Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
I hit mile eight right as the sun peeks over the horizon and begins to filter through the barren trees.
Instead of stopping like I was supposed to three miles back, I push and aim for the rolling hill overlooking the pond in the rear of the property. It's only an extra couple hundred yards, but by the time I reach the steep, winding section near the crest, my lungs burn like I've run a marathon, and there's a sharp, accompanying pang deep in my abdomen.
Damn it.
Forcing myself to slow to a lazy walk before I do something stupid, I stretch my arms over my head and tip my face to the pale pink sky.
"It's about time."
Stealing a quick look back, I scowl at the familiar figure emerging from the nearby stand of ancient, gnarled oaks. Decked out in his usual black-on-black, Masen's little more than a shadow in the early morning light. Despite the fresh layer of crunchy snow, his footfalls barely make a sound.
Fuck, he's quiet.
Which says a lot coming from me.
After all, very few people are capable of sneaking up on me like that, especially on my turf.
Honestly, it's fucking impressive.
"Time for what?" I say, entirely too innocently, as he slows to a clipped jog and closes the remaining distance.
"For you to stop." Shoulders heaving, Masen rests his hands on his knees and doubles over like he's dying. His breath puffs out in swirling clouds of gray-white steam. "Jesus Christ, you're killing me."
"Liar." I grin like crazy when he glares up at me. "I've watched you swim, remember?"
"That's… not the same," he says as he stands and copies my stretches. When I arch a disbelieving brow, Masen just huffs out another cloud of silvery steam and waves at the snow-kissed fields down in the valley behind us. "Fine, I took a longer route and misjudged."
Okay, I laugh hard at that. "You mean, you got lost."
Long fingers loop around my wrist, and Masen's eyes glitter and dance as he pulls me around. "I caught up with you, didn't I?"
"Only because I was half-assing it."
Without warning, Masen's entire face splits into a wide, toothy grin. With the mussed, sweat-damp hair and ruddy cheeks, it's a ridiculously attractive look. It's so far away from the carefully crafted, blank exterior that I'm used to that, for a second, we just stare at each other, smiling like idiots.
Rosalie's going to give me so much shit for this.
"Half-assing?" he says, drawing it out as he steps into me in some piss-poor attempt at intimidation. Of course, I don't move an inch. "Seriously?"
"You heard me."
"Yeah, we'll see about that."
I flash him another too-innocent smile as I flatten my palms against his stomach. Like always, Masen might as well be a furnace, and heat radiates from his body into mine, even through the sleek, high-tech fabric of his running jacket. When I lightly drum my fingertips across the hard slabs of muscle beneath, they flex and jump in response.
Still grinning that absurdly attractive grin of his, Masen drops his hold on my wrist, only to frame my hip. His grip is loose and annoyingly cautious, even though we both know I'm healing up just fine. Before I can call him on it, however, his right cups my nape. He tugs me closer, then closer again, until there's not a bit of space between us, and then his mouth descends on mine.
Unlike his hold on my hip, Masen's mouth is not gentle. It's slick and hard like the rest of him, and his lips move against mine in an unapologetic demand that shoots sparks of need and want through every cell in my body. And unlike all those quick, stolen moments in Aronov's compound, driven by stress and fear and desperation, he kisses me like we've got all the time in the world.
Which, I suppose, is true.
Either way, when Masen finally pulls away, I'm the one panting, and, not kidding, I'm all of about two seconds from climbing him, right here and now, fucking snow be damned.
Judging by the twitch of his lips, that asshole knows it, too.
I surreptitiously sneak my fingers underneath his thermal. "What was that for?"
Masen flinches when my cold-ass hands hit his skin, but then his whole body shakes with silent laughter. His arms wrap around me tight enough that I can barely breathe. When I cough out a laugh, he combs wild strands of hair away from my face, and those talented lips brush my forehead.
"Do I really need a reason?" he asks, and it's a soft whisper of a question, absent any hint of sarcasm or joking.
My heart gives an involuntary thump against my sternum, and once more, I find myself floored by the transparency he gives me.
