Chapter 11 #2
"Maybe," I admit. "Or maybe I'm being realistic. People around me tend to die, Delaney. My entire Delta team in Syria. Operators who trusted me in the field. Anyone who gets close becomes a target."
"What are you scared of, Alex?"
The question again. Different angle, same target.
Long silence. Too long. Long enough that she probably thinks I won't answer.
"That you'll see who I really am and run," I finally say. "Or worse—that you won't run, and I'll get you killed. That I'll make the wrong tactical call and you'll pay for it."
The words hang in the stale air. Raw. Unfiltered. More honesty than I've given anyone except maybe Tommy after too much whiskey and not enough sleep.
She moves closer. Deliberate. Each inch calculated. When she speaks, her voice is steady. Sure.
"I'm not running. And I'm not dying. You want to keep me alive? Then stop treating me like a liability and start treating me like a partner."
"Delaney—"
"Stop." Her breath warms my face. "Stop pushing me away. I see you, Alex. The man, not just the operator. And I'm not afraid."
"You should be."
"Why? Because you have nightmares? Because you've killed people?
Because you're scared?" She touches my face—fingers against my jaw, thumb at the corner of my mouth.
"I profile predators for a living. Real monsters.
Men who torture and kill for pleasure. You're not that.
You're a weapon aimed at the right targets by the wrong people until you figured out the truth. "
"That doesn't make me safe."
"Safe is boring. Safe is dying slowly in witness protection, looking over my shoulder forever." Her hand slides to the back of my neck. "Safe is everything I just walked away from."
The touch shorts out my brain. Every tactical consideration vanishes under the reality of her fingers in my hair, her body near enough that I can count her heartbeats, her eyes dark and certain and fixed on mine.
"Delaney..." Her name is plea and warning both.
"I'm not asking you to be easy. I'm not asking you to be safe.
" Our foreheads almost touch. "I'm asking you to stop treating me like I'm fragile.
Like I can't handle what you are. I've seen you at your worst—covered in blood, making impossible choices, carrying damage you won't let anyone else see. And I'm still here."
I reach for her waist. The skin there is smooth, warm, unmarked by violence. Everything I'm not.
"If we do this," I say quietly, "there's no going back. No pretending it didn't happen when things get complicated."
"Good. I'm done pretending."
She closes the distance.
This kiss is different from the one in the forest. No desperation. No adrenaline-fueled need to confirm we're alive. This is deliberate. Intentional. A choice made with clear eyes and full understanding of consequences.
Her mouth opens under mine. Salt and copper and something sweeter underneath—adrenaline and blood and her. My vision narrows. The cabin walls fade. Nothing exists except the press of her lips, the catch of her breath, the way she tastes like survival and want.
I pull her closer. My hand slides to the small of her back, feeling the arch of her spine, the heat of her skin. Careful of her shoulder but unable to stop. Can't stop.
She makes a sound—low, raw, desperate. Her good hand fists in my shirt hard enough that I hear buttons pop. Pulls me down until there's no space left, until I'm drowning in her, until my pulse pounds so loud I can't hear anything else.
I give in. Give her everything I've been holding back since she walked into that Committee facility and chose truth over orders. Since she shot those operators to save me. Since she looked at me in the forest and said she wanted to fight instead of run.
My hand slides up her side. Ribs under my palm. The quick flutter of her pulse. Skin that feels impossibly soft compared to the violence of the last twenty-four hours. She shivers when my thumb traces the edge of her bra, and the sound she makes breaks the last of my restraint.
I'm hyperaware of every point of contact. Her thighs against mine where she's leaned into me. The way her breathing has gone ragged. The heat radiating off her skin. How her fingers have moved from my shirt to my hair, gripping tight enough that it almost hurts.
The stitches. Remember the stitches. Don't hurt her.
The thought penetrates the fog. I gentle the kiss, start to pull back, but she follows me. Chases my mouth with hers, refusing to let me retreat.
"Don't," she breathes against my lips. "Don't pull away."
