Chapter 6 #3
Turning, he looked at her. “Final training scenario, I made my own call instead of following the orders. It worked—but the brass didn’t like it. Even if it’s what the job needed, they wanted someone who followed every order, no questions.”
Her eyes flashed. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, well, they need people they can depend on. And I am—just not how they see it. That’s why I work for Jones, Inc., instead of standing post outside your father’s office.”
Britta said nothing, just studied him.
“Why did you want to be a lawyer?” he said, suddenly feeling a little naked. And damp. He should grab a dry shirt, shorts.
She was quiet so long he thought she wouldn’t answer.
“My dad is a lawyer,” she said finally. “Constitutional law. He used to talk about changing the world through legal precedent. Through arguments that mattered. I wanted—” She stopped. Started again. “It felt like something I should do if I wanted to matter too.”
Her words landed. Should do. Not wanted to do.
“Okay then, what do you want to do?”
Another long silence. Then, so quiet he almost missed it, “I want to write.”
“Like journalism?”
“Like fiction. Romance novels. Stories where people get happy endings and the good guy saves the day and love actually wins.” She looked at him. “Stupid, right? My dad is literally the president of the United States. And I want to write kissing books.”
“That’s not stupid.”
“It’s not changing the world.”
“Maybe changing the world looks different for different people.” West checked the wings, and the smell stirred his hunger.
“Stories make people happy. Give people hope. That matters.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yeah.”
“When’s the last time you read a book?”
He arched a brow. “I’ll have you know I’m a huge Reacher fan.”
“The books or the show?”
“For sure the books. I’m going to grab some dry clothes.” He headed down the hallway and into Hawk’s bedroom, and yes, it felt a little like running away.
Because Britta was definitely a woman with layers. Secrets, and a hidden, disarming personality.
He found a Dive Free shirt and pulled it on. A little tight, but he didn’t care. Board shorts, still damp from the swim.
When he returned, she’d pulled the wings from the oven and plated them. “I found an unopened bottle of blue cheese dressing.”
“Perfect.” He squirted out dressing, took the proffered plate of spicy wings, sat at the counter.
She ate hers a little more cleanly than he did. But the wings hit all his hollow spots, and he nearly inhaled them.
She finished her portion, then dumped the bones in the trash, washed her plate. When she finished, she cleaned his plate too.
The wings only tickled his hunger, but he’d live.
She put the plates out to dry, wiped her hands, and said, “I’m too wired to sleep.”
Him too, but, “You should try.”
She made a noise of disagreement, then headed to the sofa. She picked up the remote control. Turned on the TV. Flipped through channels.
Stopped on something familiar. Bright colors. British accents. People making elaborate cakes.
The Great British Baking Show.
“This okay?” she asked.
“Whatever you want.”
Probably a bad idea to sit beside her on the sofa, to let her settle in beside him. She was warm and smelled good and…
Oh boy.
She spread Hawkeye’s throw blanket over her legs.
“I love this show. It’s like the least stressful thing to worry about—cake—but, you know…
” She gestured at the screen. “Although, honestly? Doughnuts are underrated. Cupcakes get all the glory, and they’re basically just sad muffins with frosting.
Why does every baking show fawn over cupcakes? Give me a good doughnut any day.”
“I love cake.”
She glanced at him. “It’s really the only real reason to attend a wedding.”
“Right?”
She grinned at him. And then—danger, danger—she leaned against him. Head against his shoulder.
Oh. But almost on instinct—and maybe because she might still be in shock—he put his arm around her, pulled her closer. Let her curl into his side.
Of course she fit perfectly.
They watched the show in silence. The host made cheerful commentary about fondant. The contestants panicked over timing. The judges critiqued with devastating politeness.
Britta’s breathing evened out.
West looked down. Her eyes were closed. Face peaceful. Finally asleep.
He should move her to the bedroom. Get her properly settled.
Instead, he just sat there. Holding her. Watching British people bake. Trying not to think about his team or the bomb or the choices he’d made.
He needed a good lawyer.
The flip phone might be charged by now. He should try calling Ham, who was no doubt freaking out.
But moving meant waking Britta. And she needed sleep more than he needed answers.
Or at least as much.
So West didn’t move, Britta warm against his side. The TV providing white noise. The dark shape of the ocean beyond the windows.
For the first time since the yacht exploded, he let himself breathe.
She was safe. Warm. Sleeping.
That was enough.
