CHAPTER 15 Maeve
The morning sun in Miami is aggressively bright.
It bleeds through the edges of the heavy blackout curtains, casting a sharp, white line across the sterile marble floor of the guest bedroom. I am lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint, rhythmic hum of the central air conditioning.
I haven't slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed the exact sequence of events from last night.
The heat of Declan’s mouth against my jaw.
The terrifying, intoxicating loss of control as I pushed him against the dining table.
And then, the sharp intake of his breath when my knuckles brushed his torn shoulder.
I ruined it.
I panicked. I let the fear of being a liability override the only moment of genuine connection we’ve had since he pulled me out of my apartment.
I sit up, rubbing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
The bruises on my neck throb a dull, persistent rhythm, a physical reminder that my fear isn't entirely irrational.
I almost got him killed in Chicago. If I distract him tonight, if I let the physical tension between us cloud his judgment while we are crawling through a subterranean maintenance tunnel, I will absolutely get him killed in Miami.
I push the heavy duvet off my legs and stand up. The marble floor is freezing against my bare feet.
I need coffee. I need caffeine, and I need to look at Leo’s code again.
I walk out of the bedroom, pulling the hem of my oversized black t-shirt down. The penthouse is quiet, but it isn't empty.
Declan is sitting at the dining table. He is wearing a fresh black henley, the long sleeves pushed up to his forearms, hiding the bandage on his shoulder. He has three different tablets spread out across the marble surface, and he is methodically disassembling a matte-black handgun.
He doesn't look up when I walk into the living room, but the rigid set of his shoulders tells me he knows exactly where I am.
"There is coffee in the kitchen," he says, his voice perfectly even. "And a delivery of fresh clothing arrived an hour ago. It is on the counter."
I stop near the edge of the sofa. "You went out?"
"I have local contractors. They drop supplies at the service elevator.
" He picks up a small, metallic spring, inspecting it before setting it aside on a clean microfiber cloth.
"We cannot execute a subterranean infiltration wearing jeans and cotton shirts.
The environmental conditions require specific gear. "
I walk into the kitchen. Sitting on the pristine white counter is a heavy paper bag. I open it. Inside is a pair of dark, water-resistant tactical pants, a long-sleeved compression shirt, and a pair of heavy-duty boots. My exact size. Again.
I ignore the clothes for a moment and focus on the coffee machine. It’s an absurdly complicated espresso maker that looks like it requires an engineering degree to operate. I manage to pull a double shot into a small ceramic cup, lean against the counter, and take a sip.
It is entirely too bitter, but the caffeine hits my bloodstream immediately.
I walk back into the living area, carrying the cup. I stop a few feet away from the dining table, watching him work. His hands are steady, his movements precise and practiced as he cleans the barrel of the weapon.
"I'm sorry about last night," I say. The words rush out, clumsy and unpolished.
Declan pauses. He doesn't look at me. He picks up a small bottle of gun oil. "There is nothing to apologize for. You identified a tactical risk and you removed yourself from the situation. It was a logical decision."
"It didn't feel logical," I mutter, tracing the rim of the ceramic cup with my thumb. "It felt like I was running away."
"You were." He finally looks up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "You are comfortable with chaos, Maeve. You are not comfortable with vulnerability. When the situation shifted from a physical reaction to an emotional one, you panicked."
The clinical assessment stings, mostly because it is entirely accurate.
"I didn't want to hurt your shoulder again," I argue, though the excuse sounds weak even to my own ears.
"My shoulder is irrelevant," Declan states, returning his attention to the weapon. He slides the barrel back into the slide with a sharp clack . "If I did not want you to touch me, you would not have touched me."
I swallow hard, the coffee suddenly tasting like ash. He is completely shutting down the conversation, retreating behind the professional, lethal wall he uses to keep the world at a distance.
"Fine," I say, my voice tightening. "If we're just going to be professional today, then let's be professional. Walk me through the infiltration."
Declan finishes reassembling the weapon. He racks the slide once, checking the action, before setting it down on the table. He picks up one of the tablets and slides it across the marble toward me.
I set my coffee cup down and look at the screen.
