Chapter 3
Three
So shoot him, but he felt a little like a hero.
And that might be a problem.
Not because he’d taken down an armed robber before his second cup of coffee. It was that he couldn’t stop thinking about the way the woman had looked at him across that diner floor, curious. Like she might be impressed.
Which was exactly the kind of distraction that got people killed.
Especially when you had a nine a.m. meeting with a federal contractor you had to convince to trust you.
“Hold still.” Dr. Kira Yassan pulled another suture through the gash on his forearm. The ED treatment bay at Renegade Mercy General smelled like antiseptic and the lavender oil she kept burning in the supply room. “Jackson said you were in a knife fight.”
“Is this where I say you should have seen the other guy?”
“Funny.” Dark hair pulled back, she worked with steady hands, each stitch neat and even. She didn’t rattle easily. “You want to tell me what really happened?”
“Armed robbery. Two kids probably on Neurosync. I disarmed one, she took down the other.”
“She?”
“Woman who was having breakfast. Wrong place, right time.”
“Or right place, right time, considering you’re both still breathing.” Another stitch.
“She was good.”
“Good.” Kira’s mouth quirked. “That’s high praise from you.”
Asher stared at the ceiling tiles. Water-stained. Fluorescent lights humming. His arm throbbed with each pull of the suture.
The woman had taken down Knife Girl in three moves. Wrist control. Leg sweep. Perfect restraint. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
Professional. Competent. The kind of operator you’d want at your six.
“She knew what she was doing,” he said finally.
“Uh-huh.” Kira tied off another stitch. “And?”
“And what?”
“And you’ve mentioned her four times in the last ten minutes.”
Had he? “Just making conversation.”
“Right.” Kira didn’t sound convinced. “You like this woman?”
“What?”
“I’m just saying—when’s the last time you went on a date?”
Asher’s laugh came out sharp. “You’re stitching up a knife wound and asking about my love life?”
“I’m stitching up a knife wound on a man who looks like he hasn’t slept in a month and just spent five minutes describing a woman he met during a felony assault.” She glanced up. “So yes. I’m asking about your love life.”
“Don’t have one.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Little busy right now.”
“Being busy isn’t the same as being alive.” She went back to her stitching. “Luca was busy too. Thought he didn’t have time for relationships. Then he met me and realized being alone wasn’t better. It was just…alone.”
Asher had heard this story. Luca—Kira’s boyfriend. The guy had been closed off until Kira had cracked him open.
Good for them.
Asher didn’t have that luxury.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re whatever comes three steps past exhausted and two steps before collapse.” Another stitch. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t coffee?”
“This morning. Eggs.”
“Did you actually eat them or just push them around your plate?”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. Doesn’t make it true.”
She finished the last stitch. Tied it off. Cut the thread. Started bandaging.
A memory rose—his mother, bandaging one of his childhood wounds. He should call her back, probably.
“There.” Kira stepped back. “Keep it clean. Dry for forty-eight hours. The stitches will dissolve on their own.”
“Thanks.”
“And Asher?” She met his eyes. “I’m not kidding. Find this woman. Ask her out to coffee.”
Coffee.
Right.
He didn’t even know her name.
Asher sat there on the exam table, staring at his bandaged arm.
The woman’s face kept surfacing. Green eyes with gold in the center.
Auburn hair escaping from her ponytail—the kind of rich color that caught the light, making it hard not to notice.
The scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that should have made her look young but somehow just made her look real.
Honest.
And for thirty seconds, that’s what he wanted.
Not the corrupt agent. Not the FBI liaison. Not the guy who couldn’t call his mother back or spread his sister’s ashes.
Just Asher Morrison. Doing his job. Protecting people.
Being the kind of agent he’d signed up to be before everything got complicated.
Yeah, he’d felt like a hero.
And he’d liked it.
His phone buzzed.
Text from Patterson:
Patterson
Conference Room B. 9am. Don’t be late.
Asher checked the time.
8:47 a.m.
Right.
He slid off the exam table. Grabbed his jacket. The movement pulled at his stitches. Fresh pain lanced up his arm, a reminder it was time to pay attention and leave the woman in the diner behind.
Asher pulled into the FBI office parking lot at 8:52 a.m. and got out of the car. Cold November air hit him as he walked across the parking lot. He badged through security. Took the elevator to the third floor.
He stopped outside Conference Room B and took a breath.
He knocked.
“Come in.”
