Chapter 43 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
I’ve had a lot of firsts. First undercover op. First time laundering a million dollars for the FBI. First almost full-body
cavity search courtesy of a cartel. But being shot by the girl I like? That’s one for the books.
And definitely not part of the plan.
Pawson was easy—he stole the food, as predicted, and got a crash course in digestive karma courtesy of a heavy dose of laxatives.
Getting Edmond to arrange a meeting with Ramirez so I could get the PhantomKey close enough to his laptop? Unexpected.
Ramirez pulling a gun? Expected.
But Cybil grabbing the gun . . . aiming it at me? Pulling the trigger?
That was never part of the script.
According to the paramedic, the bullet grazed just beneath the deltoid—bloody, painful, but not life-threatening. Which is
great for my survival but terrible for the sympathy angle I’m trying to work.
I let out a groan—loud enough to be heard over the blur of police radios and shouted commands. The paramedic gives me a side-eye
as she winds another strip of gauze around my upper arm.
Cybil’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing in that way that usually precedes either concern or an insult. “Is he going to
be okay?”
The paramedic nods. “Bullet missed the bone and artery. Whoever fired it knew exactly where to aim to make a statement without causing permanent damage.”
I lift my brows to Cybil.
She presses her lips together, but her eyes flash with something that looks suspiciously like pride. “Don’t be dramatic. I
had to wrestle a psychopath and his lawyer.”
“I got shot.”
“You got clipped.”
“I’m emotionally wounded.”
She leans closer, voice low and dry. “You want a lollipop or a Purple Heart?”
What I want is to kiss her. What I say is, “I want you to admit you were worried.”
Cybil crouches beside me, expression softening just enough to give me hope—or mess with my head. Her lips twitch and she crosses
her arms and speaks to the paramedic. “I aimed for his ego, but apparently it’s bulletproof.”
The paramedic snorts.
“It’s like you don’t even feel bad,” I murmur.
Around us is chaos. The FBI’s mobile units are parked alongside police vehicles. Beyond the gates, the media is already setting
up to report the news of Lorenzo Ramirez’s and his attorney’s arrest. Ruby and Athena are geared up, earbuds blinking with
comms chatter as agents sweep the scene for loose ends, and Katherine is standing in the middle of it all, issuing orders
with the kind of calm that could silence a riot with a single arched brow.
But I only see her.
Cybil Langford.
“Do you two need a couples therapist or a tactical debrief?”
I glance over to see Ruby striding toward us, sleeves rolled and expression set to amused but slightly exasperated. Katherine
and Athena trail behind her, both looking far too composed considering what just went down.
“Nice of y’all to show up,” I grumble, shifting on the metal bumper of the ambulance. The surface is hard and completely unsympathetic—kind of like the mood I’m cultivating right now.
Katherine ignores the jab. “You two okay?”
“I was shot,” I remind them, lifting my gauze-wrapped arm like a tragic show-and-tell.
“We’re fine,” Cybil answers. “What about Sebastian?”
Athena steps forward, thumbs hooking into the tactical vest she’s wearing. “Stable. The bullet missed anything vital, and
he’s already on his way to the hospital. Edmond’s following with federal agents.”
“They’re both willing to testify. Edmond knows the layout of the Aurelite-X deal better than anyone, and Sebastian has access
to the crypto shell corporations being used to launder money. Between that and the laptop”—she nods toward me—“we’ve got enough
to bury Ramirez under a mountain of federal charges.”
Ruby snorts. “Oh, and in case anyone’s wondering, Pawson was found curled up in a porta-john behind the crane. Terrible bout
of food poisoning.”
I shrug. “Some people have to learn the hard way not to mess with another man’s food.”
The tension in my shoulders eases, and for the first time, Cybil looks relieved.
“You both played your roles perfectly,” Athena adds. “You fed Edmond just enough false intel about Craig Miller to put pressure
on Ramirez—forcing him to move the auction and keep you close to that laptop.”
“Speaking of”—Katherine turns to me—“how’s our evidence?”
“Safe.” I reach for my tie, now wrinkled and bloody, and hold it up. The silver tie tack gleams in the light. I glance sideways,
unable to stop the smirk. “Good thing I know how to take a bullet.”
Cybil meets my smirk with one of her own. “Good thing I have great aim.”
“And smart enough to keep Ramirez talking,” Athena said, giving Cybil a nod that, frankly, felt a little too much like approval
of her shooting me. “It took our team a little longer to clone the data from the laptop.”
“Might be time to upgrade your system,” I mutter, shifting on the bumper. “Or at least program it to move a little faster
before someone else has to take a bullet.”
Cybil’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile.
I grin, despite the throb and the possibility I’m concussed. Which explains the mix of emotions rushing through me. I shouldn’t
be disappointed this is over. I should be relieved. And I am. Maybe it’s the painkillers, or maybe it’s just her—dust on her
cheek, blood on her knuckles, and fire in her eyes—but a part of me would do it all over again.
With her.
For her.
Because these last few weeks have made me feel something I hadn’t in a long time. Not adrenaline. Not duty. Hope.
“It bought us time,” Athena says, cutting into my thoughts.
“I don’t understand why Ramirez didn’t just run,” Cybil says. “He had the laptop.”
“Because he couldn’t,” Athena replies. “His laptop was the auction’s central node—tied to an encrypted satellite uplink, bouncing
through servers in Croatia. Once the auction went live, pulling the laptop would’ve killed the connection and taken the whole
operation offline. No bids. No money. No buyers.”
