Chapter 5 FROST
FIVE
FROST
I look at the dog tags under my shirt, feel their familiar weight. "Because five years ago, I made a choice. Follow orders or save someone. I chose to follow orders. And someone died because of it."
"Caracas." She says it like she already knew. "You mentioned it in the warehouse."
"Yeah. Caracas." I run my hand over my face, feeling the stubble, the exhaustion. "CIA operation. Cartel target. We needed local assets for intel. There was a woman—Sofia. She fed us information for three months. Good intel. Made the whole operation possible."
"What happened?"
"We got our target. Extracted him. Mission successful." The words taste like ash. "But the cartel figured out Sofia helped us. Put a price on her head. I had a choice—stay and protect her, or follow my orders and leave with the team."
"You followed orders."
"Yeah. I followed orders. Sofia was killed six hours later." I touch the dog tags through my shirt. "Her brother gave me these. Said, 'She died because you didn't choose her.'"
Maggie's quiet for a long moment. "And you've been wearing them ever since."
"Every day. Reminder of what happens when you put protocol over people."
"That's why you broke protocol for me."
"Yeah." I meet her eyes. "I heard those men talking about you in that bar, and I had the same choice. Call it in, let Guardian HRS handle it through proper channels. Or go rogue and do it myself."
"You went rogue."
"I went rogue. And this time, someone lived." I lean back in the chair, feel it creak under my weight. "That's because of you, not me. You kept pace during the extraction. You stayed tactical under fire. Most civilians would have frozen or panicked. You fought."
"I'm not a civilian. Not really." She touches her temple, where the bandage covers the head wound. "Four years in-country teaches you how to move under fire."
"Yeah. I noticed." And I did. Noticed the way she read my hand signals. The way she stayed in formation without being told. The way she didn't slow me down even once. "You're good in a firefight."
"You're good at rescuing people who don't know they need rescuing."
"Usually I'm good at following orders and letting people die." The bitterness surprises me. I thought I'd buried that deeper.
She crosses the room and sits down in the chair across from me again. "You can't save everyone."
"I know."
"Sofia wasn't your fault."
"I made a choice. She died. That's cause and effect."
"You followed your superiors’ orders. That's different."
"Is it?" I echo her words from earlier. "Because I keep thinking about all the ways I could have saved her if I'd just chosen differently."
"You'd probably be dead." She says it matter-of-factly. "You stay behind to protect a local asset against direct orders, you're going up against a cartel alone. Those aren't good odds."
"Better than hers."
"Maybe. Or maybe you both die, and Guardian HRS loses an operator and an asset, and the cartel wins anyway." She leans forward, her eyes intense. "You can't rewrite history by wearing dog tags and punishing yourself."
"I'm not punishing myself. I'm remembering."
"Same thing."
Maybe she's right. Probably she's right. But I've been doing this for five years, and I don't know how to stop.
A low rumble rolls through the thin walls of the old building, vibrating the warped wooden beams overhead like a warning growl from the horizon. Dust sifts down from the rafters in fine motes, caught in the stale air as another peal builds, deeper this time, shaking the rattling window panes.
Lightning flashes. Thunder rolls. The storm hits with desert fury, turning the night electric-white and shadow-black.
"Storm's coming," I say, grateful for the subject change. "Generator in this place is old. Might lose power."
"How long do we stay here?"
"Until I hear back from Guardian HRS with Tyler's location. Or until the cartel finds us. Whichever comes first."
"You think they'll find us?"
"I think they're looking. This isn't some random kidnapping crew—Los Serpientes is mid-level cartel. Professional. They don't lose assets and shrug it off."
"I'm an asset now." She says it flat. "Not a person. Not Tyler's sister. Just inventory that walked away."
"To them, yeah."
"What am I to you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You keep talking about choices. About saving people. About making it personal." She holds my gaze, steady and unwavering. "So what am I to you? Another rescue? Another chance to choose right? Or something else?"
I should lie. Should keep it professional. Should maintain the distance that keeps operators alive and civilians safe.
But I'm so tired of lying.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "But you stopped being just another rescue the second you made that joke about my scowl."
The corner of her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "That wasn't a joke. You do scowl a lot."
"Occupational habit."
