Chapter 4
SABINE
The coffee maker gurgles to life while dawn breaks through the kitchen window, and I stand at the counter waiting for the pot to fill with my hands wrapped around my middle and exhaustion pulling at every muscle in my body.
Sleep never came last night despite trying, and the couch offered nothing but stiff cushions and the constant awareness that a man I tried to kill was bleeding in my bed down the hall.
My bed—where I lifted him after he passed out on my bedroom floor.
His dead weight required every bit of strength I had left after the fight and the stitching.
His blood is still on the hardwood in there, dried now into dark stains that I'll need to scrub out later when I have the energy to care about something other than the fact that Jason Bryan is hunting us down one by one.
The coffee finishes brewing and I pour a cup, cradling it between my palms and letting the heat seep into my skin.
My knuckles are bruised from where I hit him, and the muscles in my back ache from hauling his unconscious body onto the mattress.
Guilt rolls through my stomach, though I know I have no reason to feel guilty.
That bastard came into my house to hurt me. Of course I stabbed him.
But I'm not like him. I'm not a killer.
The rational part of my brain says the guilt is misplaced.
The knife was self-defense, and if our positions were reversed, he wouldn't be standing in his kitchen feeling bad about it.
But the irrational part, the part that still remembers what it felt like to patch up wounded squad mates and carry them to safety, won't let it go.
Human life is precious and valuable, even when the one living is a vile, wretched soul.
Bryan's tying up loose ends now. All of the men who are dead by this psycho's hand were on that mission, and every one of them knows Bryan forced us to cover his tracks. The only logical explanation is that he's being reviewed and he can't have any loose ends.
The compound was supposed to be a hostile holdout.
Intelligence said the target had hostages and a weapons cache, and we were supposed to go in and neutralize the enemy, taking whatever we could back to base.
We went in quietly, a small team moving through rooms, and everything was fine until it wasn't.
…"Look there!" Ham-dog caught my attention after clearing another empty room. We were supposed to search and destroy and down the barrel of my gun were two eyes showing in the darkness.
"My God…"
Gunfire erupted somewhere else in the building, and Ham-dog and I exchanged glances. "Women?"
"What's going on? Why would they send us here?" It didn't make sense. This wasn't supposed to be a house full of women and children. It was supposed to be a terrorist cell.
"What's taking you so long!" Bryan's voice boomed over my shoulder as I lowered my weapon and turned back toward him, and for a brief second, I saw the confusion and shock flash through his eyes.
But he raised his weapon anyway….
He raised his weapon anyway… I still can't believe it.
Twenty-three lives taken that day, and half of them were women and children innocent of any wrongdoing.
All to cover this man's mistake. The real leader had been called up, court martial for other things he'd done, and Bryan wasn't even supposed to be on that assignment.
He forced his way in so we would save face, and then…
But I didn't stay quiet the way they wanted me to.
I filed a report through proper channels, documented what I saw, made noise about rules of engagement and accountability.
Bryan found out within days, and what he did to me in retaliation was personal and vicious and designed to break me into submission.
The coffee has gone cold in my hands and I set it down on the counter, pressing my palms flat against the laminate and breathing through the nausea that always comes with remembering what that sick fuck did to me, and now I'm going to make him pay.
The best part is, I don't have to do it alone.
I suddenly have an opportunity I never thought I'd get.
Movement from the bedroom draws my attention and I turn to see the man who attacked me standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame and his face pale beneath the stubble on his jaw.
He's wearing the same clothes from last night, bloody jeans cut at the thigh and a scrubby flannel shirt.
The fever I was worried about is clearly present in the glassy sheen of his eyes and the way he's breathing too fast for someone standing still.
"You need a doctor…?" I don't know his name. I can't even greet him properly, but the pause and the way I leave my words hanging clue him in.
"Jace… Morelli…" His grunt shows me he's in pain and feeling weak.
"Well, Morelli, you need a doctor." I cross the kitchen to pour him a cup of coffee, then walk over and hand it to him, assessing him closer up. "You're burning up and that wound's probably infected."
"Not an option." His voice is rough and strained, and he shifts his weight to favor the uninjured leg. "Can't go to a hospital without raising flags, and I don't have contacts I trust who won't ask questions."
"Then you're going to get worse before you get better.
" The frustration in my tone is directed at the situation more than at him, but it comes out harsh, regardless.
"Infection in a deep wound can turn septic fast, and if that happens, you'll be useless to both of us.
" I think of the truce we called. I'm not sure what he thinks is in it for him except perhaps my leading him to my former colleagues, but his muscle is what I need.
He's no good to me if he's lame—or worse, dead.
"I'll manage." He pushes off the doorframe and limps toward the kitchen table, lowering himself into a chair with a grimace that tells me exactly how much pain he's in. "I've worked through worse."
The bravado would be more convincing if he didn't look ready to pass out again, but arguing with him won't change his mind and wasting time on a fight we can't win serves neither of us. I grab a banana from the counter and set it in front of him before taking the chair across the table.
"Eat. Drink. You're no good to me dead." I don't have a sliver of sympathy for him.
He got what he deserved by breaking into my house and attacking me.
Or at least, I shouldn't… But watching him peel his banana like he’s just a normal person and not an assassin actually twists something in my chest.
He's human too, and I almost killed him.
We sit in silence while he eats slowly, each bite clearly requiring effort he doesn't want to expend, and the coffee sits untouched in front of him, steaming. When he finishes the banana, he reaches for the coffee and takes a careful sip, his hands steady despite the fever making his skin flush.
"When can you get the intel?" His eyes meet mine across the table, and despite the fever there's focus in his gaze that tells me he's still thinking tactically. "I need locations, routines, and security details on the remaining names."
