Chapter 6
SIX
Eliza
EXPOSED
I wake up pressed against the warmest, most solid surface I’ve ever encountered, and for a blissful moment, I forget where I am.
Cooper’s chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a steady rhythm that’s oddly soothing.
His arm remains wrapped around me, holding me securely against him even in sleep.
The scent of his skin—something woodsy and masculine—fills my senses.
Reality crashes back as the pipes around us clank and hiss. We’re still in the utility tunnel beneath Georgetown, hiding from people who want to kill me. But somehow, wrapped in Cooper’s arms, the terror of last night feels manageable.
Distant.
His breathing changes, and I realize he’s awake. Probably has been for a while, maintaining that protective hold even as consciousness returned.
“Morning,” he says quietly, his voice rough.
“Is it morning? I can’t tell down here.” I don’t move away from him immediately. The warmth is too good, and the security of his embrace too comforting to abandon just yet.
“0630. Time to move.”
Of course he knows the exact time without checking a watch. The man probably has an internal chronometer.
I reluctantly pull back, immediately missing his warmth as the tunnel’s cold air hits my skin. My neck aches from sleeping in an awkward position, and my legs feel stiff from hours on the concrete floor.
“Where exactly are we moving to?”
“Out of here. Then transport.” He’s already shifting into operational mode, scanning our surroundings with renewed focus. “Phoenix teams rotate shifts at dawn. Window of opportunity.”
“What kind of window?”
“The kind that keeps you breathing.”
Always so reassuring. I stretch as much as the confined space allows, working out the kinks in my spine. “Do I look as terrible as I feel?”
His steady gaze moves across my face, lingering on my hair, which probably resembles a bird’s nest after sleeping in a tunnel. “You look alive. That’s what matters.”
“Such a charmer.” But something in his gaze makes heat flutter in my stomach. Even disheveled and dirty, he’s looking at me like I’m something worth protecting. Worth keeping safe.
“Stay here while I check the route.” He moves toward the tunnel entrance with that predatory grace that grabs my attention.
“How long?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”
The thought of being alone in this cramped space, even briefly, makes my chest tighten. “What if something happens to you?”
He pauses, looking back at me. “Then you wait. The FBI will find you eventually.”
“That’s your backup plan? Hope the FBI finds me?”
“You have a better idea?”
I don’t, which is frustrating. My entire career revolves around solving puzzles.
Linguistics and ancient languages are fascinating puzzles, but this situation requires skills I’ve never developed.
Physical survival, tactical thinking, trusting someone else to keep me safe—none of these appear in academic training programs.
“Just—be careful.”
Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe, at my concern for his safety. “Always am.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing down the tunnel with barely a sound. The silence he leaves behind feels oppressive, thick with all the dangers waiting outside our temporary sanctuary.
I spend the time trying to make myself presentable, finger-combing my hair and brushing dust off my sweater. It’s futile. I look like someone who spent the night hiding in a basement tunnel, because that’s exactly what I am.
When Cooper returns, he moves with the satisfied confidence of someone whose reconnaissance confirmed his expectations.
“We’re clear. No sign of Phoenix personnel. Building’s empty except for weekend maintenance.”
“So we can just—walk out?”
“With modifications.”
Of course. Nothing about this situation could be simple.
He leads me back through the tunnel, and I try not to think about how much easier the crawling is now that I know where we’re going. In the basement mechanical room, the fluorescent lights seem blindingly bright after hours in the dim tunnel.
“Bathroom first,” he says, nodding toward a door marked Facilities. “Freshen up. Look like a normal person instead of someone who spent the night hiding from killers.”
The bathroom is basic—utilitarian fixtures and harsh lighting that reveals exactly how terrible I look.
My hair is a disaster, my makeup long gone, and my clothes are wrinkled and dusty.
But warm water feels like luxury after the cold tunnel, and I manage to restore some semblance of normalcy to my appearance.
When I emerge, Cooper hands me a Georgetown University sweatshirt, a baseball cap, and sunglasses.
“Where did you get these?”
