Chapter 17 #2
"Did you take the shot?" Delaney asks.
"Took three shots. Hit the RPG mid-flight, the shooter, and the guy trying to reload." He grins. "Then I fell. Fifteen feet onto a tin roof. Broke two ribs and my dignity."
"But you got the targets," Rourke observes quietly.
"Always get the targets."
Delaney laughs. The sound is genuine. Natural. She fits here.
Kane and Willa sit close, that comfortable proximity of people who've stopped fighting what they are to each other.
Khalid listens to the stories with quiet intensity, soaking up lessons from operators who survived what many didn't. Tommy abandons his laptop long enough to actually eat, which might be a record.
"What about you?" Stryker asks Delaney. "You've got FBI stories. Let's hear one."
"Most of them are classified."
"We're all felons here. Classification means nothing."
She considers, then smiles. "Okay. There was this serial killer in Nevada. He'd been operating for eight years, thirty-seven victims, and nobody could find a pattern. I studied his case for three months. Couldn't crack it."
"How'd you get him?" Rourke asks.
"I didn't. He turned himself in. Walked into a police station in Reno and confessed to everything.
" She pauses. "Because he wanted recognition.
His entire motivation was being known as the smartest killer the FBI couldn't catch.
Once he realized we'd never figure him out, he gave up.
No recognition in victory nobody witnesses. "
"That's dark," Stryker says.
"That's the job. Understanding what makes broken people do broken things." She looks at me. "Present company included."
"Are we broken?" I ask.
"Probably. But you're the good kind of broken. The kind that breaks toward protecting people instead of hurting them."
The table goes quiet for a moment. Then Stryker raises his glass.
"To being the good kind of broken."
The words come back around the table, rough and honest.
The evening continues—stories, laughter, the kind of camaraderie that only develops among people who trust each other with their lives.
Watching Delaney fit into this group feels right.
She argues tactics with Rourke, jokes with Stryker, asks Kane intelligent questions about command decisions. She belongs here.
More than that. I want her here.
I find her in the weapons room after dinner, field-stripping her sidearm with competent efficiency. Not operator-level, but good enough to keep the weapon functional.
"Can't sleep?" I ask.
"Too wired. You?"
"Same."
She reassembles the Glock and dry fires it to check function. Everything by the book. "I keep running tomorrow through my head. Everything that could go wrong. Everything I might screw up."
"That's normal."
"Is it? Because you all seem so calm about walking into a fortress full of people trying to kill you."
"We're terrified. We're just better at hiding it." I lean against the door frame. "Experience teaches you fear and confidence aren't opposites. You can be scared and still do the job."
"How scared are you?"
"Of dying? Not much. Done it before, almost. It's fast when it happens."
"What are you scared of then?"
The question demands honesty. "Losing you. Watching you take a bullet I should have caught. Failing to protect the one person I've let close since Syria."
She sets down the weapon, turns to face me fully. "I'm not your responsibility to protect. I'm your partner. There's a difference."
"Not to me."
"Well, get used to it." She moves closer. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Not tomorrow, not after. You're stuck with me, Mercer."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The space between us feels charged. Electrical. Like the air before a lightning strike.
"Come on," I say. "I need to move."
The gym is empty, mats clean, equipment secured. I strip off my shirt, start stretching. Delaney follows suit, down to tank top and cargo pants, already moving through warm-up routines.
"Spar?" she asks.
"You sure?"
"Need something physical. Outlet for all this tension."
We circle each other on the mat, reading movement and intention. She's learned—watching for tells, keeping her guard tight, not telegraphing. When she strikes, it's fast. Clean jab, cross, hook combination that forces me to actually defend.
I counter, sweep her legs. She rolls, comes up in guard position. We grapple—no striking now, just leverage and technique. She's smaller but uses it, slipping holds I'd catch on a larger opponent.
"You're better trained than I thought," I observe.
"The FBI taught me well." She attempts an armbar. I defend, reverse position. Now I'm on top, her wrists pinned above her head.
Her pulse hammers against my palms. Sweat dampens her hairline. We're both pulling oxygen hard.
"Delaney..."
"Don't talk." Her voice is rough. "Just don't."
I kiss her. Not gentle, not careful. Channeling everything I can't say into contact. She arches against me, wrists straining against my grip until I release them. Her hands immediately go to my face, my shoulders, my back—everywhere at once.
We don't make it off the mat.
Clothes disappear with urgent efficiency—cargo pants shoved down, tank top pulled over her head, bra following seconds later. I learn every inch of her with hands and mouth. The small scar on her ribs. The freckles across her shoulders. The way she gasps when my teeth graze her throat.
