Chapter 13
WILL
I've been in combat. I've held dying men in my arms, felt the life drain out of them while I tried to keep pressure on wounds that couldn't be closed. Nothing in my life has ever scared me like watching Gemma walk across that parking lot, knowing he's watching too.
Two days of waiting, and now it's finally happening.
The waterfront restaurant was Shaw's idea.
Better sight lines than the coffee shop we originally planned, multiple exits, and a patio that gives us clear visual from three different positions.
Gemma is sitting at a table near the railing, the harbor stretching out behind her, sunlight warm on her dark hair.
She looks relaxed. Confident. Like a woman enjoying a late lunch alone.
I know better. I can see the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curl around her water glass a little too tightly. But to anyone else, to him, she looks exactly like what we need her to look like. Vulnerable. Accessible. Alone.
My earpiece crackles. "Eyes on the target." Tate's voice is calm, professional. "Black sedan, just turned onto Harbor Drive. He's circling."
"Copy," I murmur, barely moving my lips. I'm seated at a bench fifty yards from her table, a newspaper open in my lap that I haven't read a single word of. Close enough to reach her in seconds. Far enough that Craig won't make me as a threat.
Cole's voice comes through next, tight with barely contained anger. "I've got him. He's parking in the lot across from the marina."
"Everyone hold position," Shaw says. "Let him come to her. We need him to make contact first."
The waiting is its own kind of torture. I watch Craig's sedan pull into a spot, watch the door open, watch him step out and scan the area with the careful attention of a predator assessing the terrain.
He's wearing khakis and a polo shirt, like he's here for a casual lunch date.
Like he's a normal person doing normal things.
The rage that rises in my chest is familiar. I've felt it before, in situations where the rules of engagement kept me from doing what needed to be done. I breathe through it now the same way I did then. Slow and controlled, four counts in, four counts out.
He doesn't see me. His attention is fixed on Gemma, on the way she's sitting with her back partially to the parking lot, seemingly unaware of his approach. I watch him smooth down his shirt, adjust his posture, and paste on a smile that turns my stomach.
"He's moving," I say quietly. "Approaching from the east side of the patio."
"Copy. Everyone hold."
Gemma doesn't turn around as he approaches.
We talked about this, rehearsed it. She needs to seem surprised when he appears, needs to give him the satisfaction of catching her off guard.
It goes against every instinct I have to let this play out, but this is her choice.
Her moment. I'm just here to make sure she triumphs.
The tiny transmitter hidden in her bracelet picks up their conversation, feeding it directly into my earpiece. Tate's recording everything on his end—audio and video from the camera he set up in the flower shop across the street. Whatever Craig says, whatever he does, we'll have it all.
Craig's voice crackles through the earpiece as he reaches her table, warm and friendly, like he's greeting an old friend. "Gemma. What a surprise. I was just in town visiting some colleagues and thought I'd grab lunch. Never expected to run into you here."
The lie is so casual that it makes my jaw tighten. He came a long way to stalk her, and he's playing it off like a coincidence.
I watch Gemma look up, her carefully constructed expression of shock perfectly timed with the surprise in her voice.
"Craig." Her tone is steady through the earpiece, but I can hear the undercurrent of tension. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you. Business trip." He gestures to the empty chair across from her. "Mind if I sit? We should talk. Clear the air about how things ended."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Come on, Gem." The nickname makes my jaw clench. "We were married for four years. The least you can do is have a conversation with me."
There's a long pause. Then Gemma says, "Fine. Five minutes."
He sits down across from her, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
This is part of the plan. Let him talk, let him incriminate himself, let him violate the restraining order that Shaw confirmed was processed this morning.
He was able to pull a few strings and get it fast-tracked.
But watching him lean across the table toward her, watching him smile at her like he has any right to be in her presence, takes everything I have not to move.
"You look good," Craig says. "Better than I expected, honestly. I was worried about you, out here all alone."
"I'm not alone."
