CHAPTER 30
Callum
The human brain is an incredibly adaptable organ, but it does not unlearn trauma overnight.
I stand by the massive glass windows of the living room, a mug of black coffee in my hand.
The storm outside has finally broken, leaving the sky over Vík a brilliant, piercing blue.
The black sand beach is empty, the gray waves of the North Atlantic crashing against the shore with a steady, rhythmic violence.
It has been six weeks since we left London.
Six weeks since I put a bullet in Arthur Vance’s chest, dragged Gemma and Pippa out of an active war zone, and vanished completely off the grid. The syndicate is a fractured, bankrupt mess, currently tearing itself apart in a bloody civil war over the remaining scraps of their empire.
We are safe.
I know this logically. I have swept the perimeter of the property every morning and every night. I have monitored the dark web chatter through Ben’s encrypted nodes. Nobody is looking for us. Nobody even knows we are alive.
But my body refuses to accept the data.
I take a sip of the coffee. It is scalding hot, burning the roof of my mouth, but the sensation is grounding.
I look over my shoulder toward the kitchen.
Gemma is sitting on one of the high stools at the marble island.
She is wearing a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized knitted sweater that completely swallows her frame.
Her dark hair is pulled up into a messy knot, a pencil tucked behind her ear.
She is staring at her laptop screen, her fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard.
She isn't hacking a cartel. She isn't draining offshore accounts. She is writing code for a legitimate, high-end cybersecurity firm based in Zurich. Ben brokered the contract for her under a new alias. She works remotely, gets paid in cryptocurrency, and never has to speak to a single human being.
She looks entirely at peace.
I watch the way her brow furrows slightly as she concentrates on a specific line of syntax. I watch the way her teeth scrape against her lower lip—a habit she hasn't entirely broken, though she no longer does it out of terror.
I set my coffee mug down on the windowsill. The ceramic clinks softly against the glass.
Gemma stops typing. She doesn't jump, and she doesn't reach for a weapon. She just turns her head, a small, genuine smile touching the corners of her mouth.
"Are you going to stand over there and brood all day, or are you going to come help me?" she asks.
I walk across the heated stone floor, stopping behind her chair. "I do not brood."
"You absolutely brood," she corrects, leaning back against me. "You stand by the window, you stare at the ocean, and you look like you’re calculating the exact trajectory required to assassinate a seagull."
I rest my hands on her shoulders, my thumbs brushing lightly against the thick wool of her sweater. "The seagulls are loud."
"They’re birds, Callum. They’re allowed to be loud.
" She tilts her head back, looking up at me upside down.
"I’m stuck on this firewall configuration.
The client wants a multi-factor authentication protocol that doesn't rely on SMS verification, but their legacy servers are completely incompatible with biometric hash keys. "
"Tell them to upgrade their servers," I suggest.
"I did. They said it’s not in the budget." She sighs, rolling her eyes. "Corporate clients are the worst. I almost miss stealing from the syndicate. At least they had decent hardware."
The casual mention of our past lives sends a brief, cold spike of tension through my chest.
I don't react visually, but Gemma feels the slight stiffening of my muscles under her back. She turns the chair around, completely abandoning the laptop, and faces me.
"Hey," she says softly, reaching up to rest her hands on my waist. "I was joking."
"I know."
"Then why did you just go into tactical lockdown?" She studies my face, her dark eyes sharp and observant. She knows me too well. The physical scars from the knife fights and the bullet wounds have healed, but she can still read the psychological ones perfectly.
I look down at her hands resting against my dark henley.
"I am adjusting," I say quietly.
"You’ve been adjusting for six weeks," she points out. She doesn't sound angry; she sounds patient. "You still check the locks three times a night. You still sleep with a knife in the nightstand drawer. You haven't relaxed since we got off the plane."
"Relaxing is a vulnerability."
"We are in Iceland, Callum. The biggest threat within a hundred miles is a sudden drop in barometric pressure." She slides her hands up my chest, her fingers resting flat against my collarbones. "You don't have to be the ghost anymore. You can just be... here."
I look at her.
She is asking me to lay down my armor. She is asking me to trust that the world is not actively trying to kill us. It is a terrifying proposition. My entire identity, my entire mechanism for survival, has been built on the absolute certainty that violence is always imminent.
"It takes time," I finally say, my voice rough.
"I have time," she replies instantly.
She pushes herself up off the stool, stepping into my space. The top of her head barely reaches my chin. She wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her face against my chest.
I let out a slow, controlled breath, my arms coming up to wrap around her shoulders. I bury my face in her dark hair, inhaling the clean, familiar scent of her shampoo.
The physical contact is the only thing that actually quiets the noise in my head. When I am holding her, the tactical calculations stop. The perimeter checks fade. There is only the warmth of her body and the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart against my ribs.
"Pippa emailed me this morning," Gemma murmurs against my shirt.
I stiffen slightly. "Is she secure?"
"She’s fine. She’s in Rome." Gemma pulls back just enough to look up at me. "Ben bought her an apartment near the Colosseum. Apparently, they are currently arguing over whether or not to adopt a stray cat they found near a gelateria."
I blink, processing the information. "Ben is adopting a cat."
"Pippa is adopting a cat. Ben is just complaining about the logistics of purchasing a litter box in Italian." She smiles, a bright, genuine expression that makes my chest ache. "They’re happy, Callum. They survived."
"Good."
"We survived, too," she says softly.
She reaches up, her fingers tracing the faint, faded scar on my jawline where a mercenary’s knife caught me years ago. Her touch is incredibly gentle. It isn't the frantic, desperate grip she used in the basement or the motel room. It is deliberate, slow, and entirely devoid of fear.
