Page 19 of Code Name: Reaper
“What is it?” I was already moving, setting my coffee down and shifting into action mode.
“FSB teams. Spotted one hundred miles south of here.”
Dread settled in my stomach. One hundred miles meant time was of the essence.
“How many teams?” I was already mentally cataloging what I’d need to grab and how long it would take to pack the essential gear and destroy anything that could prove we were here.
“Two confirmed. Could be more.” He looked up from the phone. “They’re advancing from the south and east.”
“We need to get out of here.” My mind raced through the extraction routes and transportation options as I headed for the stairs.
“Amaryllis, wait.”
I hesitated taking the first step. “We don’t have time to wait. Every minute we spend talking is a minute they get closer.”
“Running aimlessly won’t help. We need a plan.”
The words carried weight because they were true.
“Did you hear me?”
I whirled around to face him when his tone grated on me. “We need to keep moving. That’s what works. That’s what kept me alive.”
“Come on. You know better. We need more than cash reserves and stolen transportation.”
When the phone buzzed again, Reaper’s jaw tightened as he read what was on the screen.
“Seventy miles out,” he reported. “Teams converging.”
Seventy miles. The net was tightening faster than I’d expected.
“The smartest thing would be to return to the UK,” he continued. “Let the coalition help us.”
“No.” The word came out flat and final. “I’m handling this myself.”
“Why? Give me one good reason why bringing in people who can actually give us the support we need is a bad idea.”
Because it meant I’d have to explain why I’d gone rogue, why I’d broken protocol, why I’d disappeared without informing anyone, letting them believe I was dead. Worse, teams meant other people would see the way I looked at Reaper, the way my pulse jumped when he spoke my name or we touched in passing.
Teams meant other women who might notice how his jaw clenched when he was angry, how his voice got rough when he was trying to control his temper. The thought of him working closely with someone else—someone who might catch his attention, someone who wouldn’t push him away every time he got too close—made my chest tight with jealousy.
Which was insane. We weren’t anything to each other except work colleagues in a mess neither of us wanted to be involved with. I had no claim on him, no right to feel possessive abouthis attention or protective about his safety. Mercury was the one who mattered. Mercury was the one I should be thinking about.
“I asked you a question.”
“Working with the coalition means oversight and compromise. I can’t afford either right now.”
“You keep saying that like it’s some kind of mantra. Like if you repeat it enough times, it’ll become true.”
“It is true.”
“Then, why—” He stopped himself, clearly changing his approach. “Never mind.”
I knew what he’d been about to say. Why had I senthimthe texts? Or did he want to know why I’d responded the way I did in that tunnel? Why had my hands gripped his jacket? Why had I made that sound when his mouth covered mine?
The answer was easy. Survival instinct. Basic human biology seeking connection in the face of death. It had to be, because the alternative was too dangerous to consider.
He took a step closer, and his nearness revealed the want and need and raw emotion that made my knees weak. “You don’t want to go this alone. Admit it.”