"It's not that simple." He's foolish if he thinks I'm just going to go nuke my career.
"If I go into the system for that information, I get one shot.
Everything we need, I'll have less than ten minutes to find and download before they lock me out.
" The explanation feels inadequate even as I'm giving it, but he needs to understand the reality of what he's asking.
His expression doesn't change, but I see the wheels turning behind his eyes, processing the implications and the timeline. "Ten minutes?"
"At most." My hands wrap around my own coffee cup and I meet his gaze directly.
"The moment I access personnel files and classified assignments outside my clearance parameters, alarms go off.
Security protocols kick in, my credentials get flagged, and they'll put out a warrant for misuse of government systems before I can even log out—hell, I may not even be allowed to leave the building after that. "
"Which means you'll need to disappear." He says it matter-of-factly, no judgment or surprise, just tactical assessment of the situation.
"Which means I'll be arrested if I get caught before we have the proof we need.
" The fear that's been sitting in my chest since last night crystallizes into words, and saying it out loud makes it real.
"Bryan has friends everywhere. His buddies in the chain of command won't turn on him, and if I go down for credential misuse before we can expose what he did, I'll go to prison for a very long time. "
The weight of that reality settles between us, and for a moment we just sit there in my kitchen with the knowledge that we're both walking toward a cliff edge with no guarantee of solid ground on the other side.
"Court-martial." Jace's voice is quiet, and there's understanding in his tone that suggests he knows exactly what that means. "Dishonorable discharge, federal charges, years in a military prison."
"At minimum." My throat feels tight and I take a sip of coffee to clear it. "And that's if they don't decide to make an example out of me for going after an officer with Bryan's record and connections."
"Then we make sure you don't get caught.
" He leans back in the chair and winces when the movement pulls at his injured leg.
"We time it right, get everything we need in one operation, and disappear before they can coordinate a response.
" The confidence in his voice doesn't match the reality of our situation, but I appreciate the attempt at reassurance even if it rings hollow.
"In the meantime, you go to work and act normal.
" His eyes are sharp despite the fever, and I can see him thinking things through.
The logic is sound even if the execution will be terrifying, and I nod slowly while my mind runs through everything I'll need to retrieve once I make that access.
Personnel files on every name on his list, assignment records that show connections to the mission that started all of this.
And most importantly, Bryan's private files and any evidence to show where he may be storing personal items. I have to know if he kept that recording he made of me.
"Stay out of sight today." I stand and carry my cup to the sink, rinsing it and setting it in the drain. "Be quiet, don't answer the door, and try not to bleed through your bandage."
"Where are you going?" He's watching me with narrowed eyes, but I have nothing here to hide from him. I turn to meet his gaze, wondering if I can actually trust that truce we made.
"Work." The word feels surreal given everything that's happened in the past twelve hours. "I have a taskforce meeting this morning and if I don't show up, it raises questions I can't afford to answer."
"You're going to sit in a briefing and pretend everything is normal while a man you stabbed is bleeding in your apartment." There's no judgment in his tone, just observation, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
"That's exactly what I'm going to do." My keys are on the counter and I grab them along with my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. "And you're going to stay here and try not to die before I get back."
He doesn't respond, but the look he gives me suggests he understands the stakes as well as I do.
When I leave the apartment, he's still sitting at my kitchen table with his coffee, and I lock up, not knowing if my new friend Jace Morelli is going to be there when I get back or if I'll return home to a bomb or some other device intended to do to me what he's already done to at least four of my former colleagues.
At work, my new commander, Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mitchell, stands at the front of the room reviewing documents on a tablet, and when she sees me enter, her expression is neutral. "Staff Sergeant Hart, good, you're here. I need your report on the weapons smuggling operation."
The words trigger an automatic response, years of training kicking in to deliver information with clarity and professionalism despite the exhaustion pulling at every part of me.
"Yes, ma'am, we've tracked three shipments in the past two weeks, all originating from overseas suppliers with ties to former military contacts.
The pattern suggests coordination at a level above street distribution, likely involving someone with access to logistics networks and secure transportation. "
I walk in, setting my bag on the table and eyeing the coffee pot in the corner.
It's empty, which means I'll be asked to make more.
I'm the low man on the totem here and I hate it.
I outranked everyone at my last post except Bryan, and this is humiliating.
Just another price I have to pay for what he did to me.
Mitchell nods and makes notes on her tablet while I continue the briefing, outlining the progress we've made and the gaps that still exist in our intelligence.
The whole time I'm talking, my mind is trying to figure out how to access Bryan's files without triggering every security protocol designed to stop exactly what I'm planning.
Ten minutes—that's all I'll have once I breach the system, and in that ten minutes, I need to locate and download personnel records, assignment details, and private files that lie buried behind layers of classification and restricted access.
One mistake, one wrong keystroke, and I'll be locked out before I can get what we need.
And if I get caught before we have the proof, Bryan wins.
He walks away clean while I rot in a military prison, and Jace finishes his list before his boss decides he's expendable.
We both lose, and the people Bryan murdered stay locked in limbo with no justice, all while he goes on to whatever promotion or up-rank awaits him. That thought sickens me.
Once I make that access and pull those files, there's no going back. My career, my freedom, my entire future hinge on whether we can move fast enough to stay ahead of the people who want us dead.
When Mitchell dismisses the team, I return to my desk and stare at my computer screen, the cursor blinking in the login field while my hands rest on the keyboard.
All the information I need is in this system, protected and classified and waiting for someone brave enough or desperate enough to reach for it.
But not today.
Today, I go through the motions and pretend everything is normal while a hitman recovers in my apartment and Captain Jason Bryan continues his cleanup operation, unaware that his next target is planning to burn his entire world down.
But soon. Very soon.
And when that moment comes, I'll be ready.