For now.
The TV flickered. Someone’s cake collapsed. The judges looked concerned.
West closed his eyes. Just for a minute. Just to rest.
The phone could wait.
The team could wait.
Everything could wait..
Just until she woke up.
Tomorrow would bring new problems.
But tonight—
Tonight they were alive.
And West was going to hold on to that for as long as he could.
He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here, his future falling through his fingers like sand.
Mission failure.
Alan stood in the shadows, yards from the waterline, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
Twenty minutes ago, the yacht had been lit up like a floating casino, music drifting across the water to the south, away from the island. Figures had moved on the upper deck. Women in cocktail dresses. Men in linen suits. A wedding party.
Target-rich environment.
Honestly, he hadn’t expected the explosion. It had jerked him back and rammed his heart into his throat.
He knew those guys. And sure, they’d tried to apprehend him—more than once. But part of him—the part that knew those kinds of men, had trained with those kinds of men—said they didn’t deserve to die that way.
But that wasn’t on him. He hadn’t planned the attack.
He was here for the collateral damage.
Salt spray misted his skin with each wave that crashed against the beach. The breeze carried the scent of seaweed and diesel fuel from a passing fishing boat. Behind him, hidden in the dunes, a black panel van waited with its engine idling.
He adjusted the focus on his binoculars.
He just had to find Britta White. She’d be on one of the boats, according to Tomas, and he just needed to grab her—with a little help from one of the Russian thugs Tomas had left behind.
He lowered the binoculars, wiped sweat from his forehead. The humidity pressed down, thick enough to swim through. His shirt stuck to his back. The Glock holstered at his hip felt heavier than usual, like it knew what was coming.
He nearly pulled out his phone, looked again at the text Tomas had sent an hour or so ago.
A photo. Fia in a pool, laughing, water droplets catching the sunlight. Timea on a lounge chair behind her, reading a book.
Another text had followed.
Tomas
Don’t make me move them.
One more job.
Alan scanned the firelit water. There—a few small boats peeling away from the chaos, cutting through the waves toward shore. He couldn’t make out the passengers.
His radio crackled.
“Martin. Sitrep.”
Alan scanned the inflatables. “Yacht is burning. I have visual on inflatables heading toward shore. Unknown occupants.”
“The package?”
“Can’t confirm.”
Smoke billowed across the water, obscuring his view. The inflatables disappeared into the haze. Alan swept the binoculars left, right, searching the growing darkness.
Nothing.
The yacht listed starboard, flames consuming the upper decks now. People were jumping into the water. Coast Guard sirens wailed in the distance.
“Martin.” Tomas’s voice went flat. “Find the package.”
“I lost visual—”
“Then get closer to the waterline and pick them up when they beach. If the package is in one of them, secure her. If any of our team is in one of the boats, extract them.”
The radio crackled, then went silent.
Alan shoved the radio into his pocket and moved across the docks, down the beach, staying low in the shadows of the dunes. The sand shifted under his shoes with each step. Waves crashed louder now, masking any sound he might make.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
This was stupid. Alan reached the waterline and dropped behind a piece of driftwood. The salt spray hit his face, sharp and stinging. He raised the binoculars again, scanning the water.
There.
The inflatables emerged from the smoke, maybe four hundred yards out. They were heading not toward the beach but toward the wharf, probably toward the bight, where the Coast Guard was stationed.
Of course.
Alan’s radio crackled. “Martin, do you have visual?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
And then—wait.
Two figures, coming to shore. He crouched low as one of them fell to the sand.
A moment later, she rose, and her blonde hair caught the beach lights from a nearby condo unit.
Alan’s hand moved to his Glock. Drew it. The grip was slick with sweat. He braced his forearm against the driftwood, sighted down the barrel.
Twenty yards, max.
The man with her moved with the kind of ease that came from training. Military, maybe. He lifted the woman and helped her across the sorghum that cluttered the sand, toward the boardwalk. He stopped then, and for a second he scanned the beach.
One of the Jones, Inc., operators. He kept himself between the woman and the dunes, one hand on her elbow, guiding her up the sand.
And with him, yes—Britta White.
Package sighted.
The woman’s dress draped, soaked and heavy on her. Her hair hung in wet tangles around her face.
Alan’s finger froze on the trigger.
She looked like Fia might look in ten years.
Alan’s chest hurt. Like something had cracked under his ribs and started bleeding inside.
Do this or lose them.