I know I've said it before, but it's just not something we do in our little corner of the world, where secrets and information are a matter of life and death, and where dissembling and intrigue are the rule.
Yet it makes me want to give it right back.
"Absolutely not," I tell him, just as softly. Giving his waist a little squeeze, I lift on my toes. With the uneven terrain and slant of the hill, we're almost the same height. So, I angle my head, ever so slightly, just enough that my mouth hovers over his, touching but not. "You can love on me any time you want."
"How about I just love you?"
I still for a long, quiet moment, where the only sounds are those of the breeze whistling through the trees and the blood rushing in my ears. Something hot and heavy floods my veins, numbing my tongue and pooling in the pit of my stomach. A rare, rare blush climbs my cheeks, and when I slowly drag my eyes up to his, I don't know what Masen sees, but those strong, angular features of his warm into an expression I can't quite name.
Whatever it is, I just know it's nowhere close to Aronov's obsessive, suffocating adoration.
No, this is much better than that.
When Masen's lips take mine once more, mingled in with all those sweeter, romantic notions that I've always tended to avoid, there's the deep, resonating sense of like perceiving like, and it leaves me breathless.
About the time we finally hop the fence and cross the yard, my watch dings nine.
As we weave in between the vehicles to target the gabled barn across from the house, Masen stops to study the aggressive, low-slung, sun-fire yellow Porsche angled in next to McCarty's jacked-up Rubicon. Despite our utterly shittastic early spring weather, it doesn't have a spec of salt or mud on it.
His forehead wrinkles. "How the fuck does she get that thing down the driveway without bottoming out?"
"Duh, I drive it."
Masen whips around, and as his right instinctively flexes for the weapon that's not there, it's all I can do not to laugh.
I guess I should have warned him about Spooky's spookiness.
The Rubicon's driver-side door slams shut. No more than a second later, a black-clad Alice – complete with shiny, jet-black nails, an arm full of metal-studded bracelets, and now-neon blue highlights peeking out from her inky mop – pops around the rear bumper. She tugs my ponytail in greeting and slows just long enough for me to swipe one of the six steaming cups off the cardboard tray she's balancing before she stalks up to Masen.
"Want a coffee?" Alice asks him, and, of course, it's in that creepy, sing-song voice of hers that always makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. When he doesn't immediately answer, she eyes him up and down, weighing him with clinical detachment.
Masen doesn't budge, but when Alice arcs a delicate brow in challenge, his entire being shifts from one second to the next. His posture relaxes. His features slacken, dissolving into that lazy, apathetic mask I know oh-so-well, and as they stare each other down, the air crackles and turns staticky.
Okay, I really, really should have warned him about her.
I open my mouth to diffuse whatever storm Alice is brewing, but right on cue, her face splits into a bright, beaming grin, and she lets out a peal of high, tinkling, soprano laughter.
"Oh, I like you!" Alice punches Masen in the bicep like she's known him for years, and with a not-at-all-subtle wink, she plucks one of the cups off the tray – something disgustingly sweet and fragrant by the smell of it – and hands it over. "We're going to have such fun together."
Still sporting that bored, feline façade, Masen drily asks, "You think?"
"Definitely." Alice throws him another impish grin and heads toward the barn. Halfway there, she stops and calls over her shoulder to me. "By the way, B, Sasha says privet."
As undoubtedly intended, I startle, but I don't dare take that bait. There's no fucking way Markovsky simply told her to tell me hi. Not that man. No way, no how.
And I don't think I want to know.
In fact, I know I don't. At least not today.
So, I just wave her off, and with a final pouty harrumph, Alice slips through the sliding door.
Masen takes a slow, measured sip of his coffee. "She's… different."
"That's one way to put it." I snort because different doesn't even touch what Alice is. But then I shrug and give his ribs a playful jab. "But apparently, you're now best friends. Congratulations."
Masen rolls his eyes at me, but I don't miss the amused glint lurking there. Nor do I miss the reluctant smile that threatens to curve his lips, and it reminds me that it's been a long time since Masen's had any real camaraderie or team.
