Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
PRIEST
Forty-three hours.
Wolfe spots the extraction point first, a rental property outside Carson City where three men who match Sully's profiles have been operating for nine days. Former SVR contractors. Professional. Disciplined. Not disciplined enough to beat Wolfe's tracking or Sully's digital forensics.
Deck coordinates with a contact at the FBI's counterintelligence division. Federal warrants. Clean operation. By the time the sun sets on day two, all three contractors are in federal custody, their equipment seized, communications logs preserved.
The mole takes longer.
Sully cracks it at hour forty-one. A deputy station chief in the CIA's Eastern Europe division named Robert Hale.
Sixteen-year veteran. Access to every classified file from Meridian.
Turned by Volkov's father eight years ago.
Been feeding Alexei operational intelligence for the past eighteen months, including the full team roster.
The FBI picks up Hale at his home in McLean, Virginia at 6 AM Eastern. Sully watches the arrest via a hacked security camera across the street, which he'll deny if anyone asks.
"It's done," Deck says from the driver's seat. "Hale's in custody. Contractors in custody. Alexei Volkov is next. The Bureau's coordinating with Interpol."
Forty-three hours. Two days away from my cabin. Two days away from her.
"Drive faster."
Deck glances at me. Almost smiles. Presses the accelerator.
My phone has twelve messages from Iris. Status updates, mostly. Intel she pulled from the drives while I was gone. Professional. Controlled. But the last one, sent twenty minutes ago:
Iris:
Mace says it's over. Is it over?
Me:
It's over. Coming home.
Iris:
How far?
Me:
Two hours.
No response for a full minute. Then:
Iris:
I'll leave the door unlocked.
Two hours. Wolfe sleeps in the back seat, hat over his face, snoring softly.
Deck drives with one hand, the other texting Vivian updates.
The Nevada mountains grow larger through the windshield.
Home. When did these mountains become home?
Six years of living here and the word never applied.
It was a location. A coordinate. A place to exist between nightmares.
Iris made it home in three days.
The compound appears at dusk. Deck drops me at the fire road trailhead because the truck can't make it up the last mile to my cabin. Wolfe lifts a hand from under his hat without opening his eyes. Deck nods once.
"Go get your girl."
The hike takes fourteen minutes. I've never walked it faster.
The cabin door is unlocked. Pushing it open, the warmth hits first. Fire in the stove. Coffee on the counter. My Bible on the table next to her laptop, their things sharing space.
Iris stands in the middle of the room. My flannel shirt. Bare legs. Hair loose around her shoulders. She looks like she hasn't slept, dark smudges under those blue eyes, jaw tight.
Then she sees me. Really sees me. Standing in the doorway, whole, breathing, back.
"You're late," she says. Voice cracking on the second word.
Three strides. My hands find her face, tilting it up. Her fingers grip my jacket, pulling me down. The kiss isn't gentle. Tastes like coffee and relief and forty three hours of fear. Her mouth opens under mine, tongue meeting mine, a sound in her throat that's half sob, half want.
"Don't ever do that again," she whispers against my lips.
"I can't promise that."
"Then promise me you'll always come back."
"That I can do."
My jacket hits the floor. Her hands push under my shirt, palms flat against my stomach, sliding up my chest. The flannel she's wearing has three buttons undone and my mouth finds the skin between them, kissing down her sternum while she arches into me.
"Jax." Breathless. "Bed."
Lifting her, her legs wrap around me. Her back hits the mattress. The flannel opens the rest of the way, buttons scattering. No bra underneath. Just Iris, bare from the waist up, nipples hard.
My mouth closes over one. Sucking. Tongue circling. Her hips roll underneath me, searching for friction. Pulling back, I strip her underwear down her legs. Then my own clothes, all of it, fast. Forty three hours of wanting to be exactly here.
She reaches for me. Her hand wraps around my cock, stroking once, twice. My vision narrows.
"Inside me. Now."
Condom from the nightstand. Rolling it on while she watches, those blue eyes dark, hungry. Positioning myself between her thighs, I push inside her in one slow stroke. Deep. Filling her completely.
Her head drops back. "God. Yes."
Pulling out slow, driving back in hard. Setting a pace that's less rhythm and more desperation. Her nails rake my shoulders. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, pulling me deeper.
"Harder."
Gripping her hip with one hand, I give her what she wants. The bed frame protests against the wall. Her breasts move with every thrust. Her hand slides between us, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles while I fuck her.
Watching her touch herself while I'm inside her. Christ.
My hand replaces hers. Two fingers working her clit, matching the rhythm of my hips. Her back arches off the mattress. Thighs trembling. Close.
"Jax." My name. Wrecked. "I love you."
Three words. Fifteen years in the making. Said with my cock buried inside her, my hand between her legs, her eyes wide open and locked on mine. No wall. No mask. Just Iris, bare in every way a person can be.
"I love you." My forehead drops to hers. "Every day for seven years. Every day for the rest of my life."
She shatters. Clenching around me, pulsing, crying out against my neck. The feeling drags me over the edge. Burying myself deep, I come hard enough that the world goes white.
Collapse. Weight on my forearms. Her hands in my hair. Both of us shaking.
Rolling to the side, I pull her against my chest. Her ear presses over my heart. Fingers trace the rosary tattoo on my wrist. The cabin is quiet except for the fire crackling in the stove.
"The mole," she says after a while. "Sully confirmed it's wrapped up?"
"Robert Hale. Deputy station chief. FBI has him. The contractors too. Alexei is next. Interpol's coordinating."
"So it's really over."
"The threat is over." My hand runs down her spine. "This isn't."
She lifts her head. Looks at me. Those eyes that have seen every classified file, every buried secret, every sin I've committed in the name of duty.
"What happens now?"
"Now you stay."
"On this mountain?"
"In this cabin. In this bed. With me." The words come easier than expected. "I'm done being alone. I'm done pretending the silence up here is peace when it's just emptiness. You fill every room you walk into, Iris. You always have."
"I run a consulting business. Clients. An apartment in D.C."
"Work remote. Sully will set up whatever you need. The apartment can wait or keep it. I don't care about logistics. I care about waking up next to you."
"You've thought about this."
"For forty three hours straight."
The laugh that breaks out of her is watery. Real. She presses her forehead to my collarbone.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'll stay. On one condition."
"Name it."
"You get a couch."
The sound that comes out of my mouth surprises both of us. A laugh. Full, genuine. The first one in longer than I can remember.
"I'll get a couch."
She kisses my chest. Right over my heart. "Welcome home, Jax."
Home. Not coordinates. Not a location. Not a cabin on a mountain designed for isolation.
Home. Because she's in it.