Chapter 2
KRUK
The asset talks.
She talks when she buckles her seatbelt. She talks when I check the mirrors, adjust the seat, and verify the fuel gauge. She talks when I pull onto the street, when I turn left at the intersection, when I merge onto the highway.
She has not stopped talking.
"So the thing about my sister is she's very traditional, which is why the pastel theme, right?
Because pastels say 'classic elegance' or something, I don't know, I wasn't really listening when she explained it the first seventy-three times, but the point is that you can't just show up looking like you're about to storm a castle because that's going to make her think I'm having some crisis, which I'm not, I'm totally fine, I'm completely fine, this is all completely normal and—"
"Breathe," I tell her, my voice cutting through the stream of words like a blade through tissue.
She obeys immediately. Sucks in the air through her nose, sharp, desperate. Her chest rises, holds. I count three seconds before she releases it in a shaky, uneven exhale that fogs the window briefly. Her fingers dig into the coffee cup, knuckles going white against the cardboard.
"Sorry," she says automatically, the word tumbling out before she's even finished exhaling.
I keep my eyes on the road, checking the rearview mirror, scanning for tails, for anomalies, for anything out of pattern. Traffic is light for a Saturday morning. Good.
"Do not apologize," I say. "It wastes time. And you are not at fault."
She laughs. That nervous sound again, the one that makes her shoulders hitch and her hands flutter. I note it. File it away with the other data points I have collected about Colletta Fears.
She laughs when someone threatens violence in front of her, that high, nervous sound that makes witnesses think she's complicit in whatever mayhem is unfolding.
She apologizes for things that are not her fault, for taking up space, for breathing too loudly, for existing in a way that might inconvenience someone else.
She drinks too much tequila and makes catastrophically poor tactical decisions.
She is mine for three days. Seventy-two hours. The contract she signed—while intoxicated, while panicking, while convinced this was somehow a reasonable solution to her problem, is clear on this point.
I am hers until Sunday at six p.m.
After that, the terms expire.
I take the next exit, following the route I mapped last night after she finally stopped talking and retreated to her bedroom.
I heard her moving around in there, the creak of floorboards, the rush of water, the soft thud of a book hitting the floor.
I sat on her couch and studied the venue layout I had pulled from the wedding website.
Vineyard Valley.
Outdoor ceremony. Reception in a converted barn. Multiple entry points. Poor sight lines. The civilian population was estimated at one hundred and twenty guests.
High risk.
"You are doing it again," Colletta says.
I glance at her. She has twisted in her seat to face me, one leg tucked under her, a coffee cup balanced on her knee. She changed clothes before we left. No more coffee-stained shirts. Now she wears a dark green dress that clings to her curves and makes her eyes look like forest shadows.
I do not tell her this.
"Doing what," I say.
"That thing where you stare at the road like it personally insulted your ancestors."
"The road presents no immediate obstacles," I say. "I am simply maintaining situational awareness of our surroundings and potential threats."
She shifts in her seat, the leather creaking beneath her. "Kruk, you've checked the rearview mirror eleven times in the last two minutes. I counted."
Of course she counted. She notices these things, catalogs them, then deploys them like small verbal grenades when I least expect it.
"Standard operational protocol," I tell her, keeping my eyes on the sedan three car lengths behind us. It has been there since the highway merge. Blue. Four-door. Two occupants. Still assessing threat level.
"Standard protocol for what, exactly?" Her voice rises slightly, that nervous edge creeping in. "Are you expecting a car chase? A drive-by? Should I be worried that someone's going to run us off the road before we even get to this wedding?"
I check the mirror again. The sedan takes the exit. Threat neutralized.
"For survival," I say simply.
She makes a sound, half-laugh, half-groan, and takes a long drink of her coffee.
We stopped at a drive-through. I ordered black coffee.
She ordered something with four separate flavor modifications and whipped cream.
The barista looked at me like I might eat her.
I maintained eye contact until she looked away.
Colletta tipped twenty percent.
"Okay," she says now, setting her cup in the holder. "We need to get our story straight."
