Page 12 of Code Name: Reaper
I watched her through the convenience store window, studying the way she moved. Alert but not paranoid, competent without being showy. She caught me looking and turned away quickly, but not before I saw the heat flushing her cheeks. The same awareness that was driving me crazy.
“Don’t.”
The word came out of nowhere as we returned to the car.
My mouth gaped. “Don’t what?”
“Just don’t.”
I studied her, looking for clues about what she meant. Don’t mention the kiss? Don’t look at her like that? Don’t make this more complicated than it already was?
“Fine,” I said, though I had no idea what I’d agreed to.
Once on the road, we were forced to share intelligence. Her intel about Prism’s surveillance network painted a picture of betrayal that went deeper than either of us had realized. My reluctance to discuss Jekyll’s final words was obvious, but she didn’t push. We were both keeping secrets, dancing around the implications of what we’d learned.
“We need more resources?—”
“Resources come with oversight. Oversight means compromise. Compromise means too much risk,” she clapped at me.
I understood her logic, even if I didn’t agree with it. Someone had burned her in the past—probably more than once—and now, she defaulted to isolation as a survival mechanism. The irony was that her independence made her more vulnerable, not less.
The safe house my brother had arranged was a small cottage in Königstein, nothing fancy but secure. Dawn had started to hint at the eastern horizon as we pulled up and parked.
The moment we walked through the door, the arguments that had become second nature picked right back up. We spat at each other about perimeter checks, communication protocols, and watch schedules.
She moved toward the equipment. “I’ll handle the tech setup.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I’m better with electronics.”
“Says who?”
Irritation flashed on her face when she turned to me. “Says the person who’s been running solo missions for months.”
“Running from problems isn’t the same as solving them.”
Her expression shuttered at the harshness in my words and tone. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Her voice sounded deliberately flat. “I’ll check the perimeter.”
She was gone before I could argue. I stared at the empty doorway, wondering when everything had gotten so complicated. A week ago, I’d been hunting for a missing operative. Now, I was stuck in a safe house with a woman who made me question every decision I’d ever made about keeping my personal life and work separate.
By the time she returned inside, I’d set up the communication gear and completed a threat assessment on the property.
“Hungry?” I asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
She moved toward the small kitchen, opening cabinets and assessing what we had to work with. “I can make breakfast.”
“When’s the last time you actually cooked a meal?”
She shot me a look over her shoulder. “When’s the last time you prepared anything that wasn’t an MRE?”
“You think I can’t cook? I’ll show you.” God, I was tired of her assumptions about my capabilities. That I believed in getting support when needed didn’t mean I was helpless on my own.
I moved into the kitchen, claiming the territory. The area was small enough that she had to step away, but she didn’t retreat entirely. Instead, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and watched me work.
“The heat’s too high,” she muttered as the oil I’d poured into a pan popped.
“It’s fine.” I dumped the container of chopped vegetables I’d found in the refrigerator into it.