Her hands work my belt, my zipper, pushing fabric aside with single-minded focus. When her fingers wrap around me, I have to lock my jaw against the sound trying to escape.
"Against the wall," she demands.
I lift her, press her against the padded surface. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. The angle's urgent, desperate. Every touch carries tomorrow's uncertainty.
"Alex." My name comes out breathless, broken. "Need you. Now."
I don't make her ask twice.
The first thrust steals the air from my lungs. She's tight, hot, perfect. Her gasp mirrors mine—sharp, surprised by the intensity. The angle drives deep, hitting something that makes her whole body tense, nails suddenly digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
"God, Alex—"
I cut off her words with my mouth, swallowing the sound as I start to move.
She bites down on my shoulder in response, teeth breaking skin.
The sting is immediate, sharp. Tomorrow once the body armor comes off, I'll wear her mark where everyone can see it.
Good. Want everyone to know exactly what happened here.
Her nails rake down my back, leaving fire in their wake. Each scratch burns, each mark a brand I'll carry. Evidence that this moment existed when tomorrow might erase everything else.
The rhythm builds fast. No control, no finesse. Just desperate need as I drive into her again and again. The wall thuds with each thrust, mats beneath us shifting, her body taking every inch I give her and demanding more.
"Harder." The word comes out rough, broken. "Alex, harder—"
I comply. Give her exactly what she's asking for. Her head slams back against the padded wall, throat exposed, pulse visible beneath pale skin. I can see it hammering, racing. My mouth finds that pulse point, teeth scraping, then biting down just hard enough to leave a mark that'll show for days.
She cries out—not pain, something rawer. Her inner walls clench around me, fluttering, and I have to grit my teeth against the sensation trying to drag me over too soon.
"Look at me," I demand, pulling back enough to see her face. "Open your eyes. Want to see you."
Her eyes open—pupils blown wide, nothing but a thin ring of color remaining. She looks wrecked. Desperate. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
I change angles slightly, hit something that makes her gasp and arch.
There. Found it. I target that spot deliberately, watching her face change with each thrust. Her mouth falls open, sounds escaping she probably doesn't even realize she's making.
Broken syllables that might be my name or might be pleas for more.
The flutter around me becomes a rhythmic squeeze. Her thighs trembling where they're locked around my waist. Close. She's so close I can feel it building.
"Alex, I'm—I can't—"
"Yes, you can. Can feel it. Let go. Want to feel you break."
Her hands fist in my hair, yanking hard enough to sting. Her back arches, pressing her breasts against my chest. I can feel her heartbeat hammering against mine—frantic, out of control.
Then she shatters.
The sound that tears from her throat is raw, uncontrolled. Her entire body goes rigid, inner muscles clamping down so tight it's almost painful. She pulses around me in waves, each contraction pulling me deeper, trying to drag me over the edge with her.
I last maybe three more thrusts before I'm done. The orgasm hits like a freight train—base of my spine to the top of my skull, white-hot and overwhelming. I bury my face in her neck, groaning against her skin as I empty myself inside her in long, shuddering pulses.
We stay locked together, both trembling. Her heart pounds against my chest. Or maybe that's mine. Can't tell anymore. Her fingers have gentled in my hair, stroking now instead of pulling. Mine are probably leaving bruises on her hips from how hard I'm gripping.
"Come back to me tomorrow." Her voice rough, wrecked. Not a request. An order.
"Always." I lift my head enough to meet her eyes. "Not done with you yet. Not even close."
The alarm sounds at 0500 hours, shattering sleep I barely found. Delaney's already moving, rolling off the mat where we fell asleep, reaching for scattered clothes.
We dress in silence. Tactical efficiency replacing intimacy. The mission's here, ready or not.
In the operations center, the team gears up with practiced coordination. Body armor secured. Weapons checked. Communication gear tested. Everyone moving through pre-combat rituals that have kept us alive this long.
Kane does final comms check. Stryker adjusts his scope. Rourke loads specialized rounds. Tommy syncs his equipment. Sarah pulls up real-time satellite imagery. Khalid hands out extra magazines, quiet support from someone too young for this mission.
Delaney secures her vest, checks her weapon one last time. She catches me watching, offers a small smile. Not confident. Determined. There's a difference.
At the door, just before we load into vehicles, she stops me.
"See you on the other side," she says.
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. Tasting promise and fear in equal measure.
"Damn right you will."
We load up. Engines start. The safe house disappears behind us.
Forty minutes to headquarters.
Forty minutes until we find out if Cross's intel is good enough, if Delaney's federal protocols mean anything when bullets start flying, and if I can keep my promise to bring her back.