“Student walking across campus. Offered her two hundred cash for her Georgetown gear.”
“You robbed a college student?”
“I bought merchandise from a willing seller. She seemed thrilled with the transaction.”
The sweatshirt is oversized and comfortable, the cap fits well enough, and the sunglasses hide most of my face. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror—I look like any other Georgetown student heading to weekend class.
“Better?”
“You’ll blend in. Ready?”
No. I’m not ready for any of this. But Cooper’s calm competence is reassuring, and staying in the basement isn’t an option.
“Lead the way.”
The route out of Healy Hall takes us through corridors I rarely use, past classrooms and offices I’ve never visited.
Cooper moves with absolute certainty, checking corners and listening at doorways before proceeding.
His hand rests casually on his weapon, hidden beneath his jacket but instantly accessible.
Morning sunlight streaming through tall windows feels surreal after our underground night.
Campus looks normal—Saturday morning quiet without the usual 6 or 7 a.m. flurry of students rushing to class or grabbing coffee.
A few early risers head toward the library or science buildings, probably graduate students with lab work or researchers like me who prefer weekend solitude for deep thinking.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think yesterday’s terror was just a nightmare.
“Rental car’s three blocks east,” Cooper says as we exit the building.”
I fall into step with him. He moves through campus like he belongs here—just another visitor or contractor with business at the university. His awareness never flags, though. Those green eyes of his constantly scan his surroundings, cataloging threats and escape routes.
I try to match his casual alertness, but my academic brain keeps wandering to analysis instead of survival. The linguistic patterns in overheard conversations, the architectural details of buildings we pass, the social dynamics of student groups—everything captures my attention.
Focus, Eliza. People want to kill you. Pay attention to staying alive instead of studying social interactions.
The rental car sits exactly where Cooper said it would, a nondescript sedan with a parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper. Of course they got a ticket. Even hiding from assassins, bureaucracy finds a way to intrude.
Cooper reaches the car first and performs what I assume is a security check—looking underneath, examining the doors and windows, probably searching for explosives or tracking devices. The routine is both reassuring and terrifying.
I’m standing a few feet away when Cooper suddenly turns and scans the area behind me. His entire demeanor changes, relaxed awareness shifting into lethal focus.
Then his hand shoots out and grabs mine.
“What—”
“Play along if you want to live.”
Before I can process his words, he’s pulling me against his side, his arm wrapping around my waist with possessive authority.
The contact sends electricity through my system, but there’s no time to analyze the sensation because he’s spinning me to face him, his other hand sliding up to cup the back of my head.
And then he’s kissing me.
Not the tentative, hesitant kisses I’ve experienced with academic colleagues. This is something else entirely—claiming, demanding, completely overwhelming. His mouth moves against mine with the same confidence he applies to everything else, and my brain simply—stops functioning.
His hand at the back of my head controls the angle and depth of the kiss, while his arm around my waist presses me against his body until there’s no space between us.
I feel every hard plane of his chest, the heat radiating through his clothes, the way his heart pounds against mine.
And lower, pressed against my stomach, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal growing harder with each second our bodies remain locked together.
When his tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, seeking entrance, I open for him. The taste of him—something dark, something dangerous—fills my senses. I grip his jacket, partly to steady myself and partly because I never want this to end.
The kiss goes on forever and ends too soon. When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and dizzy, staring up into those intense green eyes that are watching me with something that looks like satisfaction.
“Phoenix team. Twelve o’clock,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough. “Two operatives walking past. Keep your head down.”
Phoenix. Right. People trying to kill me. The kiss was camouflage, not passion. A necessity to hide me from surveillance.
Except the way his thumb strokes across my cheek suggests it was more than tactics.
“Are they gone?” I whisper.
“Almost.” His arm remains around my waist, keeping me pressed against him. “A few more seconds. Grope me this time.”
Grope him?
He leans down and kisses me again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Where the first kiss was claiming and urgent, this one is explorative—his mouth moving against mine with the patience of a man who’s decided to take his time.
The intensity hasn’t diminished, but there’s something deeper here, something that makes my knees go weak.