"I want to go into town," she says.
I frown, my mind instantly shifting back to logistics. "Vík is a twenty-minute drive. The roads are clear, but the wind is picking up. What do you need? I can go."
"I don't need anything," she corrects me. "I want us to go into town. Together. I want to sit in a cafe, drink terrible coffee that you didn't brew, and look at other human beings."
"That sounds entirely unnecessary."
"It’s called a date, Callum." She raises an eyebrow, challenging me. "Normal people go on them. They leave their highly secure houses, they interact with the public, and they don't bring heavy weaponry."
I stare at her.
The idea of walking into a public space, completely unarmed, with the woman I would burn the world down to protect, feels like walking into a minefield blindfolded.
"I will bring a concealed handgun," I compromise.
"No guns," she says firmly. "Not even the small one you keep strapped to your ankle."
"Gemma—"
"Callum." She steps closer, her hands sliding up to cup my face. "Look at me."
I look at her.
"Nobody is coming for us," she whispers, her dark eyes holding mine with absolute certainty. "The war is over. I need you to believe that."
I look at the soft, unbruised skin of her jaw. I look at the relaxed line of her shoulders. She is not afraid. She has completely accepted our safety.
If I refuse to let go of the paranoia, I am going to trap her in a cage of my own making. I promised to protect her, but protecting her from phantom threats is just another form of captivity.
I close my eyes, letting out a long, heavy breath.
"Fine," I say, opening my eyes. "No guns."
Her smile is blinding. "Thank you."
She kisses me, a quick, hard press of her lips against mine, before pulling away and walking toward the hallway.
"I’m going to change out of sweatpants," she calls over her shoulder. "Give me ten minutes. And don't you dare try to sneak a knife into your boot."
"I wouldn't," I lie smoothly.
She laughs, disappearing into the bedroom.
I stand in the kitchen, the silence of the house settling around me. I look at the digital thermostat on the wall. I look at the heavy deadbolt on the front door.
I walk over to the hallway closet, pulling out my heavy winter coat. I reach into the deep inside pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold, familiar steel of the compact Sig Sauer I always carry.
I hesitate.
It is a small weapon. It is easily concealed. She would never know I had it.
I stare at the dark metal.
You don't have to be the ghost anymore.
I pull my hand out of the pocket, leaving the gun behind.
I grab the keys to the Range Rover from the small bowl on the console table and walk toward the front door.
Gemma emerges from the bedroom a few minutes later. She is wearing a pair of dark jeans, a thick cream-colored turtleneck, and a pair of heavy leather boots. She looks entirely normal. She looks like a woman going to get coffee on a Tuesday morning.
"Ready?" she asks, grabbing her own coat from the hook.
"Yes," I say.
I unlock the front door, pushing it open. The wind hits us, cold and sharp, but the sun is bright.
We walk out to the car. I don't scan the tree line. I don't check the undercarriage of the vehicle for explosives. I just open the passenger door for her, wait for her to climb in, and shut it.
I get behind the wheel, starting the engine.
The drive into Vík is quiet. The landscape is bathed in the harsh, beautiful light of the Icelandic winter. Gemma controls the radio, finding a local station that plays a strange mix of indie rock and folk music. She hums along to a song she clearly doesn't know the words to.
I keep my hands on the steering wheel, driving exactly the speed limit.
We reach the small town. It is a cluster of brightly painted houses and small commercial buildings nestled against the dark volcanic hills. There are a few tourists walking along the sidewalks, bundled up against the cold.
I park the Range Rover in front of a small, rustic-looking cafe near the center of town.
I turn off the engine.
I sit in the driver’s seat for a long moment, staring out the windshield at the people walking past the car. My heart rate is slightly elevated. My hands feel empty without the familiar weight of a weapon.
Gemma doesn't rush me. She sits quietly in the passenger seat, watching me.
"We can go back," she says softly. "If this is too much."
I turn my head to look at her.
She is offering me an out. She is willing to sacrifice her own desire for normalcy just to keep me comfortable in my paranoia.
"No," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. "We are getting coffee."
I open the door and step out into the cold air.
We walk into the cafe together. It is warm inside, smelling heavily of roasted beans, cinnamon, and baked bread. There are a dozen people sitting at small wooden tables, talking quietly or reading.
Nobody looks up when we walk in. Nobody cares.
We are just two people.
Gemma walks up to the counter, ordering two coffees and a pastry that looks entirely too sweet. I stand behind her, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my coat. I force my shoulders to relax. I force my eyes to stop tracking the exits.
She pays with a local debit card Ben set up for us, grabs the drinks, and leads the way to a small table near the window.
We sit down.
She slides a white ceramic mug across the table toward me.
"Black," she says. "No sugar."
I take a sip. It is terrible. It is burnt, overly acidic, and entirely inferior to the espresso I make at the house.
"It’s perfect," I tell her.
She smiles, taking a bite of her pastry. "You are a terrible liar, Callum Reed."
"I am an excellent liar. You are simply highly observant."
She laughs, leaning forward on her elbows. She looks out the window at the quiet street, then back at me.
"This is nice," she says quietly.
"It is," I agree.
And to my absolute shock, it is the truth. The lack of adrenaline isn't a void anymore. It is a space waiting to be filled.
I reach across the small wooden table, my hand covering hers.
She turns her hand over, lacing her fingers through mine. Her thumb traces the scarred knuckle of my index finger, exactly like she did in the car on the way to the safe house. But this time, there is no ticking clock. There is no impending violence.
There is just the quiet hum of the cafe, the cold wind outside the window, and the absolute certainty that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
I look at the woman sitting across from me.
The war is over.
And we won.