Chapter 13
Late-afternoon sunlight pours through the conference room windows overlooking the estate grounds, washing the walls in bands of soft light.
Beyond the glass, lush green lawns roll toward the tree line in endless shades of green, fountains glinting beneath the cloudless sky, while a light breeze stirs the hedges and tall cypress trees bordering the property.
Everything outside looks calm and controlled, beautiful enough to sharpen the tension gathering in the room.
I sit at the far end of the walnut table, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee that’s gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Jagger sprawls beside me with calculated carelessness, tattooed fingers drumming softly against the tabletop.
Gunnar sits on my other side, quiet and composed, his tall frame folded neatly into the leather chair while he watches the room with steady, unreadable focus.
Across from us, Ambassador Richard Bradenburg adjusts the cuff of his tailored shirt beneath the navy suit he’s wearing. It fits him almost as well as the calm face and diplomat smile. But there’s tension buried beneath them both tonight, subtle enough most people wouldn’t notice.
Hawk is beside the windows, instead of using his seat, his broad shoulders squared. He’s been still for the past five minutes, but nothing about his posture looks relaxed.
On the wall-mounted screen, Abby and Mattis join the discussion remotely from Chicago. Abby’s dark hair is twisted into a tight knot, her expression all business. Mattis looks half asleep in a hoodie, illuminated by the glow of his six monitors.
The ambassador clears his throat, garnering the attention of the room. “I’ve been notified that the threats have increased.”
Abby’s brows pull together before he even finishes speaking. “The DEA haven’t provided that information to us.”
A flicker of irritation crosses the ambassador’s face before he smooths it away. “I told them to send it over to you immediately.”
“Respectfully,” Abby replies, her voice clipped but professional, “we’re still waiting on the initial surveillance transcripts.”
The ambassador exhales sharply through his nose. “I’ll deal with that as soon as we’re done here.”
On-screen, Mattis shifts, his fingers already moving toward his keyboard. “I can get it on my o?—”
“Please do, Richard,” Hawk interrupts smoothly.
The whole diplomatic world does not need to know Mattis has a panache for hacking into every alphabet-named government agency.
Hawk turns from the windows slowly, one hand slipping into his pocket as he levels the ambassador a steady look.
“We’d appreciate having that information soon. It might help us do our jobs.”
Annoyance flashes across the ambassador’s face, but I’m not sure whether it’s from the continued requests for information or the use of his name. Before I get a chance to pin it down, he nods. “Of course.”
I watch the ambassador as Hawk retakes his place at the other end of the table. He reaches for his coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug for a second before setting it down untouched, like a nervous tic. The slight narrowing of Jagger’s eyes tells me he notices, too.
Abby glances toward another monitor off-screen. “Can we clarify what ‘increased threats’ means exactly?”
The ambassador leans back in his chair. “The DEA intercepted communications suggesting heightened frustration among the cartel leadership regarding recent operational disruptions.”
“Operational disruptions,” Jagger repeats the diplomatic language flatly.
“It means somebody cost somebody else a lot of money,” I whisper to him in jest. It earns me a scowl from Hawk, but it’s totally worth it.
Gunnar folds his arms across his chest. “Against who?”
The ambassador’s gaze shifts briefly toward the windows before returning to us. “Embassy personnel. Federal contacts. Security assets.”
Mattis mutters, “Love being called an asset.”
Abby ignores him. “How much have the threats escalated?”
The ambassador exhales slowly. “The frequency has increased. There is more intercepted chatter and movement around embassy routes. The DEA believes the Cartagena cartel is growing impatient.”
They’ve been after him for months—threats, intimidation attempts, pressure campaigns disguised as warnings. We were brought in after someone put a bullet through the windshield of a diplomatic vehicle three miles from the estate. A vehicle that the ambassador was luckily not a passenger of.
Jagger spins a pen lazily between his fingers. “Impatient usually means sloppy.”
“Or desperate,” Gunnar retorts quietly.
The ambassador readjusts his tie, his fingers briefly slipping against the knot before he steadies them.
Abby glances at something off-screen. “You said the DEA mentioned increased communications. Did they specify what triggered the shift?”
For the first time since the meeting started, Richard hesitates. “The current climate has become… unstable.”
Hawk’s gaze settles on him evenly. “Unstable, how?”
The ambassador reaches for his coffee again instead of answering immediately.
“There are several moving parts right now. Federal pressure. Internal disputes within the cartel. Shipping complications.” It’s another polished non-answer.
His voice is measured and diplomatic as he continues, “Whatever the cause, the reality remains the same. The cartel’s attention on this estate has intensified. ”
“And you don’t know why?” Hawk asks quietly.
Their eyes meet for half a second too long before the ambassador looks away, sunlight flashing across the windows, bright enough to force him to squint. “We know enough to take it seriously.”
We were hired expecting cartel retaliation, but like every fucking government job we’ve ever taken, the deeper this conversation goes, the more it feels like we’re only being given parts of the story.
Mattis tilts his head at the screen. “That’s a very political way of saying something messy happened.”
“Mattis,” Abby warns.
