Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The Marshall Winery—Ford’s cousins’ place—spread across rolling Minnesota hills an hour west of the Twin Cities.
Vineyards stretched in neat rows down gentle slopes—green leaves catching late-afternoon sun.
The renovated barn sat at the property’s heart.
Original timber frame. New windows. String lights wrapped around support beams. On the patio, tables dressed in white linen.
Flowers everywhere. Music drifting out through the open barn doors.
Ford and Scarlett’s real reception. The one they deserved after their day had been cut short two months ago.
Outside on the lawn, cornhole boards were set up between the barn and the main house. White boards with the Marshall Winery logo painted in burgundy. Beanbags scattered across the grass.
West stood at the throw line. Bag in hand. Aiming at the hole twenty-seven feet away.
He’d been standing there for thirty seconds. Just aiming. Not throwing.
“You planning to throw that or just stare at the hole?” Ham called from the sideline. He sat on a picnic bench with York. Both holding glasses of wine. Both watching West with open concern.
West threw. The bag sailed wide. Missed the board entirely. Hit the grass three feet to the left.
“Nice shot,” North said. His tone was carefully neutral.
West grabbed another bag. Threw without aiming. This one hit the board. Bounced off.
“You okay, man?” Skeet stood. Walked over. “Because that was pathetic even for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re zero for six. You’re never zero for six.”
West picked up another bag. Squeezed it. The beans shifted inside. “Just off today.”
“You’ve been off for two months.” Ham had joined them. “Since Florida.”
West threw. This bag actually went through the hole. Finally. “See? I’m fine.”
Ham exchanged a look with York. The kind that said they’d been talking about West. Probably all of them had been. The whole Jones, Inc., team watching him self-destruct in slow motion and trying to figure out how to help.
“Come on.” York stood. Gestured toward the barn. “Reception’s starting. Food’s out.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“West—” North said.
West gave his buddy a look, and North raised a hand in defense. “No problem. I have a girlfriend who would prefer my company.”
“Right?” Skeet said and held up a fist. North bumped it.
West rolled his eyes as they walked away.
Dakota smirked from his position at the other cornhole and glanced at his girlfriend, Jayden, then took her hand and headed toward the reception area.
Ham, however, hovered. West looked at him. “I said I’ll be there.”
Silence. Then Ham nodded. “Okay. But man, you can’t keep doing this. Pretending you’re fine when everyone can see you’re not.”
He stepped away, back toward the patio.
West stood on the lawn surrounded by vineyards and rolling hills and the sweet September air. The Marshall property was beautiful. Peaceful. The kind of place people came to forget their problems.
West couldn’t forget anything.
Sixty-three days since he’d walked out of Britta’s hospital room. Sixty-three days of following President White’s order. No contact. No calls. No texts. Nothing.
Sixty-three days of dying slowly.
He started collecting the beanbags from around the boards. The last thing he wanted to do was walk into all that reception happiness and keep smiling.
The sun was setting. Orange and pink painting the sky behind the barn. The string lights came on. From the reception area, voices lifted. Ford’s voice. Then Scarlett’s. Laughter. Applause.
West should be in there. Should be celebrating with his team. Should be happy for his friends.
Should be a lot of things he wasn’t.
He picked up the last beanbag. Turned.
Coco was standing at the edge of the walk. Black dress, dark hair short and cute. Phone in her hand like always.
“West.”
“Hey.”
“Have you seen this?” She held out her phone.
West went very still. “Seen what?”
“An article. It came out this morning.” Her voice was careful. Gentle. Like she was delivering news that might break him. “About Britta White.”
He refused to let her name rock him. “Yeah, um, I’m not reading articles about her.”
“You need to read this one.” Coco pressed the phone into his hand. “Trust me.”
West looked down. The screen showed The Atlantic. A literary magazine. Prestigious.
Rules of Engagement
By Britta White
A short excerpt from the forthcoming novel
What?
“Just read it,” Coco said quietly. “All the way through.”
She walked away. Left West standing on the lawn between the cornhole boards and the barn. Sunset fading. String lights glowing. Music drifting.
He shouldn’t read it. Shouldn’t torture himself. Should give the phone back and keep following orders.
But his eyes were already scanning the first paragraph.
Ryder Kane didn’t get ruffled. That was his superpower.
Gunfight in Prague? Calm. Bomb threat in Vienna? Steady. Russian agents tracking us through Budapest? Cool as ice.