As we gradually make our way to the barn, he takes another drink and quietly says, "I didn't realize your team would oversee Sasha's interrogation."
"We're not," I tell him, and as I look out across the adjacent field, I can see the tired, almost-relieved expression on the older man's face when McCarty finally escorted him across the elegant cobblestone courtyard from the winery to the armored SUV. Between McCarty, Alice, and that pair of kidon assassins Eli insisted on sending to pull me out, by the time they were all done, Aronov's compound looked like a goddamned graveyard.
Exhaling my own tired breath, I shake my head. "From what I understand, it's not even an interrogation, at least not in the sense that you and I know. Now that his family's out and in a secure location – somewhere in Maryland, I think – Markovsky's given Platt everything he said he would and then some."
"Then what's she talking about?" Masen motions to the barn as he drains his cup and flicks it into the nearby metal barrel. Honestly, how he drinks that watered-down, sugary garbage, I'll never know.
"He's a puzzle, and Spooky likes puzzles." My shoulders roll in another lazy shrug. "She says she's studying him, whatever that means. I think she just likes having someone to play chess with." The look Masen gives me is priceless – somehow both bewildered and horrified – and my shoulders shake. "He beats her, which she finds…"
"Let me guess," he says, as dry as the desert. "Fun."
"See? Already best friends." When I pick up the fleshy smack of a fist striking muscle from somewhere inside, my cheeks crease. "Speaking of fun…"
As Masen slides open the door, there's another hard thwack, followed by a harsh, masculine grunt. In unison, we step inside the wide concrete alley that runs the length of the barn, and it's just in time to catch Rosalie flipping a very large man in olive drab over her hip.
McCarty lands on his back with a muted thump.
"Now, what did that big motherfucker do wrong?"
The tall, deceptively slim brunette in black multicam leaning against an empty stall tilts her head. "Wake up?"
There's a beat of surprise. When I look across the concrete at Rosalie in all her combat boot, utilities-wearing glory, her baby blue eyes sparkle.
"Good fucking answer, Weber." Rosalie toes Emmett's shoulder with her boot. He lets out an aggravated huff, and she glares daggers at the other two snickering recruits on the opposite side of the alley. "What else? Mallory, are you paying attention?"
"Yes, ma'am!" The woman blanches cadaver white and mumbles out some half-baked response.
"Wrong!" Without warning, Rosalie spins around and jabs a finger at Masen. "What about you, Ginger? What do you think?"
If Masen's surprised by Hale's question, he doesn't show it.
"Hard to say since I didn't see what happened," he drawls. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he pauses and examines McCarty as he slowly starts to sit up. When Emmett shakes his head like a dog, Masen does his best to hide his reaction. I don't even try anymore. "But I'll go ahead and assume he overestimated his size advantage and grossly underestimated your speed and strength. You also fight very dirty."
As evidenced by her utter annihilation of Feliks.
Seriously, when we walked by that room on the way out of Aronov's winery, I legitimately thought I might lose my lunch. That's a hell of a compliment.
"Excellent. Correct fucking answer." Rosalie's eyes narrow, and a sly smile lights her model face. "You want to go a round? See if you can do any better? Maybe show these dumbasses how it's done?"
Masen belts out a loud, unexpected laugh and throws his palms up in mock surrender. "I'm good for now, thanks," he says, still chuckling as his gemstone eyes slip to me. "I got my ass handed to me by one woman in this room already. I don't need to learn that lesson again."
Rosalie's entire being radiates approval, but then she tuts and flicks a dismissive hand before pivoting back to Emmett. "Get up, asshole," she yells, kicking his ankle. "Again. And do better this time. That shit was embarrassing."
As McCarty climbs to his feet, I tag the smattering of plum-red, mouth-sized bruises sitting just beneath the collar of his ancient, threadbare tee. I'm ninety-nine percent sure there's plenty more matching marks hiding behind that fabric, too, none of which I ever want to see.
When Emmett looks over, I ask him, "More flowers?"
Scrubbing his head, he shoots me a wink and a wickedly mischievous smirk. "Fuck, yeah. No better way to go!"
I'm going to give her so much shit for this.
As Rosalie growls out an annoyed curse at one of the recruits, I register the pressure of Masen's fingertips lightly tracing my spine to my lower back.
"That is, unless you want to," he murmurs. When I peer up at him in question, I feel more than see him smile. Two-day scruff scratches my cheek, and as his lips graze the shell of my ear, I swear, those little nothing-touches zing through my body like lightning. "I'm all for fighting you naked again."
My elbow rams into his ribs, earning me a delightful punch of air, and I slug back a drink of my coffee. Unlike Masen's, mine's black, bitter, and strong enough to peel paint, exactly how I like it. "Dick."
Eyes gleaming, Masen leans down again, but this time he's smart enough to protect his side. "Last night, you liked my dick just fine… And my mouth."
No joke, I nearly spit out my coffee.
I cut him a pointed glare, but it's not like I can argue with him there.
Because, holy fuck, that man is amazing in bed.
"I guess it was okay." Barely above a whisper, my tone drips with indifference, and I have to school my expression when his fingers clench around the fabric of my fleece. "Maybe I need another demonstration."
"How about ri–"
A loud, pissy baritone clears his throat and interrupts our fun.
"If ya'll are done," Whitlock says, halfway yelling. Standing at the end of the alley, with his arms crossed over his chest, he looks as irritated as he sounds. "We do have a meeting." He taps his wrist for emphasis. "Starting now."
Unsurprisingly, Rosalie snorts and flashes me a sideways grin. "I think someone's bitchy this morning. I wonder why? Where'd Spooky go?"
Whitlock levels her a flat, unamused stare that just makes her laugh even harder.
Nonetheless, five minutes later, Rosalie scares the recruits off on another morning run, and we all file into the large, lounge-like conference room across from my office. Taking my customary spot, I plop down in front of the pair of large, wall-mounted screens. As usual, from his corner of the leather couch against the wall, Emmett crinkles his snobby nose at my ancient, wallowed-out recliner, and like always, I just ignore his giant ass.
Instead, as Whitlock's keys start clacking, I slide my phone from the stretchy hip pocket of my leggings and immediately chuckle at the barrage of unread messages flooding my inbox.
Dayan: Neshama, I'm hearing some very interesting things about a certain high-level FSB agent
Dayan: No one seems to be able to locate him… or his family. His compound outside of Moscow sits empty. Bank accounts cleared. Apparently, it's a big mystery
Dayan: Oddly enough, no one seems to know what happened to his esteemed brother-in-law either. Some of the bolder media outlets are even hinting that Mikhail Aronov's untimely death was yet 'another in a long series of accidents to befall the elite'… Pesky accidents… Very dangerous to be a businessman these days, eh?
Dayan: Needless to say, there are some very, very angry people at Kuznetsky Most
I snicker at that. I can't imagine the drama going on in Moscow right now.
Dayan: In fact, I received a personal call from a certain First Deputy Director. Very unpleasant fellow, by the way. Made all sorts of outlandish accusations
Dayan: Of course, I politely told him to fuck off
I clap a palm over my mouth to keep from laughing. When Masen looks over and mimes a silent, "What is it?" I tilt my screen. His chin hits his sternum a second later, and he makes a show of staring at the old plank floor.
He's not fooling me. That man's whole body vibrates.
But fuck, I'd have paid to witness that call. A lot.
Dayan: I also hear your old friends at the CIA are hunting someone important. Supposedly, the order is kill on sight, but they are being unusually secretive about it. A little bird told me Esme Platt isn't happy with their progress
There's a few more messages after that one, most of which are pathetically obvious attempts at guilting me out of what I know, which isn't much.
I just know he's right: Platt's definitely out for blood.
Okay, and I also happen to know the name of Platt's traitor, but it's not like I can tell Eli that the CIA's hunting down one of its own Assistant fucking Directors, or that Aronov bought that red-headed bitch for next to nothing. Even I know that shit's an internal matter, and it's better for everyone if it stays that way.
Then again, I'd be stupid to think he doesn't already suspect. That asshole just wants me to say it.
Shaking my head, I scroll to his second batch of messages, and this time I don't even try to muffle my laughter.
Dayan: When are you coming to visit me anyway?
Dayan: Oh, and what exactly am I supposed to do with these beasts?
There's an attached photo of two black and tan, face-eating Malinois sprawled out on a white-tiled balcony overlooking a wide, glassy lake ringed by low, arid hills. One already has a pretty little bow on its collar.
Dayan: Did you put Seth and Leah up to this nonsense?
Dayan: Bella, my wife has already named these monsters. She calls them Jake and Sam. They eat everything and growl at me every time I go near her
Dayan: Don't ever ask me for a favor again
Okay, I had absolutely nothing to do with that. Either way, I tap out a quick response, just to fuck with him.
You know you love me ;)
I still need to show you how to shoot, old man
And I'm sure we'll see each other soon enough…
As I tuck my phone back into my pocket, the left-hand screen finally flickers bright blue, only to be replaced by an all-too-familiar face a beat later.
"Platt," I say, ducking my head once in polite greeting.
"Bella." Platt tips her chin in brusque acknowledgment, and I note the fatigue and cracks in her armor are long gone. There's not a hair out of place, not a hint of a wrinkle in her charcoal blouse. Sitting behind an impressive mahogany desk in, what looks to be, her home office, she's again the smooth-faced, eagle-eyed force I know her to be.
Esme's gaze slowly laps the room, briefly pausing on each member of our little team. When she hits Masen, her eyes narrow. It's a slight, barely there tell that most wouldn't ever notice, but then a muscle jumps in her cheek. "I wasn't aware you'd picked up a new operative. Or should I say partner?"
It takes a real concerted effort not to roll my eyes.
Playing the game, I glance over to Masen. Like always, he might as well be a statue and gives away nothing, so I take his cue and just offer her a non-committal flick of my wrist, along with my blandest smile. "We're still in negotiations."
In the background, McCarty mutters some smart-ass quip under his breath, which nets him a not-quiet tap and rebuke from the blonde parked at the other end of the couch.
"Is that so?" For a minute, Platt and I stare at each other through the screen. When I don't break, her perfectly tinted lips finally twitch, and she lets out an irritated tsk. "You're always such a pain," she says, shaking her head. She surprises me by turning to Masen. "Carlisle wants you to visit him."
Casually leaning back in his chair, Masen throws his arm across the backrest and kicks an ankle over the opposite knee. "How's he doing?"
Platt's expression morphs into an emotionless mask, and I internally wince. I've seen that look more times than I can count, and let's just say I'm not the only pain involved in this conversation. "You'd know if you came by."
Unfazed, Masen chuffs. "What are my chances of leaving alive if I do?"
Cross-legged on the opposite couch, Alice grins like the Cheshire cat.
Of course, she does.
But it's not an unreasonable question. After all, Masen did shoot her husband, and Platt's not exactly known for her forgiving nature.
More like the opposite.
Either way, baiting that woman's a risky play, and there's a long beat of silence before Esme finally looks off to the right. Her features pinch in another barely-there shift, and she sighs at something – or someone – off-screen.
"Not zero," she says over steepled fingers. One corner of her mouth pulls up into a wry, lop-sided smile. "That's about all I can promise."
"Fair enough." Masen lazily shrugs, but then his face relaxes into a smile. "Tell him I'll see him this weekend."
"See that you do." Platt sighs again, this time in some blend of amusement and exasperation, and the smooth, political veneer abruptly drops. "He's driving the medical staff insane, not to mention me." Her lips mash in a hard line, which is about as close to laughter as she gets. "Maybe you can convince him to retire."
Masen huffs out a laugh and scratches his scruffy chin. "I couldn't even convince that son of bitch to let me get him out of Italy. Just give him a desk job. Bore him into retirement."
"I'll take that under advisement." Esme's eyes twinkle as they again dart off to the right, but when they return to me, all that amusement vanishes. Her shoulders straighten, her skin pulls tight across her cheekbones, and she studies me with the same critical, assessing eye as a soldier inspecting his favorite weapon.
That internal radar of mine lights off in immediate response, buzzing the back of my neck, and I know exactly what's coming next.
"Status?" she asks, and it's a clipped, all-business query, spoken as she simultaneously taps her keyboard.
Ignoring the lingering stiffness, I lean forward in my chair. "Operable."
Off to the side, McCarty spits out curt negative, and this time Rosalie doesn't stop him.
"Fine," I say, scowling at both of them. In my periphery, I catch Whitlock frowning at the razor-thin laptop balanced on his knee. As he skims through whatever Platt just sent over, his brows hit his hairline. "Nearly operable. What's the job?"
"I have credible information that a certain high-value target will be off the coast of Mykonos in ten days." Hands clasped on the table in front of her, Platt's the picture of poise and comportment. "We believe she will be visiting a friend of yours."
Beside me, Masen goes absolutely still, and it's the icy, focused stillness of a hunter lying in wait.
"You realize I don't work for you, right?"
Piercing and bright, Platt's gaze pins me. "I'm aware."
"Just so we're clear," I say, just as clipped, just as sharp. "You're asking me to take out a federally appointed Assistant Director of your own federally appointed agency. That's a big fucking ask, Platt."
"Former Assistant Director." Esme spits it out like an epithet. "The appropriate approvals have already been obtained. It's a sanctioned hit."
Keys stop clacking, and Whitlock lets out a low whistle, but when I peek over, he doesn't look up. No, he just continues to frown at his screen. Beside him, Alice watches me, however, and like Masen, Spooky's a wall of eerie silence.
Propping my elbows on my knees, I dry wash my face. "I thought you had your people hunting Victoria down."
"You and I both know you're better and faster." Esme scoffs and then motions to Masen. "Especially if you drag him along."
I don't respond to that, and she exhales a slow breath, like she's about two seconds from blowing.
"While on Aronov's payroll, Victoria compromised every single operative on my staff. Good people died because of her," she says, furious and ice cold. "She set my husband up because Aronov wanted to get back at me. So, yes, Bella, I want that woman fucking gone, and I want you to do it."
This is the Platt I know.
"Jesus." I scrub my face again. "I do–"
"I'll double your usual rate," she says, cutting in. I glare, and she just responds with a slick, calculating smile. "And I won't say a word about the Chagall that Didima Markovskaya transferred to you at the request of her husband… You know, the one Aronov purchased for you that's currently hanging on the wall in your office."
Well, that's not creepy at all.
My eyes slide to Whitlock, whose jaw ticks in the perfect image of professional affront and annoyance.
Looks like we're going to be upping our security.
Platt clears her throat, drawing my attention away from my very pissy information manager. That calculating smile of hers turns downright smug. "I'll also tell you where Jovan Dobroshi is hiding. I know you're looking for him."
Now, it's my turn to still, and as I picture the violent, sadistic leer on that motherfucker's face as he dragged that autumn-haired girl into that room the night of Aronov's party, my fists clench around my armrests.
A second passes, and then another.
Warm, calloused fingers ghost across the top of my hand, and when I finally glance over, something dark and predatory stares back at me.
I might as well be looking in the mirror.
No, five mirrors, because there's not a single person in this room who doesn't want that asshole dead.
Hell, Rosalie looks fucking gleeful.
Masen's hand covers mine, and as his long fingers thread between mine and squeeze, he inclines his head with a softly spoken, "Lady's choice, if I recall."
I turn back to Platt with a savage grin.
"Consider it done."
.
.
.
Notes:
Russian (transliterated):
Privet: hey / hi
Hebrew (transliterated):
Neshama: term of endearment, used approximately like darling
Glossary:
Multicam: aka Scorpion, is a digitized camouflage pattern that's found wide use with armed forces worldwide, particularly with special operations units. Variants include: arid/desert, tropic/woodland, black, and alpine schemes. Before the recent swap to Scorpion 2, it was used by various US forces (except for the Marines… they like doing their own thing, hence MARPAT)
Kuznetsky Most: a street that runs from Bolshaya Dmitrovka Street to Lubyanka Street in Moscow. The FSB's headquarters is located on this street