Cybil’s eyes drift to Ramirez now being loaded into a police vehicle. “And the buyers?”
“Still in the virtual auction room,” Athena says. “Blissfully unaware that their last bids are being logged directly into
an FBI database.”
Ruby grins. “A digital takedown. Less blood. More felony.”
“We’ll be sorting through the ledger for weeks,” Athena says, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her face. “Buyers,
shell companies, sovereign entities—enough evidence to get sanctions approved on Aurelite-X.”
“And put Ramirez away for the rest of his life,” Katherine adds. “The district attorney is very happy.”
Athena checks her watch. “I hate to break up the fun, but I’ve got to get back to the airport for a debrief in DC.”
I tilt my head toward her. “Do you have it?”
She smiles. The kind that almost makes me believe she feels bad about my gunshot wound. “The info’s already on your phone.” She reaches into her pocket and
hands it over. It’s my personal phone, the one I tossed in the trash can when Rook came to collect me.
Cybil’s eyes flick between us, curiosity drawing a fine crease between her brows.
When the others drift off, giving us a moment, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“A few scratches and bruises, but I’m good.” She hesitates. “What was that about?”
I unlock the phone and open the message already waiting—sent from an encrypted line. “I had Katherine do some digging with
the Bureau’s Financial Crimes division. They found the original transfer from your mom’s account when she transferred your
father’s settlement money to Celeste Harlowe.”
Cybil’s eyes widen.
“Athena helped, but they’ve found her. It’s all there.”
I hand her the phone. Her fingers tremble just slightly as she scrolls, scanning through the details, absorbing the information.
She looks up. Her voice is soft but sure. “She’s here. In Dallas.”
“Katherine already spoke with the DA. You’re not just closing one case today, Cybil.” I pause. “You’re opening the next.”
Her gaze meets mine. There’s something electric behind it—relief and fire and purpose all tangled into one perfect storm.
The wind catches a strand of her hair and brushes it across her cheek. I reach up, gently tuck it behind her ear.
“I meant what I said,” I murmur. “Back at the ranch. About you.”
Her expression falters slightly—just enough for me to see the walls she always keeps up start to lower.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, Billy. Not because you don’t get scared. But because you do—and you still show up anyway. For everyone else. For the truth. For justice. Even when no one’s fighting for you.”
She doesn’t speak, but her eyes shine—like maybe she’s letting herself believe it.
“But it’s my turn. To show up for you. To fight for you. To be your backup. Your partner. Your target practice who’s still
trying to figure out how to do the right things at the right time.”
A long beat stretches between us. She doesn’t pull her hand away.
“I know chasing down Celeste Harlowe isn’t going to be easy. It might get messy. You might want to shoot me again.” She smiles
and my heart flips. “But if you want to go after her”—I reach for her hand, my voice quiet but certain—“then I’m with you.
Every step of the way. If you want that.”
Something flickers behind her eyes—something raw and unguarded. “I spent a long time believing my life was too messy to share
with someone. That I didn’t deserve anything good unless I had my life together.” She pauses, eyes searching mine like she’s
still not sure how I got past her defenses. “But you, you saw the cracks. Even as a kid, my mess never seemed to scare you.
You oddly seemed to enjoy getting messy with me.” She gives me a smile. “I want that. I want someone who runs toward the fire
with me.”
I take a half step closer. Her breath hitches but she doesn’t back away.
The world goes quiet around us—the sirens, the voices, the buzz of activity fading into background noise.
Her hand brushes my arm—barely there. But it’s enough to anchor me.
She looks up, and I see it all in her eyes—the weight she’s carried, the lies she’s outlived, the hope she’s still scared
to hold. I see the fire, the fight, and, for the first time, a sliver of peace trying to break through.
Neither of us speaks.
She leans in, eyes flicking to my lips, then back to my eyes—as if asking permission or maybe daring me to cross the space
between us.
So I do.
I kiss her.
Just once. Just long enough to taste the adrenaline still humming through her, to feel the way her breath stutters against
mine, to know this isn’t a maybe anymore. It’s a beginning—raw and real and entirely ours.
Her hand curls lightly around the collar of my shirt, fingers tightening like she’s afraid the moment might slip away if she
lets go. Like maybe she’s holding on not because she needs me to steady her, but because—for the first time—she doesn’t want
to stand alone. And I won’t let her.
Then—of course—my phone rings.
Cybil pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead brushing mine, lips barely a breath away. “Are you going to answer that?”
“Do I have to?” My hand stays at her waist, unwilling to let the warmth of her go just yet. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing
shallow, and all I want is to chase that kiss a little longer.
“Might be important,” she says.
I glance at the screen and groan. “It’s Gran.”
Cybil bites back a smile. “You should probably answer that.”
“I’ll call her back,” I whisper, already leaning in again. “Eventually.”
“What if she’s”—Cybil raises a brow, voice teasing—“holding the bingo caller hostage?”
I sigh. “You’re right.” I press a quick kiss to her forehead and answer the call, putting it on speaker as I brace for impact.
“Gran, you’d better not be calling me from a jail cell.”
Her voice crackles through the line, full of indignation and zero remorse.
“It’s not a jail cell—it’s a holding room. And I told them if there was a limit on the wine samples”—she hiccups—“they should’ve
said that in the first place.”