Page 11 of Code Name: Reaper
The woman who’d escaped a kill team minutes ago was ready to hot-wire a car like it was any other average day. Part of me was impressed. The other part wanted to shake her until she showed some sense of self-preservation.
“We need to stay mobile,” she continued, splitting her attention between me and scanning for threats.
“We find a safe house, regroup, and get proper support.”
“We’re not calling in the cavalry for a simple extraction.”
“Simple?” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “We fought our way out of a coordinated breach with multiple hostiles carrying automatic weapons. In what universe is that simple?”
She shot me a look that could have melted steel. “The universe where I’ve been handling myself perfectly fine for nine days without your help.”
There it was. The independence thing again. Her default response to any situation was to handle it alone, trust no one, and rely on herself. I recognized the pattern, even if I didn’t understand what had created it.
Before I could respond, my asset rounded the corner in the right make, model, and color sedan. Right on time. He jumped out and took off in the opposite direction without giving us the chance to thank or identify him.
“If you’d gone with my plan, we could’ve saved ten minutes,” Amaryllis muttered as we approached the car.
“Or gotten arrested.”
“I drive,” she said, trying to scoot around me.
“Like hell,” I shot at her.
“I know the area better.”
“My asset.”
We stared at each other. The same battle for control we’d been fighting since Montenegro, played out over who got behind the wheel. But it felt different. Every interaction carried anundercurrent of tension that had nothing to do with mission security and everything to do with the way her lips had moved against mine. When I got to the driver’s side first and climbed in, she retreated to the passenger side, then slammed the door harder than necessary.
The first hour passed in stilted conversation about routes and immediate security concerns. She navigated while I drove, both of us maintaining a rigid separation despite the forced proximity. But I noticed everything—the way she held her cell, how she shifted in her seat, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my system.
The city gradually gave way to the countryside as we distanced ourselves from Berlin. Occasional headlights passed in the opposite direction, but mostly, we had the road to ourselves in the early morning hours.
“Head south at the next intersection.” She traced a route with her finger.
“Why south?”
“More options in that direction.”
“We need a safe house first. Somewhere to regroup.”
“We need to stay mobile.”
The same argument we’d been having since we met, only with different words. Her insistence on independence versus my preference for proper backup and resources.
“You can’t run forever,” I muttered.
“Watch me.”
I glanced at her profile, noting the stubborn set of her jaw. “This is bigger than what we can handle alone.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
Always we, I noticed. Even when she was pushing me away, rejecting help, and insisting she didn’t need anyone. Some part of her had already accepted that we were a team, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
We stopped for fuel an hour later at a twenty-four-hour station, the first real pause since our escape. Everything felt awkward—like if we dared look at each other, we’d both be forced to acknowledge that kiss.
While she went inside to get coffee, I sent a text to Blackjack with my coordinates and a request to find us somewhere safe to stop for a few hours.