“What? I’m just saying.”
The ambassador offers a thin smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “International operations are rarely clean.”
“Ambassador… is there anything else we should know before this escalates further?” Abby asks carefully.
“There are ongoing investigations I’m not authorized to discuss.”
Abby’s voice comes through crisp over the speakers. “With respect, if our team is expected to protect you and your daughter effectively, we need transparency.”
“And you’ll have everything relevant to operational security.
” The ambassador’s eyes flick briefly at his watch.
“I apologize,” he says, pushing back from the table, “but I have a call pending with Washington.” He offers the room an apologetic smile that feels rehearsed.
“We can continue this tomorrow, if necessary.”
Translation: meeting over.
The ambassador gathers his folder quickly, the movements just shy of rushed. He departs the conference room with two diplomatic aides falling into step behind him, the door clicking shut softly in his wake.
Mattis grumbles through the speakers, “Something feels off.”
“Obviously,” Jagger replies with an obnoxious eyeroll.
Abby sighs, rubbing at her temple. “Mattis will dig a little, and I’ll keep pushing DEA for those transcripts.”
The call disconnects a minute later, and we all stand from the table. I check my watch as I leave the conference room.
Shit. I’m ten minutes late.
I make my way downstairs and across the quieter east wing of the estate, finding Mackenzi sitting beside the open patio doors, exactly where I figured she’d be.
She has one knee tucked beneath her, a book spread open in her lap while the breeze stirs loose strands of hair around her face.
Sunlight pools through the open doorframe, gilding the soft highlights of her hair warm reddish gold.
She looks up at the sound of my footsteps, her mouth curving slightly. “I was starting to think we weren’t doing this today.”
“Meeting ran late.” Her brows lift like she’s waiting for more, and I grin faintly. “And I don’t think any of us could handle the kind of trouble you’d get into if I kept you cooped up in here for more than twenty-four hours.”
A quiet laugh slips out of her. “Probably not.”
“No,” I agree, gesturing outside, “definitely not.” She brushes past me to cross the threshold, close enough that the soft scent of her perfume catches briefly in the warm air.
The estate grounds stretch endlessly around us in shades of green, sunlight filtering through tall cypress trees while fountains murmur quietly in the distance. Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we fall into an easy pace beside each other.
These walks have become habit over the past week, a dangerous kind of routine.
This hour or so is my favorite part of the day.
Out here, away from embassy staff, security briefings, and constantly watched rooms, she relaxes.
So do I. We are far from eavesdropping ears and surveillance cameras.
It’s just the two of us and conversation, real conversation.
I learn something new about Mackenzi every single day.
And every day it gets a little harder to remember why that’s a problem.
“You look tired,” she says after a minute.
I glance sideways at her. “You saying I look bad?”
She smiles, sunlight catching in her eyes as a faint pink flushes her cheeks. “I’m saying you look like you’re having a rough day.” We round the edge of the garden path slowly, the estate sprawling quietly around us. “You ever get tired of all this?”
I glance sideways at her. “Our walks?”
“No.” She shakes her head, smiling as a tiny chuckle ripples from her. God, I like making her laugh. “The constant travel.” Her gaze drifts over her shoulder to the estate before lifting to the distant tree line. “Being away from home all the time. Away from family.”
The question catches me a little off guard. Not because it’s invasive, but because most people don’t ask. I shove my hands into my pockets as we continue our walk on the gravel path. “I don’t really have a home,” I admit after a second. “At least, not one I spend much time in.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “No?”
I shake my head once. “Comes with the job.”
“What about family?”
I glance ahead, toward the fountain at the center of the garden, sunlight flashing across the water. “These guys are my family,” I tell her honestly. “Hawk, Gunnar, Jagger, Abby, Mattis. Besides my son, they’re the closest thing I’ve got.”
“Your son?” she asks, surprised.
“He’s in college.” I let out a quiet breath through my nose.
“But?”
I huff a faint laugh at how easily she catches my discomfort. “But we don’t exactly have the best relationship.”
She’s quiet beside me for a moment. It’s not an awkward silence, but a thoughtful one. “I’m sorry,” she says finally.
I shrug one shoulder, playing off my true feelings about my relationship with Gabriel. “Occupational hazard.”
Her expression softens slightly as she looks up at me, and the sunlight catches across the curve of her mouth as the breeze moves through her hair. We talk about easier things as we make another lap around the grounds—Chicago, terrible coffee, and the three motorcycles I rebuilt from scratch.
“Well, now I want details,” she insists as we approach the house.
“You don’t.”
“Then a ride?”
“You want to go for a ride when you head back to Chicago?”
“I do.”
“You know damned well your father would have my head,” I denounce the idea, but the truth is, I would do it in a heartbeat just to have her body pressed against mine with her arms wrapped around me.
“C’mon, Damon,” she begs playfully. “He’ll never know.”
Her hand brushes lightly against mine, the accidental contact shooting through me harder than it should. It’s brief, but it’s enough. I glance down at her as she looks up at me, both of us catching the moment at the exact same time.
And for one reckless second, I forget this is a job.