Chapter 14 Julia
Julia
Hawk sat beside me in the cab, his voice a low rumble that found its way through the hum of the engine. “Keep your eyes on the tree line.”
“I am,” I said, though my attention kept dragging back to him. His forearms flexed as he adjusted the wheel, veins catching the faint light. I shouldn’t have noticed. But I did. I remembered how he held me as we made love most of the night.
The air between us was thick—part adrenaline, part something else entirely. Rain traced lazy lines down the windshield, each drop a staccato rhythm that matched my pulse. I caught his reflection in the glass once, and the look there wasn’t tactical or calculated. It was personal.
Mile’s voice crackled over comms. “Convoy turning into Halcyon yard. Six trucks, two SUVs. No armed escort visible, but I don’t buy it.”
Aaron’s reply was all business. “We take the trucks, deny the route. Hawk—your team's west flank. Julia, you’re with Hawk. South entrance.”
Hawk gave a short nod, then turned to me. “You good?”
“Always,” I said.
His gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”
We slid into position behind a berm, shadows in the wet grass. The air smelled of rain and rust. My palms were steady, though my heart was a storm of its own.
Below us, men unloaded crates, their movements precise—too professional to be common smugglers. Floodlights stayed off. The quiet was wrong, charged.
“Ready?” Hawk whispered, so close I felt the vibration of his words against my temple.
I turned slightly. “Are you asking or warning me?”
“Both.”
He was close enough that when I inhaled, I caught the clean scent of rain and cedar on his skin. For a moment, the danger felt almost secondary.
Then Aaron’s voice cut through. “Move.”
We slipped down the slope, boots silent in the mud. The night erupted—suppressed shots, shouting, the sharp hiss of radio static.
I saw the muzzle flash too late.
“Sniper!” Hawk hissed, slamming into me, forcing us both down behind an old container. His chest pressed against my back, hard and hot and terrifyingly alive.
The world shrank to the thud of his heartbeat against me, his hand sliding down my arm until his fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Hold,” he whispered, the word vibrating through me.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every muscle locked because breaking contact with him suddenly felt impossible.
He shifted, scanning the roofline. “Stay here.”
“Not happening,” I whispered back.
His head tilted, eyes catching mine in the darkness. “Are you always this stubborn?”
“Only when someone thinks they can protect me. I can take care of myself.”
His mouth curved—half challenge, half promise. “Then we’ll protect each other.”
And just like that, he was gone, moving low and fast across the yard.
By the time I followed, Boone was already covering the flank. The air was chaos—gunfire, shouts, the sting of smoke. A man stepped from the van, case in hand, and I lunged before thinking. We hit the ground hard; the case skittered, and I grabbed it, heart slamming.
When I looked up, Hawk was ten feet away, standing in the open under a floodlight. Rain slicked his hair to his forehead, water trailing down his jaw as he fired, precise and controlled. He was the kind of calm that made everyone else come undone.
And God help me, I loved him. Still after all these years. It wasn’t a high school crush. It wasn’t puppy love. It was heartbreaking, soul-shattering love.
The rest blurred—orders, shouts, the sharp tang of blood and ozone—but through it all, my gaze kept finding him. The way his hand brushed my shoulder to steer me behind cover, the rough warmth of his voice in my ear: “Stay with me.”
When the last shots faded, I realized my hands were shaking—not from fear, but from everything I hadn’t said.
He found me standing near the wrecked van, hair plastered to my face, adrenaline still burning through my veins.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, though my throat was tight. “I’m tired of people like Torres being used.”
He stepped closer, close enough that his breath ghosted my cheek. “Then we stop them.”
“And when we do?” I whispered.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. “Then I stop pretending I don’t want you forever.”
The air between us went still. Rain pattered on metal, soft and relentless. I should’ve said something, anything—but all I could do was stare back.
He reached out, brushing his thumb over the back of my hand where the evidence pouch pressed. “You’re coming with me,” he said quietly. Not an order. A vow.
And for once, I didn’t argue.
Outside, the helicopter approached, wind whipping the rain sideways. Around us, Delta Five packed evidence, secured prisoners, and shouted coordinates—but all I could feel was the heat of Hawk’s touch, the promise of a storm that had nothing to do with the weather.