Female voice. Calm. Controlled.
Asher opened the door.
And froze.
The woman from the diner sat at the conference table.
Auburn hair pulled back in a neat ponytail now, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face.
Those striking green eyes sharp and assessing.
Strong jawline that spoke to determination, maybe stubbornness.
The freckles across her nose and cheeks were more visible now, scattered like someone had flicked a paintbrush across her skin.
Athletic build obvious even sitting down—shoulders squared, posture perfect, the kind of presence that filled a room without trying.
Pretty.
The word surfaced before he could stop it.
Not magazine-cover pretty. Something better. The kind of woman who turned heads without trying.
She stood.
Extended her hand. Professional. “Agent Morrison.”
Asher’s brain struggled to catch up, and he emitted an oh so witty “Um…”
“Daphne Cross.”
“Right.” And then he had to know. “Did you know who I was at the diner?”
She nodded.
Asher blinked. So much for first impressions.
He took the seat across from her. Set his coffee on the table. Met her eyes. “That…that wasn’t fair.”
“It was informative.”
“Informative.”
“I liked watching how you handle pressure.”
Well, she certainly didn’t dance around. No excuses here. “And?”
Her gaze dropped to his bandaged forearm. “How many stitches?”
“Twelve.”
“Could have been worse.”
“Could have been better.”
Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. The expression softened her features for half a second before the professional mask slid back into place. “Michael said you always play hero.”
“Michael talks too much.”
“He’s worried about you.”
“Everyone’s worried about me. I’m fine.”
Her eyebrow twitched.
“Look.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I get that you might not trust me. Martha Lintz had federal protection and died anyway. You have questions. So do I.”
She didn’t respond. Just watched, as if trying to see through him.
“So here’s what I’m offering,” he continued. “I’ve spent the last eighteen months gathering intelligence on the Shadow Syndicate. I know their operations, their personnel, their methods. I know how they think and how they move. That intelligence can keep Roger and Destiny alive.”
“Or get them killed if you’re feeding it to Draven Frost.”
There it was.
The accusation he should have known was coming.
Asher didn’t flinch. “If I wanted them dead, I wouldn’t have tried to save Martha Lintz. Wouldn’t have risked blowing my—” He caught himself. “Wouldn’t have risked my career by interfering.”
“Maybe you interfered to look like a hero.”
His jaw tightened. “You think I got Martha’s blood on my hands for theater?”
“I think people do a lot of things when they’re desperate.”
“I’m not desperate.”
“No?” She tilted her head. The movement sent a strand of auburn hair sliding across her cheek. She tucked it back behind her ear without breaking eye contact. “You look desperate to me.”
The words were a punch.
Because she was right.
He was desperate.
Desperate to end this. Desperate to put the syndicate in the ground. Desperate to walk out of the shadows into light.
Desperate to have someone—anyone—look at him like he was worth trusting.
Like she had across that diner floor.
Which had clearly been a game. Chess.
“I’m tired,” he said finally. “Not desperate. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yeah.” He held her gaze. “Desperate people make mistakes. Tired people just need coffee and a few hours of sleep. I’ll be fine.”
“Will you?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask a lot of questions?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you deflect when you’re uncomfortable?”
Touché.
Asher leaned back in his chair. “So what do we do? You need my intelligence. I need your trust. How do we make this work?”
Daphne’s expression didn’t change. “Here’s how this works. You follow my operational lead. You don’t make decisions about Roger and Destiny’s safety—I do. And if I find out you’re lying about anything, you’re done. Understood?”
He stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“Those are my rules.”
“You don’t seriously think you’re in charge.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Rules keep us safe. And I always keep the rules.”
Huh.
“I’ve spent the past three years keeping people alive. It’s what I do.” Her gaze met his. “So, I ask again. Understand?”
He sighed, his jaw tight. “For now.”
She nodded, then took a sip of coffee. “Now. Tell me everything you know about the Shadow Syndicate.”
Shoot.
She wanted to trust him.
And right off, that was the problem.
Daphne Cross could tell when someone was lying—two years of US Marshals Service and three years running private witness protection had taught her to read microexpressions, vocal patterns, body language—and in approximately thirty seconds, she’d know whether Asher Morrison was about to give her the intelligence that would save Roger and Destiny or the performance that would get them killed.
She couldn’t afford hope, even if the man had an aura about him, one that made her want to trust him. And those eyes—the way he’d looked at her at the diner.