Page 53 of Protect Thy Enemy

Williams blends in better than I expected. Too well.

She stands across the room, leaning casually against the bar, her wig a dark, sleek bob that changes the angles of her face, the contacts turning her sharp brown eyes into a softer, unrecognizable hazel. She’s dressed like she belongs here in a schoolgirl outfit—short plaid skirt, knee-high socks, and a fitted white shirt that clings in all the wrong ways.

I shouldn’t notice, but I do.

My jaw tightens, and I force my focus back to the mark. He’s seated in a private booth, his back to the wall, surrounded by men who all look like they’ve seen the inside of more than one prison. The intel says he’s a supplier—someone who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty but has no problem arming others to do it for him.

Williams brushes a strand of hair from her face, her movements unhurried as she sips the drink in her hand. From anyone else’s perspective, she’s just another girl trying to catch the mark’s attention. From mine, she’s too damn exposed.

I don’t like it.

I shift in my seat, keeping her in my peripheral vision as I scan the room. My position near the exit gives me the vantage point I need, but it also keeps me just far enough away that I can’t step in if this goes south.

Trust her, I remind myself. Harris’s words echo in my head, and I hate that they do.

The mark gestures to one of his men, a thick-necked guy with a tattoo snaking up his jaw. He leans down to whisper something, his eyes briefly flicking toward Williams before he nods and heads toward the back.

Williams notices. She always does.

She pushes off the bar, her skirt swaying as she weaves through the crowd, keeping just enough distance to avoid suspicion. She’s good at this, better than I gave her credit for, and it grates at me in ways I can’t explain.

I stand, slipping through the crowd and keeping her in my sights as she follows the man through a door marked “Staff Only.” My pulse kicks up as I move toward the same door, slipping in behind her before it shuts completely.

The hallway is narrow, dimly lit, and reeks of stale beer and something metallic. I hear low voices ahead and catch a glimpse of Williams as she ducks around a corner.

I follow, my steps quiet but deliberate until I’m close enough to see what she sees.

The small room is cluttered with crates and workbenches. Two men sit at one of the benches, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they assemble what looks like homemade explosives.

My jaw tightens. This isn’t just a supply drop. It’s a full-scale operation.

Williams moves slightly, angling herself to get a better view, and for a second, her gaze flicks toward me. Even with the wig and the contacts, I know that look. She’s waiting for my signal.

I hold up two fingers, then point toward the door. Her lips press into a thin line, but she nods, slipping back into the hallway without a sound.

We don’t speak until we’re outside, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat inside. She pulls the wig off as soon as we’re clear, running a hand through her damp hair and exhaling slowly.

“Well?” she asks.

“They’re making bombs,” I say, my tone clipped. “This isn’t just a trade. It’s prep for something big.”

Something way too fucking big to be on US soil.

She nods, her expression serious. “I overheard one of them mention a shipment leaving in two days. If we can track it—”

“We will,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “Harris will get the team on it.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “You’re not going to say I should’ve stayed out of the back room?”

I meet her gaze, the tension between us still simmering from earlier. “You did what needed to be done,” I say finally.

Her brows lift, surprise flickering across her face.

“Good job, Williams,” I add, the words rough but honest.

She doesn’t respond right away, but the faint curve of her lips tells me everything I need to know.

Chapter Nineteen

---