"Along with going rogue and ignoring orders?"
"That, too."
The almost-smile fades. "What happens when your team finds out what you did? Going unauthorized. Solo op. No backup."
"CJ will have my ass." I think about the ignored calls, the unanswered texts. "Probably suspend me pending review. Maybe terminate my contract."
"Because you saved my life."
"Because I broke protocol." I run my hand through my hair. "Caracas put me on thin ice. This might break it."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I made my choice. I'd make it again."
She studies me for a long moment. "You really would, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah."
"That's either really brave or really stupid."
"Probably both."
Lightning flashes outside, closer now. The thunder follows three seconds later—less than a mile away. The overhead light flickers once. Twice. Then dies.
The generator kicks in with a grinding protest, and the light comes back on, but dimmer now. Unreliable.
"Great," Maggie mutters. "Are we going to have power?"
"For a while. Generator's got fuel. But it's old. Storm might kill it completely."
"And then?"
"Then we're in the dark until morning." She drops into the opposite side of the couch, tucks her knees tight to her chest. Looking lost. Vulnerable.
And—Jesus—fucking amazing.
Even like this, curled small in the flickering light, her hair a wild tangle from the fight, smudges of dust on her cheeks, those wide eyes shadowed but sharp.
.. she's got this raw pull, all curves and fire under the worn tank top and jeans that hug her just right, the kind of beauty that hits like a gut punch—strong lines in her jaw, full lips pressed thin, a body built for survival and something softer, warmer, if you'd let yourself imagine it.
My mind flashes there unbidden: peeling away the layers, tracing the strength in her thighs, the give of her against me. Heat stirs low, uninvited, but I shut it down hard.
Not now.
Not here.
Not when cartel shadows are closing in, her brother's betrayal is still bleeding fresh, and one wrong move could get us both killed. She's a survivor—not a distraction I can afford. I drag my gaze to the window, force it on the storm instead.
Another flash of lightning. The temperature's dropping fast—desert nights get cold quick, especially when storms blow through.
Her arms cross tight over her chest, fingers digging into the thin cotton of her t-shirt sleeves as if to anchor them, but the chill wins out—a subtle tremor starts in her shoulders, rippling down to her elbows, the fabric pulling taut with each involuntary shudder that rocks her frame against the draft seeping through the shelter's cracks.
Goosebumps prickle along her exposed collarbone where the shirt dips, and her knees draw up a fraction as she curls inward, chasing warmth that isn't there.
"There's a blanket in the back room," I say, standing. "I'll grab it."
"I'm fine."
"You're cold."
"I've been colder."
"That doesn't mean you have to stay cold now."
I find the blanket—military-issue wool, scratchy but warm—and bring it back. She takes it without argument this time, wraps it around her shoulders. The dried blood on her temple looks even darker against her pale skin.
"You should try to sleep," I tell her. "A few hours, at least. You've been through hell."
"So have you."
"I'm trained for this."
"So am I," she murmurs, the words slipping out soft and frayed at the edges, her voice barely rising above the storm's low growl outside.
But her eyelids droop heavy as she forces the sentence through, lashes fluttering like she can't quite keep them propped open, dark smudges blooming under her eyes like bruises from nights without rest.
Her head tips forward a fraction before she catches it, jaw clenching in a brief, futile fight, while her free hand drifts to her temple, pressing there as if to steady the sudden weight dragging at her after the relentless pull of three sleepless days etched in every tensed line of her body.
"Bed is yours." I gesture to it. "I'll keep watch."
"Where will you sleep?"
"I don't sleep on ops."
"Is that what this is? An op?"
The same question she asked in the warehouse, but it lands differently now. Heavier. Loaded with everything we're not saying.
"It's supposed to be," I admit.
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "But it's not. Is it?"
"No. It's not."
"When did it stop?"
I think about that. About the moment in the warehouse when she cracked that joke. About watching her keep pace during the extraction. About the way she's holding herself together even as her entire world shatters.
"Probably the second I heard those men talking about you," I say. "I just didn't know it yet."
She nods like that makes sense. Like it's not the most unprofessional thing I've ever admitted to a civilian.
The generator coughs. The light flickers again. This time it takes longer to come back on.
