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“You’ve tried to sideline JJ in the past,” Nick reminds him, his voice low but edged with steel. “And we both remember how fast she dismantled your contingency plans and ran her own op out from under you.”
The corner of Fitz’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. “We’ll start backfilling. Operatives will be on standby for extraction and cleanup, but until then… you’re ghosts. No paper trail, no protection.” He pauses, gaze locked on mine. “Cherise. There are very few people I trust in this world with full operational autonomy. Nick is one of them. That trust now includes you. Don’t let that go to your head—but don’t waste it either.”
My spine straightens. “Understood.”
Fitzwallace nods once, then severs the connection. The screen goes dark.
Nick steps closer, his voice low, barely more than a breath between us. "Still want in?"
His eyes hold mine—not commanding, not coaxing. Just open. Raw. And it wrecks me more than if he’d barked an order.
I don’t hesitate. “More than ever,” I say, my voice steady with something deeper than determination. It’s resolve. It’s ownership. It’s the sharp, blistering truth of who I’ve become—and who I choose to be next to him, no matter the cost.
He nods once, jaw tight. “Gear up. We leave in twenty.”
* * *
The prep is fast. Surgical. Logan sweeps the room one last time, his movements sharp and efficient as he confirms comm relay frequencies and uploads decoy files into the surveillance grid. Every action buys us a few more seconds of ghost status.
Nick moves to the far wall, where a steel panel slides open to reveal the embedded weapons cache. Inside, rows of matte black gear gleam under the recessed lighting—tactical sidearms, compact comms rigs, spare burner phones, modified flashbangs, and two subcompact submachine guns.
He selects a lightweight pistol for me, placing it in my hand—sleek with a balance that sings in my grip. I test the weight instinctively, flicking the safety catch and letting the grip settle into my palm like it was always meant to be there. It's not just a weapon. It's a declaration. One that tells me I'm not a bystander in this war—I'm part of the line they're going to regret crossing.
"Safety’s off," he says quietly. "If you aim, you shoot. No second-guessing. You remember how to use a gun?"
I check the mag, pull back the slide with a clean snap, then let it settle into place before slipping the weapon into the holster at the small of my back. My voice is calm. Steady.
"I remember."
His eyes hold mine a second longer, then he nods. Once. Sharp. Satisfied.
Logan passes us both burner IDs, complete with forged diplomatic credentials. My alias is listed as a cultural attaché for a shell nonprofit. My French is good enough to pass, especially if I keep the words clipped and the tone disinterested.
Nick shrugs into a sleek gray blazer over a Kevlar-embedded shirt, concealing two knives at the small of his back and a collapsible baton inside a false seam of his coat. He clips the earpiece in, syncs it to the local signal scrambler, and turns to face me.
"Last check," he says.
I tug on gloves, zip the suit up to the collar, and test the mic embedded at my throat.
“Operational and silent,” Logan confirms from the console.
Nick scans me once—his gaze razor-edged and thorough, cataloging every detail like he's already five steps into the op. Not just checking for visible threats, but for something deeper: my steadiness, my resolve. The room around us fades into static, all background to the intensity between us. When he steps closer, close enough for his breath to whisper over my cheek, he doesn't speak at first. Just lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles down the length of my arm—a touch so brief it could be mistaken for nothing. But it isn’t. It’s a signal. A grounding.
“Whatever happens,” I say, thinking of the gun holstered at the small of my back, “I want Hector to know it was me.”
Nick nods once, and I see the flicker of pride behind the steel in his eyes—an emotion that never softens his edges but sharpens them, like I'm another weapon he's counting on. He says nothing else, doesn't need to. The pride in his eyes isn’t just about my readiness. It’s about the choice I made—the same one he’s making by letting me come with him. Not as cargo. Not as leverage. But as someone who can hold the line beside him when it matters most.
19
NICK
The van hums low beneath us, dark and insulated against the world outside. It’s parked along a coastal bluff, high enough to catch a signal but far enough to stay invisible. Cherise sits behind the main monitor, eyes locked on the infrared feed like she was born for this. There’s calm in her posture. Stillness. But I can feel the electricity running under her skin—a live wire of anticipation and restraint, kept tight because she knows her role tonight isn’t at my side with a gun, but behind this screen with a sharper weapon: her mind. Her fingers flick across the console, adjusting contrast filters and field angles, feeding me clean eyes while my boots prepare to walk into hell.
She wants to be in the field. Wants to bleed for this. But I didn’t bring her to kill. I brought her because she deserves to see the reckoning. Because what we do tonight isn't just justice—it's truth dragged into the light, and I want her to witness it. To know that when the ghosts come calling, they don’t leave shadows behind. Only silence.
Logan’s voice crackles over comms. "Perimeter is clear. We’re set."
"Copy."