Chapter 8
EIGHT
Cooper
UNDERGROUND
A convenience store appears on the corner ahead, the kind of place that sells everything from magazines to basic clothing. Perfect.
“In here,” I say, pulling her toward the entrance.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Clothing change.”
“What’s wrong with what we’re wearing?”
“They’re tracking our appearance.”
Inside, I grab an armload of items—three different T-shirts for her, three for me, a baseball cap, and new sunglasses. The clerk barely looks up from his phone as I dump cash on the counter.
“Bathroom,” I tell Dr. Wren, handing her the shirts. “Change into one of these. Keep the jeans and shoes.”
“Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just different.”
While she disappears into the small bathroom, I pull on a plain black T-shirt over my tactical vest, switching out my jacket for a navy hoodie from the rack. The baseball cap sits low over my eyes, and the new sunglasses complete the transformation.
When she emerges wearing a bright blue T-shirt that makes her eyes stand out even more, I hand her the remaining clothes.
“Carry these. We’ll change again later.”
“This is insane.”
“This is survival.”
The Dupont Circle Metro entrance appears ahead—concrete steps leading down into D.C.’s underground transit system. Red line, blue line, orange line—multiple options for routing, multiple opportunities to lose pursuit through random direction changes.
“I’ve never taken the Metro,” Dr. Wren says as we approach the entrance.
I stop walking and stare at her. “You’ve never taken the Metro? You live in D.C. Everyone takes the Metro.”
“I live in a brownstone near Georgetown. I walk when I can, drive when I need to. I like being outside, not underground in crowds and tunnels.”
I shake my head. “That’s weird.”
“It’s not weird, it’s a preference.”
“First time for everything.”
“What if I don’t know how to—”
“Follow my lead. Stay close. Do what I say when I say it.”
The steps descend into the familiar underground world of D.C.’s subway system. Tile walls stretch in long corridors, fluorescent lighting casting everything in harsh white. The smell hits immediately—recycled air, cleaning chemicals, the faint odor of too many people in enclosed spaces.
Dr. Wren’s hand tightens in mine as we navigate the corridors. Smart woman—underground spaces feel different when people are hunting you. More confined. Limited escape routes.
“How do you know which train to take?” she asks.
“I don’t.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Random routing. Harder to predict.”
The platform opens up before us—two tracks, multiple destinations. Orange line toward Vienna, blue line toward Franconia. I scan the electronic displays, calculating timing and crowd density.
The orange line arrives first. There is a moderate crowd, enough people to provide cover without creating mobility problems. I make the random choice and we head that way.
“This one,” I say, guiding her toward the train doors.
We board with the usual rush of commuters. I position Dr. Wren against the far wall and stand facing her, my body creating a visual barrier between her and the other passengers. The position puts her pressed against my chest, and I can feel every breath she takes.
“Why are you standing so close?” she whispers.
“Surveillance screening.”
“This feels like—”
“Like, what?”
Color floods her cheeks. “Nothing.”
I lean in and whisper in her ear. “Sorry, love. You only get the kisses when people are actually trying to find us.”
She jerks back from me, eyes wide. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was thinking exactly the same thing.”
The train pulls away from the platform, and I scan the other passengers. Business suits, tourists with cameras, and a few college students. No obvious threats, but Phoenix operatives blend in. Professional training teaches them to look like everyone else.
I love the pink flush of her cheeks, the way I flustered her. So flustered, in fact, that her nonstop verbal dialogue has completely stopped. I made her speechless, and I fucking love that.
My arm slides around her lower back, pulling her closer against me.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Just because I’m not kissing you doesn’t mean we can’t look like a couple riding the train. We’re going for camouflage.”
“Cooper, about what happened earlier—”
“Not now.”
“When you kissed me—”
I lean in close to her ear. “Eliza. That was an order. What do you do with my orders?”
“Obey them,” she responds, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
“That’s right. You obey my orders. You do as I say. Our number one priority is staying alive. Everything else takes a backseat to that. If I need to hold you close, I’m gonna hold you close. If I need to kiss you, I’m gonna kiss you. I’m gonna do whatever the hell it takes to keep you alive.”
Her eyes widen at my unusually long speech. “Wow. If I knew that talking about that kiss would make you say more than one or two words, I would’ve done it earlier.”
She opens her mouth with another question, but the train slows for the next station. Rosslyn. I evaluate the platform through the windows—normal foot traffic, no obvious surveillance.
“We’re getting off,” I announce.
“But we just got on.”
“Random routing, remember?”
I take her hand again and guide her through the doors onto the Rosslyn platform. The train pulls away, carrying our previous location into the tunnel. Anyone tracking our movement has lost the trail.
The blue line platform. It’s a different direction with different destinations. The crowd here is thinner. It’s late morning weekend traffic rather than rush hour chaos. Perfect time to change our clothes.
“This way.” I steer her toward the restrooms.
“What are we doing?”
“Clothing change number two.”
I guide her past the separate men’s and women’s restrooms to the family restroom at the end of the corridor. Single occupancy, lockable door, private space.
“What the hell are we doing in here?” she asks as I shut the door behind us and engage the lock.
“Changing clothes.”
I pull out one of the other shirts from the convenience store and strip off the black T-shirt, replacing it with a gray one. When I turn around, she’s standing frozen by the door, clutching her bag of clothes.
“I’m not going to change with you looking at me.”
“Look, I can stare at the door, I can stare at the mirror, I can look at you—whatever you want. Change your shirt and let’s get going. We don’t have time to argue.”