"Right, right. Your brother and his biker friends." There's a dismissive note in his voice. "You think they can protect you? From what? We both know you don't belong in a place like this. You belong back home, with people who understand you."
"You don't understand me, Craig. You never did."
"That's not fair." His tone shifts, wounded now. "I gave you everything. A beautiful home, financial security, a life most women would kill for. And you threw it all away because of a few misunderstandings."
I've heard this script before. Different words, same poison. Make her doubt herself until she doesn't trust her own mind. I wonder how many times Gemma heard these exact words during their marriage, how many times she let herself believe them.
Not anymore.
"Misunderstandings. Is that what we're calling it now?"
"What would you call it? I loved you. I still love you. Everything I did was because I wanted to take care of you, and you were too stubborn to let me."
"You controlled every aspect of my life," Gemma says, her voice wavering just enough to sound uncertain. "At least, that's what it felt like. Maybe I was wrong."
She's baiting him. Giving him an opening to explain, to justify, to say the quiet parts out loud.
Craig takes it. "You weren't wrong. But you have to understand, I did it because I love you. Because you needed guidance. You were so lost when we met, Gemma. So directionless. I gave you structure. Purpose."
"By monitoring my phone? Telling me who I could talk to?"
"By protecting you from people who didn't have your best interests at heart." He reaches across the table, and I see her flinch but hold still. "Your family never understood you. Your friends were jealous of what we had. I was the only one who truly saw you."
"And the isolation? Making me quit my job?"
"You didn't need to work. I provided everything." His voice takes on an edge of impatience. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Other people have filled your head with ideas, made you question things that made perfect sense at the time. You were happy, Gemma. We were happy."
"Were we?"
"We will be again. Once you stop listening to everyone else and remember what we had."
Craig's expression flickers, the charm slipping for just a moment. I see the coldness underneath, the calculation. "Is this what they've been telling you? Your brother and his friends? They've filled your head with all this feminist nonsense, made you think you're some kind of victim."
"I was a victim. Your victim. But I'm not going to be anyone's victim anymore."
"Gemma." His voice drops, takes on an edge that makes my muscles tense.
"You need to stop this. Stop playing games and come home with me.
We can work through whatever issues you think we have.
I'll even do counseling if that's what you want.
But this running away, this hiding behind other people, it's beneath you. "
"I'm not hiding behind anyone. And I'm not coming home with you. Not now, not ever."
The silence that follows stretches taut. Craig's hands curl into fists on the table, and whatever pleasantness remained in his expression dissolves into something uglier.
"You don't get to make that decision," he says quietly. "You're my wife."
"I'm your soon to be ex-wife. I’ve filed for divorce."
"That’s just paperwork." He waves dismissively. "It changes nothing, and it sure as hell doesn't change what we are to each other. What you are to me."
"And what's that?"
"Mine."
I'm already moving before I consciously decide to. Shaw's voice crackles in my ear, telling everyone to hold, but my legs are carrying me forward anyway because Craig's hand has shot across the table and grabbed Gemma's wrist, and the plan doesn't matter anymore.
Nothing matters except getting his hands off her.
I cover the distance in seconds, vaguely aware of Cole and Shaw converging from their positions, but I get there first. My hand closes around Craig's forearm, and I apply just enough pressure to the nerve cluster to make his grip go slack.
"Let go of her." My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The voice I used in combat situations when chaos swirled around me and the only way through was absolute stillness.
Craig's eyes snap up to mine, and I see the moment he recognizes me as a threat. He's not stupid, whatever else he is. He sees the way I'm standing, the coiled readiness in my posture, and he knows he's outmatched.
"This is a private conversation," he says, but his voice has lost its confidence.
"It was a private conversation. Now it's over." I release his arm but position myself between him and Gemma, blocking his access to her completely. "You need to leave."
Craig stands slowly, trying to regain some dignity. "And who exactly are you?"
"Someone who's not going to let you put your hands on her again."