"We might lose power completely," I warn her.
"I'm not afraid of the dark."
"I know." I move to the window, check the perimeter out of habit, even though I can't see much through the rain now streaking the glass. "But the dark makes it harder to see threats coming."
"Do you think they'll come tonight? The cartel?"
"Depends on how good their tracking is. How motivated they are. How much losing you pisses them off." I turn back to face her. "My guess is they'll regroup, reassess, and come at us when they're ready. Not in the middle of a storm."
"But you're not sure."
"I'm never sure. That's why I keep watch."
She pulls the blanket tighter; her hands shaking. Not from cold. From everything else. From the truth about Tyler. From the fear she's trying so hard not to show.
"Come here," I say before I can think better of it.
She looks up. "What?"
"You're freezing. And shaking. And you need to conserve energy." I sit down on the couch, leaving room beside me. "Shared body heat. It's tactical."
"Tactical." She almost smiles. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Unless you have a better word."
She considers for a long moment. Then she moves over, sits beside me, careful to maintain distance even though that defeats the entire purpose.
"This doesn't work if you're three feet away," I point out.
"I'm not three feet away."
"You're close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off you."
"Maybe you're just warm."
"Maybe you're stubborn."
"Definitely stubborn." But she shifts closer.
I reach over, pull her against my side. She goes rigid for a second, then gradually relaxes, her head coming to rest on my shoulder. The blanket pools around both of us, and her trembling starts to ease.
"This is probably not standard Guardian protocol," she murmurs against my shoulder.
"There's no protocol for this."
"For what?"
"For any of this." I keep my voice low. "For going rogue. For staying. For—" I stop, but she finishes for me.
"For caring."
"Yeah. For caring."
We sit like that in the quiet, listening to the storm outside, the rain hammering the roof, the thunder rolling closer. The generator coughs and sputters but keeps running. The single overhead light flickers but holds.
"Frost?" Her voice is soft, almost hesitant.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For helping me. Even if it costs you everything."
I look down at her, at the blood-stained bandage on her temple, at the way she's trying so hard to hold herself together even though her brother sold her, and her entire life fell apart.
"You're worth it," I tell her, and mean it more than I've meant anything in five years.
She's quiet for a long time. Then: "I used to think family was everything. That blood meant something. That Tyler would always—" She stops. "I don't know what I think anymore."
"You think you survived. That's enough for now."
"Is it?"
"It has to be."
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and we both tense. I pull it out, check the screen.
Message from Guardian HRS. Three lines of text that make my blood run cold.
LOS SERPIENTES POSTED $50K BOUNTY ON MAGNOLIA brOOKS—ALIVE
TYLER brOOKS MEETING WITH CARTEL LIEUTENANT IN PHOENIX—2 HOURS AGO
SIX ENFORCERS DISPATCHED TO YOUR AREA—ETA UNKNOWN.
REINFORCEMENTS INBOUND.
Maggie sees my face change. "What is it?"
I show her the screen.
She reads it once. Twice. Then looks up at me. "Tyler met with them. Two hours ago."
"Yeah."
"So he's not running. He's helping them find me."
"Yeah."
She absorbs that without flinching. I'm starting to realize this woman doesn't break easily.
"Six enforcers," she says, looking at the screen again. "That's a lot for two people."
"They're not taking chances after what happened at the warehouse."
"ETA unknown. Could be hours. Could be—"
The perimeter alarm I initiated when we arrived screams through the silence, harsh and immediate.
We both freeze.
Then I'm moving, weapon up. I shift to the window. Headlights in the distance, multiple vehicles approaching fast.
"They're here," I say.
Maggie's already on her feet, blanket discarded, moving to the weapons locker. She pulls out the Glock I showed her earlier, checks it with the experience of someone who's done this a thousand times.
She looks at me, and there's no fear in her eyes. Just cold determination.
"Rules of engagement?" she asks.
I meet her gaze, and something shifts between us. Not partners. Not operator and civilian. Something else. Something I don't yet have a name for.
"We don't let them take you," I tell her. "Kill them all."
She nods once. Chambers a round. "Copy that."
I've fought worse odds.
But never with someone I’m starting to realize I can't afford to lose.