Chapter 12 #3
“It’s over. I get it.”
He stared at her. “What—no, I mean . . . yes, but—”
She held up her hand. “Listen.” And her throat tightened. “I told you—I’m not good at long-term. This is just . . . where we are now.” She blinked hard, hating her words. But really . . . he was a good guy.
And she was a spy.
And that’s all she had to say about that.
He sighed. “I just . . . I hoped . . .”
She kept her voice light. Teasing. Anything to keep from falling apart. “For the happy ending?”
He lifted a shoulder.
“Yeah, me too, Bugsy.”
They stood in silence for a moment. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on her—the lies, the secrets, the kiss last night that had meant everything and changed nothing.
“Can I—” he started.
“I gotta go.” The words came out too fast. Too final. “Thanks for . . . everything.”
Dakota frowned. “Jayden. Seriously—”
“No.” She forced a smile. “Listen, you know how vacation romances are.” Her voice was bright. Brittle. The performance of her life. “No one is ever who they say they are.”
His expression shifted—hurt, confusion, a frown.
And she just . . . well, she didn’t know what else to do. So she stepped up and kissed him. Quick. Hard. Before she could talk herself out of it. Before he could see the tears threatening to spill.
“But it was fun!” She pulled back, already stepping away. “Five stars. Would recommend.”
“Jayden—”
She walked away. Then ran. Her bag bouncing against her hip, her carryon rumbling behind her, her eyes burning, her heart shattering into pieces she didn’t have time to collect.
She made it around the corner of the Opera House before the first tear fell.
Stop. This couldn’t last, couldn’t be true.
She had a job to do. And that job included lying. Right now, she had to move.
And yes, Dakota was someone she could have loved. If things were different. If she were different.
The bus coughed and she turned, spotting it.
The gray bag. The rifle components. Jayden spun around and ran back.
The bus was still there, the luggage compartment closed. She worked the latch open, heart pounding, already reaching for—
Nothing.
The gray bag was gone.
Jayden stared into the empty compartment, her blood turning to ice.
Someone had taken it. In the five minutes she’d spent saying goodbye to Dakota—running away from Dakota—someone had walked up to this bus and taken the bag with the rifle components.
The assassin had their weapon.
The president spoke tomorrow.
And Jayden had just let a weapon of terrifying destruction slip through her fingers because she was too busy breaking her own stupid heart.
FEDERAL DETENTION FACILITY, VIRGINIA – 3:17 A.M. EST
The lights flickered at 3:17 a.m.
Alan was awake—he was always awake at this hour, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the concrete. The flicker lasted two seconds. Three. Then darkness, absolute and sudden, followed by the distant sound of a door that shouldn’t have opened.
His body tensed before his mind caught up. Fifteen years of training didn’t disappear just because he’d stopped wanting to survive.
Emergency lighting kicked in—the dim red glow bleeding through the narrow window in his cell door. The institutional hum of the ventilation system had gone silent. Somewhere in the building, voices shouted. Then stopped.
Twenty-nine months days in federal custody. Twenty-nine months of institutional beige and recycled air and the knowledge that he would never leave these walls as a free man.
He’d stopped caring.
The cell gave nothing of encouragement—metal bunk bolted to the wall, thin mattress, wool blanket that smelled of industrial detergent. A Bible someone had left on the shelf, untouched.
He’d heard that Damien had been killed, along with Crowley, shortly before the election. York Newgate probably had a hand in that, but Alan didn’t know the details.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Alan didn’t move from the bunk.
The lock on his cell clicked. The door swung open.
A guard stood in the doorway—uniform correct, badge in place, but something wrong in his eyes. Too calm. Too professional. He gestured for Alan to follow.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The guard didn’t argue. Just stepped aside.
And there, in the red-lit shadows of the corridor, stood a man in an expensive wool overcoat. A bear of a man, his dark hair swept back. Pale-gray eyes that missed nothing. He stood, hands in his pockets, and smiled like they were old friends meeting for drinks.
He stepped into Alan’s cell.
“Mr. Martin. Or do you prefer Ethan?”
Alan’s gut tightened. No one had called him Ethan in years. “Who are you?”
“Someone with a proposition.” The man’s accent was Russian, educated, precise. “My name is Drago Petrov.”
Great. A Petrov soldier.
“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
“Even if I’m selling freedom?”
He paused. “Especially then.”
Drago tilted his head, studying Alan with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen. “Fascinating. Most men in your position would jump at the chance.”
“I’m not most men.” Alan turned his face back to the ceiling. “We’re done here.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Drago’s voice hardened, just slightly.
“You see, we’ve gone to considerable trouble to arrange this visit.
Guards bribed. Security systems compromised.
A very narrow window of opportunity.” He checked his watch.
“We leave in four minutes. With or without your cooperation.”
“Then drag me. But I’m not walking.”
Something flickered in Drago’s icy eyes. Amusement? Respect? Hard to tell.
“I was told you might be . . . difficult.” He reached into his coat and Alan tensed—but what emerged wasn’t a weapon. Just a photograph. “Perhaps this will change your mind.”
He held it up to the red emergency light.
Alan didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to give this man anything.
But his eyes betrayed him.
And his world stopped.
A woman sat at an outdoor café—somewhere sunny, European. Cobblestones visible at the edge of the frame. A cup of coffee steaming beside her. She was older than he remembered, lines at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before, her dark hair longer now, but—
Timea.
His chest seized. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—
And beside her, at the table, a child. A young girl. Maybe eleven years old, dark hair escaping from braids, laughing at something outside the frame.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were green. His green.
“This is fake.” The words came out broken. “You photoshopped this. She’s dead. I saw the reports, I—”
“Did you?” Drago’s voice seemed almost gentle now. Almost kind. “Did you actually see a body? Or did someone simply tell you that your wife had died?”
“The boat blew up—I nearly died! I heard her scream, saw her go under—”
Alan’s hands shook. When had he stood up? When had he crossed the cell? The photograph was in his fingers now, the paper trembling.
“They lied to you.” Drago lifted a shoulder.
“They—” He looked up. “Who lied? The Bratva? Crowley?” Alan’s voice cracked. “Why would anyone—”
“You were a CIA asset who wanted out. What better way to ensure your compliance than to take everything you loved?”
Alan looked at him. “I know the CIA bombed the yacht. Damien told me—Isaac White ordered it.”
Drago shook his head.
Alan couldn’t breathe. Someone years before had suggested that White might not be involved, but . . .
But he didn’t know who to believe, really. “My wife died that day, along with our . . . child.” He looked at the picture. “Why—”
“Because you were useful. Because grief makes men do things they would never otherwise do.” Drago reached for the photo, but Alan jerked it away.
“Crowley,” Alan breathed. “Crowley said he knew—”
“Crowley was a useful tool, nothing more. A bitter man with his own vendetta, easy to manipulate.” Drago shrugged. “But he’s gone now. And my organization has been . . . managing certain assets he left behind.”
Alan stared at the photograph. At Timea’s face. At the little girl with his eyes.