It’s a 3D rendering of the Apex Logistics building, focusing entirely on the subterranean levels.
"The building sits on top of the city's original municipal drainage grid," Declan explains, his tone shifting effortlessly into a tactical briefing.
"The cartel uses a sealed maintenance shaft that connects the municipal tunnel directly to their sub-basement.
It allows them to move physical hardware—servers, hard drives, cash—in and out of the building without passing through the lobby. "
"So we just walk through the sewer and knock on the basement door?"
"We navigate a mile of active drainage tunnels.
We locate the cartel's access hatch. We bypass the electronic lock, and we enter the sub-basement.
" He taps a section of the screen, highlighting a small room adjacent to the maintenance shaft.
"This is the server room. You will have exactly four minutes to connect the laptop to the primary node and execute Leo's script before the automated security sweep detects the foreign hardware. "
I stare at the schematic. The server room is a dead end. There is only one door in, and one door out.
"What happens if the security sweep detects us before the transfer is complete?" I ask.
"The sub-basement will lock down. The steel blast doors will seal, and the cartel's internal security team will be dispatched to the room."
"And then what?"
Declan looks up at me, his expression completely blank. "Then I will have to kill them."
A cold shiver runs down the back of my neck. He says it so casually, as if he is discussing the weather. But I know what it looks like when he kills. I know the sound it makes in a quiet hallway.
"Four minutes," I repeat, forcing my brain to focus on the math.
"Leo's script is heavy. It has to bypass the firewall, initiate the transfer, and scrub the internal logs to make it look like a system failure.
That's a lot of data to push through a physical connection in two hundred and forty seconds. "
"Can you do it?"
"I don't know," I admit honestly. "If the connection speed is throttled, it might take five minutes. Or six."
"You have four."
"I can't magically make the data move faster, Declan!"
"Then you will have to find a way to optimize the execution sequence," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "I can buy you time if the physical security team arrives, but I cannot stop the blast doors from sealing. If we are locked in that room, we do not leave."
I glare at him. The frustration from last night, combined with the sheer terror of the upcoming mission, boils over.
"You know, you could try being slightly less terrifying for five minutes," I snap, grabbing the tablet off the table. "I'm going to look at the code. Don't talk to me unless the building is on fire."
I turn around and march toward the sofa, practically throwing myself onto the expensive white cushions.
Declan doesn't respond. He just goes back to loading a magazine, the sharp, metallic clicks filling the quiet room.
I spend the next six hours staring at the screen.
I ignore the spectacular view of Biscayne Bay. I ignore the expensive food Declan silently places on the coffee table next to me at noon. I focus entirely on the architecture of Leo's script.
It is brilliant code. It is designed to act like a digital parasite, latching onto the cartel's automated nightly backup and riding the data stream out to a series of untraceable offshore accounts controlled by Leo. But it is bulky.
I start stripping it down. I remove the secondary encryption layers, relying on speed rather than stealth. If we are burning the cartel's infrastructure to the ground, we don't need to be invisible. We just need to be fast.
By 8:00 PM, my eyes are burning, and my neck is stiff from hunching over the screen.
"I shaved forty seconds off the execution time," I announce, rubbing the back of my neck.
Declan is standing by the window, looking out at the dark city. He is already wearing his tactical gear—dark cargo pants, heavy boots, and a form-fitting black long-sleeved shirt.
He turns away from the glass. "Are you confident in the sequence?"
"As confident as I can be without testing it on a live server," I say, closing the laptop. "If the connection holds, we should be in and out in three minutes and twenty seconds."
"Good." He walks toward the kitchen counter, picking up the heavy paper bag. He tosses it onto the sofa next to me. "Change your clothes. We leave in an hour."
I grab the bag and head to the guest bathroom.
The tactical gear is stiff and heavy, designed for utility rather than comfort. The compression shirt fits snugly against my skin, and the pants have reinforced knees. I lace up the boots, my fingers trembling slightly.
This is real.
I am not sitting in an office auditing spreadsheets anymore. I am putting on tactical gear to crawl through a sewer and rob a drug cartel.