She starts removing the blue T-shirt from the convenience store, then pauses. “You know, it’s kind of a shame about all these clothes. That Georgetown hoodie—I would’ve liked to have kept it. You spent $200 on it.”
“Technically, it was $200 for everything. Anyway, it’s gone.”
“Now what do I do with this shirt?”
“Put it in the trash.”
She looks at me and rolls her eyes like that makes no sense at all. Then she starts to shrug the other shirt over her sweater.
“You’re gonna ditch the sweater too.”
“Why do I need to ditch the sweater?”
“Because it changes your silhouette. Everything comes off but the new shirt.”
When she pauses, I add, “Eliza. That was an order.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But you need to turn around.”
I turn toward the mirror, and she pulls off her sweater. The reflection gives me a perfect view of her delicate lace bra barely containing those voluptuous tits that have been driving me crazy all morning. My mind goes straight back into the gutter.
Shit. I should’ve just stared at the wall.
“Fine. I’m done. Now what?”
“Give me the shirt you took off.”
She hands me the blue T-shirt, and I lead her out of the bathroom, stuffing both shirts into the nearest waste receptacle.
“This is making me dizzy,” Dr. Wren says as we wait for the next train.
“Good. Means it’s working.”
“How do you know where we’re going?”
“I don’t.”
“That’s impossible. You have to have a plan.”
“The plan is unpredictability.”
“That’s not a plan, that’s chaos.”
“Sometimes chaos is the best plan.”
The blue line train arrives, and we board again. This time, I position us in the middle of the car, surrounded by other passengers on all sides. Dr. Wren ends up pressed even closer against me, her breasts against my chest, her face tilted up toward mine.
The position sends heat racing through my system again. Wrong time, wrong place, but my body doesn’t care about tactical considerations when she’s looking at me with those green eyes.
“Cooper,” she says quietly, “I need to understand what’s happening between us.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
A whole lot is happening. I’m just not going to admit it to her.
“That’s not true.”
“It’s tactical necessity.” And I’m trying to convince myself as much as her. “I’m saving your life. That’s what’s happening.”
“That’s not true. There’s more—”
“Like what? More what?”
“The kiss. Both kisses.”
“Don’t try to overthink it.”
She stops walking and stares at me. “I’m not an idiot. I’m a linguist, and one of the things linguists do is study behavior. It’s not about the words—it’s about the behavior. Something is happening here, and I want to know what it is.”
“Why do you need to know? Why do you need to analyze it? It was a kiss. Just leave it at that. Come on, let’s go.”
The lie comes out easily, but her expression suggests she doesn’t believe it. Smart woman. Too fucking smart.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“By lying to me?”
“By keeping you focused on survival instead of—”
“Instead of what?”
Instead of the way you respond to my commands. Instead of how your body melts against mine when I take control. Instead of the fact that I want to drag you into the nearest dark corner and finish what that kiss started.
“Instead of complications.”
The train slows for Metro Center. Major hub station, multiple lines, crowds. Perfect location for another direction change.
“Off,” I say, taking her hand.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Metro Center’s platform spreads out in multiple directions—red line, orange line, and blue line connections. The crowd here is thick, with constant movement in all directions. Exactly what we need.
I guide Dr. Wren through the crowd toward the red line platform. She keeps pace without complaint, but the questions continue.
“How long are we going to keep riding trains in circles?”
“Until I’m satisfied we’re clean.”
“Clean of what?”
“Surveillance.”
“How will you know?”
“Experience.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
The red line train arrives, packed with passengers. Perfect. I push Dr. Wren ahead of me, then position myself behind her, my chest against her back, my arms bracketing her against the train wall.
The position is intimate, possessive, and completely necessary for security. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Cooper,” she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the train noise.
“Yeah.”
“This feels like more than tactical positioning.”
My jaw clenches. She’s right, and we both know it. But acknowledging that truth leads down paths that compromise mission parameters.
“It’s whatever it needs to be to keep you alive.”
“And after? When I’m safe?”
After. When the mission ends and she returns to her academic life? I’ll disappear back into the shadows.
“There is no after.”
The words come out harsher than intended, but they’re true. Protection details end. Clients return to their everyday lives. Operators move on to the next mission.
Except the way she feels pressed against me suggests this mission might be different.
The train pulls into Union Station. Major terminus, multiple exit routes, crowds thick enough to disappear into.
“This is us,” I say.
We exit with the mass of commuters, and I keep Dr. Wren close as we navigate the station’s main concourse. Union Station bustles with travelers, tourists, and locals—perfect cover for the final approach to the safe house.
“Where now?” she asks as we emerge onto street level.
“Walking distance.”
“How far?”
“Six blocks.”
The safe house sits in a residential neighborhood north of Union Station—a nondescript row house that looks exactly like every other row house on the block. Perfect camouflage in plain sight.
I scan the street as we approach, looking for surveillance, out-of-place vehicles, anything that suggests Phoenix has anticipated our destination. Everything appears normal—parked cars, pedestrians, the usual rhythm of urban residential life.
“This is it,” I say, guiding her up the front steps.
The lock disengages with my key card, and we step into the safe house’s interior. Basic furnishings, secure communications equipment, and a weapons cache in the basement. Everything needed for extended protection operations.
“We made it,” Dr. Wren says, relief evident in her voice.
“Yeah. We made it.”
But as I engage the electronic locks and activate the security system, something in my gut suggests this is far from over. Phoenix doesn’t give up easily, and Dr. Eliza Wren represents something valuable enough to justify escalating tactics.
The question is what happens when Phoenix decides that ground pursuit isn’t sufficient.
And whether this safe house is actually safe at all.