was when I put that collar around her throat. Knew she'd never be the kind of submissive who stayed put while others were in danger. "Keep me updated. Any new intelligence, I want it immediately."
"Will do. Try to get some sleep."
"Not likely."
We disconnect, and I stand in the freezing cold for a few more minutes, trying to get my head straight.
Someone powerful wants my wife dead. They've demonstrated they have resources, intelligence, and the willingness to kill dozens of innocent people to get to her.
They've been watching her for months, learning her patterns, exploiting her nature. And they'll try again.
The question is—do we run and hide, or do we go on the offensive?
I already know what Jordan will choose. She doesn't know how to hide. Doesn't know how to back down or compromise when she thinks she's in the right. She only knows how to fight.
Which means we fight. But we do it smart. With planning, resources, and Cerberus backing her up instead of her running off alone like some kind of vigilante crusader.
Assuming I can convince her to accept help. To work within a structure instead of operating solo. To trust that Cerberus can protect her while she does her work.
She submitted to me tonight—gave me her trust, let me discipline her, accepted the consequences for breaking her word. But that was in the bedroom. In the real world, Jordan makes her own decisions. Always has. It's one of the things I love about her, even when it terrifies me.