Page 9 of The Viper
Someone who didn’t know me. Or if they did, didn’t care.
I imagined slipping out—hair pulled back, hat low, maybe that brunette wig I’d joked about. Hannah could help me plan it, if I played it right. A disguise. A location. A few hours of anonymity.
The thought alone made me feel lighter. Like maybe I wasn’t just playing pretend anymore.
And maybe that was the real goal—not to dream about it, but to do it.
Sometime during these next few months, between call sheets and press days, I’d find my moment.
Charleston felt too alive, too charged, to let the chance slip by. One way or another, I’d make it happen.
I just needed the right night—and the right man—to make me forget who I was.
I drained the last of my wine and set the glass on the railing, the metal cool beneath my fingertips. Somewhere in the distance, a boat engine hummed low across the water.
Tomorrow, I’d be Lexi Montgomery again—the actress, the brand, the illusion.
But tonight, as the wind lifted the edge of my towel and the air wrapped warm around my skin, I let myself imagine something else.
Freedom.
Desire.
A body pressed close in the dark, no cameras watching, no one to tell me where to look or when to breathe.
Just one night.
That was all I wanted.
Just one night where it didn’t have to be an act.
4
LUCAS
The hum of the jet’s engines lulled me into a restless sleep, my body sinking into the leather seat like it knew better than my mind how to steal rest when it could. I’d been awake for nearly forty-eight hours before boarding, running on adrenaline and instinct through that shitshow in China. The moment my eyes closed, I was out, the world fading to black. Dreams came in fragments—Montana rivers, the crack of a rifle, the traitor’s bloodied face—but they didn’t stick. Nothing did when you lived like I did.
I woke briefly during the first refueling stop, the plane’s vibrations shifting as we touched down somewhere in the Pacific. I glanced at my watch: 0300 UTC, roughly six hours out from China. The crew—two men and a woman, all in crisp black uniforms—moved with quiet efficiency, offering me a tray of sandwiches and a bottle of water. I took both, nodding my thanks. The food was simple—roast beef, a smear of mustard, bread that didn’t taste like cardboard. I ate mechanically, washing it down with the water, my eyes scanning the crew.
They didn’t give off Agency vibes. No clipped speech, no subtle tells of operatives playing civilian. Just pros doing their job. Still, I stayed on edge, my hand never far from the pistol holstered under my jacket. Noah’s appearance back in that hut had rattled me more than I cared to admit. How the hell had he slipped into my world? Had one of my team let him in? I scrubbed the thought as soon as it formed. My men were Delta—loyal to the bone, undetectable, invisible, capable of leading in my absence. They were pros to the core. No way one of them had turned.
I slept again, the hours blurring until the second refueling stop woke me. Another glance at my watch: 1100 UTC, somewhere over the East Coast now. The crew offered coffee this time, black and strong. I drank it, the bitterness grounding me. Seventeen hours in the air, give or take, and I still had no answers. Who was Noah? Who had the pull to yank me off an active op? And why Charleston? The questions churned, but I shoved them down. Answers would come when I hit the ground.
By the time we touched down in Charleston, the sun was sinking, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. The private airstrip was tucked away from the main airport, surrounded by marsh and low scrub. A black SUV waited on the tarmac, engine idling. The driver, a lean guy in his fifties with a buzz cut and shades, greeted me with a nod as I stepped off the plane.
“Evening, sir,” he said, his Lowcountry drawl soft but clipped.
“Where we headed?” I asked, sliding into the back seat. My pack hit the floor, my body still wired despite the flight.
“The Palmetto Rose,” he replied, pulling onto a narrow road. “Orders are to get you cleaned up, let you rest until morning.”
The Palmetto Rose. Sounded like one of those boutique hotels Charleston loved—old world charm with a modern price tag. “What happens in the morning?”
“Pick you up at seven,” he said, eyes on the road.
I waited for more—orders, a mission brief, anything. Nothing came. No “stay in place until beckoned,” no cryptic instructions. Just silence.
I leaned back, the leather creaking under me, and let the Lowcountry roll past. Marshes stretched wide, their surfaces catching the last light like shattered glass. Spanish moss swayed in the breeze, ghostly in the dusk. It was beautiful, in a way that made you feel small.