"Our story is clear. You hired me. I am providing protection services."
"No, I mean our story. How we met. How long we've been together. Why we're engaged."
"We are not engaged."
"Fake engaged."
"Distinction noted."
She twists a curl around her finger, worrying it into a tighter coil. "So. Backstory. I was thinking we could say we met at a library? Like, you were checking out a book on military history and I was in the true crime section and we just—"
"No."
"No?"
"That is not believable."
"Why not?"
"I do not use libraries. If I require information, I acquire it through other means."
She stares at me for a long moment, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips. "Other means," she repeats slowly, like she's testing the words, trying to determine if they mean what she thinks they mean.
"Correct."
Her eyes widened slightly. I watch the realization dawn across her face in stages, confusion, then comprehension, then something close to alarm. "Please tell me you don't mean breaking and entering."
I maintain my focus on the road. A truck merges into our lane ahead. I adjust speed accordingly, keeping the proper following distance. Silence stretches between us for three seconds. Four. Five.
I say nothing.
"Oh my god." Her voice pitches higher. The coffee cup returns to the holder with more force than necessary, liquid sloshing against the plastic lid. "Oh my god. You break into places. You just, you actually—"
"The information was necessary," I say, keeping my tone level, matter-of-fact. This is simply how operations work. Intelligence gathering requires certain methods. She hired me for protection services. Protection requires intelligence. The logic is sound.
"For what?" She twists in her seat to face me fully now, seatbelt pulling taut across her chest. "What could possibly require you to commit actual felonies?"
"A contract," I explained.
She covers her face with her hands. Her voice comes out muffled. "I hired a criminal."
"I prefer an independent security contractor.."
"That's literally the same thing."
"Semantics."
She drops her hands, and there is that laugh again, wild and a little unhinged. "Okay. Fine. No library. What do you suggest?"
I consider it. "A fighting pit."
"A what?"
"You attended an underground combat event. You were impressed by my performance. You approached me afterward and expressed interest."
"Interest in what, exactly?" Her voice climbs half an octave. I recognize this vocal pattern. It signals discomfort. Possibly arousal. The distinction is unclear.
"My skills," I say. This is accurate. She expressed significant interest in my combat capabilities. The context of that interest, the specific circumstances, the adrenaline, the blood, is irrelevant to the fundamental truth of the statement.
Her cheeks flush. The color spreads from her cheekbones down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. I note this reaction. Catalog it. File it away in the growing dossier of Colletta's physiological responses to certain topics of conversation. The data may prove useful.
"We are not," she says, her voice taking on that firm, slightly strangled quality that means she's trying very hard to sound authoritative, "telling my family we met at an illegal fight club."
I consider this objection. Process it. "Why not?"
"Because they'll think I've completely lost it." She waves one hand in the air, nearly hitting the rearview mirror. "Like, actually lost my mind. Gone off the deep end. Started making catastrophically bad life choices."
I glance at her, then back to the road. Maintain situational awareness. "Have you?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "That's not the point."
I take the next turn. The GPS indicates twenty-three minutes to destination. I mentally calculate arrival time, accounting for traffic variables and the possibility of needing to stop for additional reconnaissance.
"Compromise," I say, deploying the term I have heard used in civilian negotiations.
She shifts in her seat, turning more fully toward me. I track the movement in my peripheral vision while maintaining focus on the road. "I'm listening."
I run through several cover story scenarios I compiled during last night's preparation. Cross-reference them with plausibility metrics and Colletta's established behavioral patterns. Select the most tactically sound option.
"A gym," I say.
She perks up immediately. Her posture changes—shoulders drop, spine straightens.
Relief. The tension that had been building in her jaw visibly releases.
"A gym. Okay. That's... that's normal. That's actually believable.
" She nods, more to herself than me. "People meet at gyms all the time.
It's a totally normal place to meet someone. "
I continue with the operational narrative. "You were using the equipment incorrectly. I observed multiple form violations that could have resulted in injury. I corrected your form."
Her head snaps toward me. "Hey—"