"Your shoulder—"
"Is fine." She kisses me again. Harder. "Stop thinking like a medic and start thinking like—"
The distant thump of helicopter rotors cuts through the silence. Faint. But getting louder.
We freeze. Foreheads pressed together, both unwilling to acknowledge reality but unable to ignore it.
"That's not ours," I say quietly.
She listens. Her training kicking in, evaluating threat distance and approach vector. "How long?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe less." I move to the window, scan the tree line. Nothing visible yet, but the sound is unmistakable. Multiple aircraft. Search pattern. "They found the cabin. Or they're about to."
"How?"
"Doesn't matter. We need to move. Now."
She nods. Doesn't move. Neither do I.
We stay like that for five more seconds. Ten. Stealing time we don't have because the alternative is pulling apart and facing the reality that we're still being hunted.
Finally, she moves. Stands. Winces as the movement pulls her shoulder but doesn't complain. Just reaches for her ruined tank top, movements stiff.
"Here." I grab a spare shirt from the emergency supplies. Black, too big for her, but clean and dry. "This'll be better."
She takes it. Our fingers brush. The contact feels more significant than it should, weighted with everything we didn't get to finish.
The shirt goes on with difficulty. I help without being asked, easing her injured arm through the sleeve. Necessary touches. But charged with the kiss still burning between us.
She catches my wrist when I start to move away.
"When this is over," she says, voice steady despite everything. "When we're not running anymore. We finish this conversation."
Not a question. A statement of intent. Giving me a future tense that implies survival.
It works.
"We will," I say. Not a promise I'm sure I can keep, but one I need to make anyway.
We move to the emergency cache Tommy stashed here. I pry up the floorboard in the corner, reveal the waterproof case beneath. Inside: two more rifles, ammunition, MREs, water purification tablets, emergency blankets, a compass, cash, and two tactical packs.
I hand Delaney one of the rifles. "AR-15. Thirty-round magazine. You familiar?"
"Qualified on it at Quantico." She checks the action, tests the weight, movements becoming more confident with each passing hour.
I load spare magazines into my pockets—six for my rifle, three for my sidearm. Delaney mirrors the motion, learning by watching. Her hands are steadier now. The shock wearing off, replaced by something harder.
MREs go into our packs—four each, enough for two days if we ration.
Water purification tablets. Emergency blankets that fold down to nothing.
The compass I strap to my wrist. The cash—five thousand in mixed bills—goes into a waterproof pouch in my inner vest pocket.
No ID, no cards, no way to buy anything legitimate.
Cash is the only currency that works when you're a ghost.
"Check your rifle," I tell her. "Magazine seated, chamber clear, safety on."
She does. Perfect form. FBI training showing through.
I shoulder my pack, clip my weapon to the sling mount. The weight is familiar. Grounding. This is what I know. This is what keeps us alive.
I check the perimeter through the cabin's grimy window. Nothing yet. But not much lead time when the hunters are professionals and know exactly where we started.
Delaney appears beside me. Weapon ready. Face set in determined lines that hide whatever she's feeling. The operator mask settling into place.
She's learning fast. Too fast. The realization should reassure me. Instead it amplifies the fear that I'm shaping her into someone she was never meant to become.
"What's the play?" she asks.
"Next fallback location. Twelve miles north—high ground, natural choke points. Defensible if we have to make a stand." I check the compass on my wrist, orient toward the bearing. Six emergency locations scattered across this range, each one selected for tactical advantage. This is number three.
"And if we can't reach it before they catch us?"
"Then we improvise. Like we've been doing since we started this."
She nods once. All business now. The woman who kissed me with desperate certainty hidden behind tactical competence.
But when I open the cabin door, she touches my back. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the contact through my shirt.
Then we move.
We disappear into the forest as the first Committee helicopter thunders from the sky in the distance. The sound grows louder with every second. Closer. More inevitable.
As we move, I can still taste her on my lips. The kiss. The promise. The conversation we both want to finish.
The helicopter roar intensifies behind us. Close enough now that I feel the vibration through the ground.
Her hand finds mine for just a second as we run—a squeeze that says what we don't have time to speak aloud.
Then we let go and focus on staying alive.