Me confessing I was in love with him in the middle of a stakeout? That finally got a reaction.
“Eva.” His voice stayed level. Professional. But his hand tightened on the steering wheel. “We’re on an op.”
“I know.”
“Konstantin’s second-in-command is meeting his weapons contact in approximately”—he checked his watch, perfect timing even when I was derailing him—“four minutes.”
“I know that too.”
“The CIA and the Compass Group have very specific agreements about—”
“Interagency cooperation protocols. Yes. I read the contract.” I shifted in the passenger seat of our surveillance car. Faced him properly. “Here’s the thing, though. I don’t care.”
That got his attention. Ryder Kane—the Compass Group’s best operative, the guy who avoided entanglements, who did whatever it took to get the job done, no matter what rules he broke—finally looked at me.
“You don’t care,” he repeated. Flat. Giving nothing away.
“Nope.” I leaned back. “I spent six years at Langley being the perfect operative. Following every rule. Never getting emotionally compromised.”
His jaw flexed. The only tell he had.
“You changed that,” I said. “You—Ryder Kane, Compass Group contractor, the guy who doesn’t do relationships—you showed me I was worth protecting. That needing backup doesn’t make me weak. That letting someone fight for me doesn’t diminish what I can do myself.”
Silence. Just the sound of Vienna traffic and our comms crackling.
“I love you,” I continued. My voice didn’t shake.
“Not just the operative who can field-strip a weapon blindfolded or speak six languages or talk his way out of anything. The guy who makes terrible coffee. Who sings Journey off-key. Who makes off-the-book decisions and then justifies them with mission parameters he definitely just made up.”
“Eva—”
“I know what you’re going to say. That you don’t do relationships.
That you keep your life uncomplicated. That entanglements mess up the mission.
That when this contract ends, you’ll disappear to the next assignment.
” I reached for my door handle. Time to move.
“And I’m not asking you to change that.”
He went still. “You’re not?”
“No. Because here’s what you’ve taught me—I deserve someone who chooses me not because they have to but because they want to. Because I make their life better. Because I’m worth the trouble.”
I opened the door. Got out. Started checking my weapon.
“So here’s my declaration, Ryder Kane.” I looked at him across the car roof as he got out.
“You changed my life. You showed me I was worth fighting for. That it’s okay to need someone.
That being protected and being strong aren’t mutually exclusive.
Whether you walk away or not, you’ve already given me everything I need.
You made me brave enough to believe I deserve love. Even if it’s not yours.”
Behind me, I heard his door open. His footsteps. Even. Controlled.
Then his hand caught my arm.
He turned me around. And kissed me.
Right there on a Vienna street, with Konstantin’s warehouse fifty yards away and his entire carefully constructed life being upended and with every reason that this was exactly what he’d always avoided.
He kissed me like I was a risk worth taking.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His breathing was ragged.
“You are trouble,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re going to make everything harder.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll have to restructure contracts. Change assignment parameters. Actually stay in one place longer than three months. Deal with feelings.” He said the word like it was unfamiliar in his mouth.
“Yes.”
“And you think you’re worth all that?”
I pulled back enough to see his face. “I think I’m worth fighting for. And so are you.”
Something shifted in his expression. The wall he’d built finally crumbling.
“I spent ten years keeping my life clean,” he said quietly. “No attachments. No entanglements. Just the mission. It was easier. Safer.”
“And now?”
“Now it feels empty.” His hand cupped my face. “You didn’t just teach me you were worth fighting for, Eva. You taught me I was worth it too. That maybe what I’ve been calling freedom was just—running.”
My throat closed. “Ryder—”
“I don’t know how to do this. Relationships. Staying. Any of it.” He smiled. Slight. Vulnerable. “But I’m tired of running. I want to stay. I want you.”
He kissed me again. Softer this time. But sure. “Eva Whitman—CIA operative, woman who makes me want more than the next mission—I choose you. Not because you make my life easier. Because you make it matter.”
We turned toward the warehouse. Side by side. Partners.
And for the first time in ten years, Ryder Kane walked into a mission with something to lose.
And for the first time in my life, I walked in knowing I’d already won.
Because I’d been brave enough to believe I was worth fighting for.
And he’d been brave enough to fight.
Author’s Note: This excerpt is from my forthcoming novel, Rules of Engagement, which will be published next year. But the dedication couldn’t wait: