Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I won’t let attraction compromise a mission. Not now, not ever.
But the truth sparks in the flames and echoes in the room around me.
She’s getting under my skin.
CHAPTER 12
VIPER
I never lose track of time, but during the second week of Kira’s stay, I realize I’ve been at my desk for nearly sixteen hours.
My monitors are cluttered with strings of encrypted messages, procurement memos, and digital breadcrumbs. There’s a dull ache behind my eyes and my back is stiff, but the pieces are finally starting to form a picture.
The web I’ve been unraveling is revealing its ugly, sprawling shape, and it’s more dangerous than the three of us assumed.
I lean back and flex my fingers. Dark ops. Of course it is.
Something worse than a clean federal conspiracy or a rogue politician.
A black cell operating inside DOD’s special activities center, where the commanders don’t sign anything, the operators don’t exist, and oversight is fiction.
Shadow programs need clean money, and that’s where Senator Vaughn fits in.
With his carefully cultivated public image and the community foundations bearing his name, he can launder profits from illicit arms sales while he hides behind his squeaky-clean reputation.
Money comes in from overseas buyers, gets funneled into shell foundations, then gets attached to initiatives Vaughn sells to the public with polished charm. From there, the funds flow into federal channels under the false pretenses of innovation, training, or research.
And Kira is likely the only innocent person who ever heard Vaughn discuss both sides of the machine. The only witness who can tie the two worlds together.
She’s an operational risk they’d need to remove before the wrong auditor, analyst, or overeager congressperson stumbles into the truth.
I hate being right about things like this.
“This situation is fucked, and I’m gonna unfuck it,” I mutter as I remove every bit of metadata and strip location signatures that could be traced back to the compound. I re-route the latest packet of intel through three secure channels before passing it to two trusted federal contacts. One of them is in cyber investigations, the other in a discreet oversight office tasked with internal corruption.
One piece at a time, I’m building a case big enough for federal prosecutors to want to keep Kira alive as a protected witness.
Once she’s tied to a federal corruption investigation, it becomes too risky for the dark ops group to take her out. I’m going to make her untouchable, one parcel of classified evidence at a time.
I’ve thrown governments off our trails before. This is no different.
Except it is. Because it’s her.
And she’s pregnant, I remind myself for the hundredth time.
On my way to the kitchen for sustenance, I encounter the woman herself. She’s carrying a basket of folded laundry that’s too heavy for someone recovering from an accident, not to mention pregnant.
Before I reach her, her foot snags on the edge of a rug. I grab her arms, catching her as the basket of laundry lands on the floor beside us.
“Oh!” She grips my forearms. “Sorry. That was graceful.”
I keep my hands on her elbows until she has her balance. “You good?”
She nods, her cheeks reddening. The flush of pink emphasizes the blue of her eyes. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Your body’s healing. You’re allowed to be off-balance.” I pick up the laundry and tuck the basket under my arm. “Meanwhile, stop carrying heavy things.”
She responds with a crooked little smile that catches me off guard.
Later, when I’m stacking firewood by the back porch, she appears again, dressed in her winter gear and acting like she’s reporting for duty. “What can I help with?” she asks.
When I try to wave her off, she gets that determined look in her eyes. The exact same look I’ve seen during morning briefings, when she asks us questions sharper than analysts I’ve worked with.
“I’m feeling much better,” she says, “and I want to do my part around here.”
“You already do.”
She shrugs off my protests and joins in, though I’m grateful when she lifts a piece that’s barely bigger than a twig. “See, I’m starting slow.” She smiles up at me like she’s proving a point.
“You shouldn’t be lifting anything.”
Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. “I know my limits. I’m not as helpless as you think.”
“I never said you were helpless.”
I keep a close eye on her as she proceeds to show me she does know her limits. She works cautiously and takes frequent small breaks. When I give her other things to do, like tying bundles with twine and sweeping loose bark to the side, she switches tasks without comment.
When we’re finished, she leans against the railing and takes a deep breath.
I nod to where she’s cradling her belly in her hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She looks down and smiles. “I felt the baby moving again.”
I don’t usually experience things like warmth or tenderness, but the hopeful look on her face tugs at my chest. “You talk about your baby like you already know them.”