Page 135 of Knot Their Arrangement

"How soon can you get us a flight?" he demands, his tone carrying that particular edge that suggests someone's life may depend on the answer.

His darkened eyes lift to take in my approach, the frown deepening as he registers Kamari's unconscious form in my arms. The slight tightening around his eyes is the only indication of his emotional response, years of control keeping his Alpha rage carefully contained.

"Chemicals in the air. We gotta leave." The warning comes out clipped and professional, my years of tactical training taking over. My mind's already cataloging symptoms and calculating exposure times – how long before the residual agent affects us, how quickly we need to clear the contaminated space.

Damon nods sharply, his focus returning to his call with renewed intensity.

"Secure the jet. We're coming now. Straight onto the runway." His voice carries that particular timbre that makes even the most hardened operators snap to attention. "I don't care about the costs."

He ends that call without waiting for confirmation, immediately dialing another number while his free hand reaches into his perfectly tailored jacket.

The emergency mask he produces brings back memories – standard issue from when I first joined the task force and became everyone's favorite target for "awareness training."

Those surprise attacks were supposedly meant to teach rookies to stay alert, though one particular incident left both Damon and me higher than kites on some experimental compound.

The sex that night had been phenomenal – the kind of uninhibited passion that only comes with completely lowered inhibitions. But Damon rarely allows anyone to see him with compromised control. The people responsible learned that lesson thoroughly – or would have, if they'd survived to remember it.

My hands move automatically to secure the mask over Kamari's face, the practiced motion bringing back muscle memories of similar situations. The mask looks too large for her delicate features, but the seal should hold well enough to filter any remaining contaminants.

Damon's already producing a second one, trying to put it on me.

"No. On you," I order, watching his eyes narrow at the command.

Even after years of partnership, both professional and personal, he still bristles at being told what to do. But this isn't about hierarchy or dominance – it's about tactical necessity.

"If we're going out of the country, you can't risk losing consciousness," I explain quickly, shifting Kamari's weight to maintain better control. "You're the lead when we're out of our territory. You know the reasoning for that."

The logic is sound, even if he hates it.

My mixed heritage makes me an easy target for "random" security checks and endless questioning, despite my detective credentials and impressive closure rate.

Put simply, I look too "exotic" to pass without scrutiny in certain circles.But Damon?His reputation transcends borders. No one dares delay or question him too closely, not if they value their continued existence.

His scowl deepens, but he complies, securing the mask with efficient movements that speak of similar training. The phone in his hand buzzes again – Rhett this time, his name flashing on the screen with urgent priority.

"Was bringing the car to the front," Rhett reports, tension evident in his voice. "Where's Kieran?"

The question sends ice through my veins as Damon and I exchange alarmed looks.

We'd left Kieran in front of the building, ostensibly having a smoke while keeping watch. The fact that Rhett can't locate him sets off every warning bell in my tactical training.

Kieran isn't just any civilian – he's a trained operator in his own right, despite his public persona suggesting otherwise.

The fact that he's out of contact suggests this situation just graduated from concerning to potentially catastrophic. If someone managed to neutralize Kieran despite his training and natural capabilities, we're dealing with serious professionals.

Damon's gun appears in his hand with fluid grace, drawn from the concealed holster he wears like a second skin. The weapon – a custom Sig Sauer that probably costs more than most people's cars – looks perfectly natural in his grip.

He moves toward the door with predatory intent while I adjust my grip on Kamari, preparing to run if necessary.

The weight of my own weapon presses against my side, but I can't draw it while carrying her. The tactical trade-off isn't ideal, but Kamari's safety takes precedence over offensive capabilities right now.

Besides, between Damon's legendary aim and Rhett's various talents, we should have enough firepower to handle the most immediate threats.

The door opens under Damon's touch just as a grunt of pain echoes from outside, followed by the distinctive thud of a body hitting the floor.

The sound carries certain qualities that experienced operators learn to recognize – the weight distribution, the way clothing rustles against carpet, even the particular tone of the impact.

Someone just went down hard, and not by choice.

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